‘You -’ Johnny pointed at a young girl clutching a clipboard to her chest. ‘Do something useful for a fucking change and find me a beer, will you?’ She scuttled out of the door and he turned to me. ‘Fancy one, Lil?’
‘Lilith. And no, thank you.’
‘Ooh, get you with that posh accent. Instant hard-on or what? Right, this is how it’s going to go tonight. I’ve got to make like I’m interested with some wanker that cooks stuff first, then we’ll get you on – nice build-up so they love you before you even park your arse on the chair, and then we’ll have a natter about your paintings – loved the one with that bird giving her fella a blow-job by the way – and that’ll be the show over for another week.’ He glanced in the vast mirror hung over the sofa and picked something green from his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Then what say you and I disappear into the night and find somewhere quiet to grab a bite to eat? See what comes up, eh?’
‘I’m terribly sorry. I’ve got a taxi booked to the airport as soon as I finish the interview.’
‘Pity. Tell you what, I bet I could give you some inspiration for those mucky drawings that you do.’
I summoned a polite smile. ‘I’m sure you could.’
Johnny touched his earpiece. ‘Got to interrupt you there, darlin’. Some tart in the control room’s telling me we’re live in two.’ He patted me on the shoulder with enough force to make me wince. ‘Right, here we go. See you in the bear-pit, Lil.’ He strode onto the studio floor to a groundswell of cheers and squeals from an audience that sounded like it had been imported from Bedlam.
‘Could I give you a bit of advice?’ Jarred whispered in my ear. ‘Let him win. He’s an oaf, but he can be dangerous, believe me. Just smile nicely then get pissed once you’re safely back at home.’
‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and find my seat.’ Hilary stood and rearranged her voluminous batik-dyed skirt. ‘I’ll be in the front row – if it all ends in tears, at least you’ll know where to find me.’
‘Same if I decide to fire you.’
*****
Too soon, the hollering signalled the end of the first interview with ‘some wanker that cooks stuff’, and it was my turn for the inquisition. I got to my feet before the young runner could lead me to my position, and I briefly wished that I believed in a god to whom I could offer a trite prayer for safe passage.
‘And now, the young woman who’s turning the British art world on its head… Lilith Bresson!’ Johnny’s voice surged into the room, and my stomach lurched and the walls closed in. The distant applause sounded like thunder and I wanted to run and run until I hit the nearest road, or failing that, a particularly solid wall. Instead, I took a deep, steadying breath and stepped out into a barrage of blinding light and noise to be caught in Johnny Buckle’s suffocating embrace.
‘Lil, love! Fantastic to meet you at last! Grab a seat and make yourself comfy.’ More unwelcome kisses, the same rank breath, and I was live in front of three million people.
‘Thank you.’ I smoothed the satin of my dress over my knees and sat on the edge of my seat, determined not to be swallowed by the huge sofa that Johnny used to shrink his guests. At exactly five feet tall, I had no wish to appear smaller still.
My host looked out to address his audience. ‘Now, old Johnny here may not know much about art, but he does know what he likes. None of this crap with pickled giraffes, for a start – what the heck’s all that about anyway? – but when a good looking bird like yourself decides to mix painting with one of the biggest football teams on the planet, well, you’re onto a winner with most of the blokes I know. So let’s just remind our viewers of the piece that’s made your name, shall we?’
The Players’ Triptych flashed up on the monitor in front of me, and I actually managed to smile. Six months on from the final brushstroke and I was still as proud as hell. Three of A.C. Torino’s greatest players stood thirty feet tall, captured fierce in gold and sepia pigments blended with their own blood and sweat, burnished Roman gods guarding the gates of their stadium.
Loved by the fans as much as the critics, the image was now reproduced on t-shirts, mugs, even dogs’ drinking bowls, and thanks to a ruthless deal by Hilary, I took a healthy percentage on anything sold. I was twenty-eight years old and The Players’ Triptych had bought me my freedom.