Dying to be Famous Read online

  I thought her manner was kind of interesting.

  If someone had sent me a note like that there’s no way on earth I’d go on stage in front of a live audience. Anyone could take a pot shot at you – it’s not like there’s bullet-proof glass between you and the punters. Being Dorothy was obviously really important to Tiffany – so important that she’d risk her life to go ahead.

  I was fascinated watching that interview. Normally when people talk on the news you can tell they’re a bit uncomfortable – they scratch their noses or pull at their ears or pick their nails. They say “erm” and “ah” and trip over their words. They do little things that can tell you what they’re really feeling. A touch of panic. A shred of fear. A hint of embarrassment. You can usually see all of those.

  But I didn’t with Tiffany.

  Usually there’s a big difference between someone who’s acting and someone who’s taking part in a reality TV show. However people act in soap operas – however grittily realistic they try to make it – you can tell they’re speaking lines someone else has written for them. But with Tiffany there was no difference – she talked in that interview exactly the same way she talked in “Dead End Street”. With her you just couldn’t work out where the acting ended and the real person began.

  When it was over I switched off the TV and said to Graham, “Do you think she looked a bit … I don’t know … theatrical?”

  “She’s an actress,” he pointed out reasonably.

  “What do you reckon about this stalker, then?”

  Graham paused. “A high proportion of famous actresses acquire a stalker at some time or another. It’s often an obsessed fan. They can be very persistent.”

  “They don’t usually dress up, though, do they? Do you think he’d really try to hurt her?”

  “From what I’ve read, I gather that anonymous threats are rarely carried out. The main object of the exercise is to instil fear into one’s victim,” said Graham wisely.

  “Well he’s failed there, then,” I said. “She’s being very brave about it.”

  Graham frowned. “Let’s hope it doesn’t drive him to more extreme measures.”

  The next morning every front page carried headlines like DARING TIFFANY DEFIES DEATH or DEADLY DOROTHY? or BRAVE TIFFANY RISKS ALL FOR OZ. Everywhere you looked there were photos of her. Whatever the stalker wanted to achieve – whether he meant to kill her or simply scare her – there was no denying that he’d created great publicity for The Wizard of Oz. When the box office opened the following morning, the tickets for the whole run sold out in less than an hour.

  act one

  Tiffany was in London for the rest of that week. While she was busy filming “Dead End Street”, her stalker was busy sending her more death threats. We saw her on the news every day. Notes were popping up everywhere: stuck on the reception desk at the TV studios; nailed to the front door of her flat; taped to the seat of the exercise bike in the exclusive gym she frequented. Each time one of the messages appeared there was a corresponding sighting of a masked figure in a wizard’s hat and cape – a neighbour had seen him driving away, or the security guard had glimpsed him disappearing around a corner. On one occasion he was caught on CCTV. Inspector Humphries showed me and Graham the footage so that we could confirm it was the person we’d seen at the theatre. Not that we could be one hundred per cent certain. I told the policeman, “The outfit looks the same all right, but anyone could be underneath that mask, couldn’t they?”

  Inspector Humphries admitted, “Yes. That’s precisely the problem.”

  In every interview she gave, Tiffany remained brave and defiant, and refused to be terrorized into giving up the part. I suspected that underneath that fragile-looking exterior lurked an iron will.

  By trawling through news sites on the Internet, Graham and I kept an eye on the police investigation. They’d interviewed each and every one of her past boyfriends since the first note had appeared. But the two film stars, three pop singers, seven footballers and the boxer didn’t seem to be very convincing stalker material to me.

  “Really,” I complained to Graham when we trawled through a gossipy celebrity site, “when you look at it more closely they hardly count as boyfriends at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look,” I pointed at each of them in turn. “As far as I can see, she went to a party with that singer. She had dinner with that actor and lunch with the other one. That footballer took her to Alton Towers and she went to Wimbledon with that one. She went to a polo match with that singer, the races with that one, and a nightclub with him. She went to different award ceremonies with all the other guys. They were just single dates. She went on holiday with the boxer but it was with a huge group of people and there aren’t any photos of them alone together. As far as I can see, she didn’t have a serious relationship with any of these people. She hasn’t been out with anyone long enough for them to get possessive and obsessed.”

  “You’re looking at it too logically,” said Graham earnestly. “The true stalker is a delusional obsessive. Some of them never even meet their victims face-to-face and yet they think they’re married to them or something stupid.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. They end up believing all kinds of peculiar things. It’s called de Clerambault’s syndrome, I think. There was one famous case I read about when a woman became fixated on King George V. She thought he was in love with her and used to hang around outside Buckingham Palace. Every time the servants drew the curtains she was convinced he was sending secret signals to her.”

  I was impressed. “Wow! That’s really bonkers.”

  “Yes. And there was this mad guy in America who was obsessed with a movie actress. He tried to assassinate the President because he reckoned it would force her to admit she loved him. But she didn’t even know he existed!”

  “Weird!” I looked back at the computer screen. “So it could be one of her boyfriends then?”

  “Possibly. Or it could be a man she’s never met.”

  “It could be a woman too, couldn’t it?” I asked, and Graham nodded. “Maybe it’s someone she sat next to in the hairdresser’s. Or a girl who did her nails.”

  “Or it could be any one of a million people who’ve seen her on TV, or passed her in the street,” offered Graham.

  “Well, in that case it could be anyone at all,” I sighed. “How on earth will they ever catch them?”

  the read-through

  We didn’t see Tiffany in the flesh again until the read-through.

  It was set for the following Monday, so Graham and I got to miss school again. I’d never taken part in so much as a nativity play before so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. When we reached the theatre, Cynthia herded me and Graham to the side of the stage with the other kids, where we couldn’t get in the grown-ups’ way. The death threats had made everyone extremely tense, I thought, or maybe it was normal for theatre people to be irritable at the start of rehearsals.

  Peregrine was barking instructions at Geoff, the technician, who was lugging chairs onto the stage and setting them down around a long table. Cynthia was minding us kids and humming such a high, fast tune that she sounded like an angry swarm of bees.

  Elizabeth, the stage manager, was handing out scripts to the kids and wearing a harassed expression. I took mine and looked at the front cover, where a typed list of characters was set alongside the names of the actors who were playing them.

  First there was Dorothy. Tiffany’s name was in big block capitals but underneath – in teeny-tiny print – her understudy was listed as Hannah Price. Then there was the Scarecrow (Brad Slater), the Tin Man (Timothy North) and the Cowardly Lion (Rex Butler). These four were the only actors with just one part – the other five had to double up so that, for example, Aunt Em (Belinda Fowler) was also the good witch Glinda, and Uncle Henry (Walter Roberts) got to be the Wizard of Oz too.

  I looked around the stage, trying to match up the actors with the names o
n the script. Rex Butler was standing quite close to me and I could hear the catty conversation he was having with Timothy North and Brad Slater. They were complaining about young actors and their lack of Proper Theatrical Training.

  “Television,” Rex said, “that’s all they’re interested in these days. Money for old rope, I say. Call that acting? Five minutes on the box and they think they’re stars. The problem with these soap operas is that they’re about ordinary people. Dull, boring, everyday types. Which is precisely the opposite of what one wants in a musical.”

  “Lord alone knows how Miss Webb will shape up,” sighed Timothy. “She has no experience of live theatre. None whatsoever. Can she sing? Can she dance? I very much doubt it. I can’t imagine how they think she’ll fill the role.”

  “Did you hear how much Peregrine is paying her? A small fortune!” grumbled Rex.

  Timothy sighed, “And it’s not like the company is terribly secure financially, is it?”

  “I heard he had to borrow a whole pile of cash to pay for this production,” chipped in Brad. “If this doesn’t work we could all be out of a job.”

  “Things aren’t what they used to be,” moaned Rex.

  “Indeed,” agreed Timothy.

  Tiffany hadn’t arrived yet, which was probably just as well given the way her fellow actors were going on about her, but her understudy was there, biting her fingernails in the opposite corner of the stage. When I looked at Hannah I thought I’d never seen anyone who looked less like Dorothy. I mean, she’s supposed to be an innocent farm girl from Kansas, but Hannah had dark hair gelled into savage spikes and wore lashings of purple eyeshadow and thick, black lipstick. I heard Cynthia whisper to Rex, “She’s a pretty girl underneath all that. Look at that bone structure. I can’t think why she wears so much slap.”

  “My darling Cynthia,” he replied in a voice that boomed out of his chest as if he kept a loudspeaker in his vest, “how can we possibly fathom the workings of young people’s minds? The youth of today are an utter mystery.”

  There was an air of breathless anticipation among the kids while we waited for Tiffany to arrive. When she finally swept on to the stage – two bodyguards shadowing her like menacing guardian angels – I happened to be looking at Hannah.

  If I hadn’t been staring right at her I’d have missed the flash of hatred that contorted the understudy’s face. It was only for a second – she got her expression under control almost immediately – and then her features were impassive beneath her mask-like make-up.

  I glanced at Tiffany to see if she’d noticed but of course she hadn’t. She was scouring the stage for Peregrine and when her eyes fell on him she turned her smile on. It was like a searchlight. Our director received a thousand-watt blast that almost knocked him off his feet. He was instantly besotted. Satisfied with the effect, Tiffany bestowed a smile on the other actors. The Tin Man, Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion were also dazzled by its brilliance. But the lesser actors like Aunt Em and Uncle Henry were given dimmer versions. Hannah was only sent a small, tight grin that didn’t even crease Tiffany’s eyes and clearly Munchkins and Fantastical Flowers didn’t rank highly enough to deserve anything. She looked over our heads as if we weren’t there.

  Tiffany thumped her huge designer handbag – bright pink with lots of gold buckles and monogrammed with her initials – down in the wings. Then Peregrine introduced her to everyone, including Cynthia, Elizabeth and Geoff, the technician who’d been putting out the chairs. Once they were finished and without further ado, the grown-ups and the kids with speaking parts sat around the table with their scripts in front of them. The rest of us sat on the floor to listen and the read-through began.

  It wasn’t what you’d call riveting stuff. Although some of the actors – like Rex Butler – really threw themselves into it, making the air vibrate with their ringing voices, some just spoke their lines as if they were saving their energy for later.

  Tiffany was one of them. And when she got to the bit where she was supposed to sing “Over the Rainbow” she gave a little cough and said, “I won’t sing just now if you don’t mind, Peregrine. I have a slight cough. I don’t want to strain my voice.” She smiled winsomely and he was powerless to do anything but gape and nod obediently. I glanced at Hannah to see her reaction. She wasn’t glaring with hatred at Tiffany, she was doing something far stranger: smirking with a malicious kind of satisfaction. I nudged Graham and jerked my head in Hannah’s direction.

  “What?” he muttered.

  “Hannah looks pleased.”

  “So she does,” said Graham. “Do you think that has some sort of significance?”

  “Don’t know. It’s just a bit weird.”

  The actors plodded on through the script without anything else happening that was even remotely interesting. We were within one page of finishing – we had nearly reached the bit where Dorothy clicks the heels of her ruby slippers together and says, “There’s no place like home” – when Tiffany let out a strange, strangled gasp. Her face went a sickly yellow and her eyes practically popped out of her head.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Peregrine anxiously.

  “Why can’t he leave me alone?” Tiffany whispered. She held up her script and turned it round to show the director. Over his shoulder I could see that the last page had been torn out. And scrawled across the inside back cover in scarlet ink were the words YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

  tea break

  There was a big, dramatic pause and then everyone burst out talking. “Her stalker!” “That’s got to be the same guy!” “But how did he manage to…?” “How could he…?”

  Peregrine cut through the rising hubbub of voices. “Keep calm, everyone, I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this. Perhaps it’s just someone’s silly idea of a joke. Geoff, would you go and ring the police? They ought to be informed.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Darling, when did you give Tiffany her script?”

  “She asked for an advance copy. I posted it out to her agent two weeks ago,” Elizabeth replied.

  “And did you check it through beforehand?” Peregrine asked.

  “Well, no,” confessed Elizabeth. “It never occurred to me that anyone would tamper with it.”

  “It can’t have been done before you sent it,” Tiffany said softly. “I read it as soon as it arrived. I wanted to be prepared, you know?”

  “Very commendable,” soothed Peregrine. “When did you last look at it?”

  Tiffany frowned. “Let me see… Yesterday, I think. Yes. I read it through in bed. But I fell asleep before I got to the end.”

  “So it could have been tampered with before then?” he asked.

  Tiffany nodded. “Yes. I’ve been carrying it around with me since I got it. It was all right in the morning because I looked through it before I went out for lunch with my agent. But the restaurant was very crowded. I suppose anyone could have slipped it out of my bag.”

  Peregrine looked around at the assembled cast. He was clearly thinking the same as I was – that anyone in the theatre could have done it. I mean, she’d left her bag in the wings while Peregrine had been doing the introductions. While she’d been dazzling everyone with her high-voltage smile someone could have grabbed her script. It would have been difficult to scrawl on it without being noticed: difficult, but not impossible.

  So we were all suspects. The thought seemed to occur to everybody at once. Suddenly we were eyeing each other up nervously. Everyone that is except Hannah, who was staring at the floor, and Rex, who was regarding Tiffany with ill-concealed disdain.

  “Tea,” said Cynthia briskly. “That’s what we need. Strong, sweet tea. It’s good for shock.”

  “Oh, yes please,” said Tiffany weakly. “That would be wonderful. I left my cup in the green room on the way in. It’s the one with my initials on.” It was just as well she was sitting down because she looked quite faint.

  A few minutes later Cynthia’s singing (“Tea for Two”) signalled the return of her and Geoff. Both were carryi
ng trays stacked high with tea for the grown-ups, orange squash for the kids and biscuits for everyone. Geoff started to rip open the packets and hand them round. There was a bit of a scuffle for the chocolate ones. The plain wholewheats got left on the table.

  Tiffany fetched her bag and groped around inside for her sweeteners. She dropped a couple into her mug – an elaborate pink creation with TW painted in gold on the side – and I noticed how badly her hands were shaking as she stirred her tea. She was trying hard not to show it, but Tiffany was very upset. In fact she was so rattled that when Geoff offered her a biscuit she jumped about a metre in the air and knocked the cup he was holding out of his hands. Scalding hot tea splashed all down his front.

  “I’m so sorry!” Tiffany gasped, frantically dabbing at his shirt with a tissue from her bag. “How awful! Here, you’d better have mine.” Flushed with embarrassment, she thrust her full mug into his hand. “I’ll go and make myself another.”

  She leapt up and ran off to the green room so quickly that her bodyguards had to sprint across the stage like a pair of bulky shadows.

  Geoff watched Tiffany leave then started on her tea. Once he’d drained the last dregs from Tiffany’s cup, he put it down. Two seconds later, he was clutching at his throat and his face had turned a violent shade of purple. There was this ghastly wheezing noise as he struggled for breath. And then he collapsed, crashing onto the table, smashing the cups and saucers, and crushing the unpopular packets of plain biscuits. Cynthia was screaming for someone to do something, but before anyone could even ring for an ambulance, Geoff was dead.

  the stalker’s mistake

  We didn’t get any more rehearsing done that day. People were too gripped by the real-life drama to even think about acting. Besides, the police wanted to take detailed statements about exactly who had been doing what, when and where. No one was allowed to leave the building until they’d finished, so we had a long afternoon ahead of us.