‘A very funny novel that soap fans will love’
– Woman’s Own
Another novel about the acting world! Kiss and Tell started life as a
sequel to Waiting in the Wings. But then Jo, a harassed single mum, appeared
out of nowhere and suddenly it became her story. The soap background came
from my day job, ie writing features for tv magazines. Having interviewed
hundreds of soap stars, I have to say that what goes on when the cameras
stop rolling is almost as fascinating as what goes on in front of them!
Some readers have suggested that the characters in Kiss and Tell are based
on real people. They might think that but I couldn’t possibly comment…
Jo is an actress on the country’s most popular soap, Westfield.
It’s a far cry from her West End ambitions, but as a single mother
to two young daughters she needs a steady income.
Then the ratings start to drop, and the infamous producer Richard Black,
known as the Grim Reaper for his habit of killing characters off, is brought
in to reverse Westfield’s fortunes. No one is happy about it, and
when Jo fails to create quite the impression she had hoped for, she’s
sure her days on the show are numbered…
Extract
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Jo smiled up at her new husband as he lifted her veil and lowered his
head to kiss her. As their lips touched, a hush fell over the congregation,
broken only by the sound of her mother’s sobbing.
Then, suddenly, the doors at the back of the church creaked open and
a woman stood there, silhouetted against a shaft of light. All heads
turned to follow the elegant blonde as she stalked up the aisle towards
them, her high heels clicking on the flagstones, her face hidden by
her sweeping Philip Treacy brim.
‘What the – who is she?’
Jo turned to glance at the man at her side. He looked as if he’d
been turned to stone. ‘Steve?’
‘Well, Steve? Aren’t you going to tell
her who I am?’ the woman turned to Jo, her smile mocking.
‘Perhaps I’d better introduce myself.
I’m – ’
‘Cut. Sorry, everyone, the boom was in shot.
Can we go again?’
A groan went up from the congregation. All eyes turned accusingly to
the man on the other end of the long pole holding the furry boom mike,
who looked sheepish. ‘Shit,’ the blonde muttered.
‘That’s the first time I remembered
my lines.’ She turned and stalked back up the aisle, slamming
the heavy door behind her.
‘Right, if we could just go back to the kiss?’
the first assistant director was silent for a moment, listening to the
director’s instructions on his headphones. ‘And…action.’
This time it went without a hitch. As the first assistant director called
cut there was a collective sigh of relief and everyone started talking
at once.
The vicar disappeared behind the choir stalls for a cigarette, a make-up
girl arrived to touch up the mystery woman’s lipstick, and the
actress playing Jo’s mother retrieved her copy of The Guardian
from under the pew. As the grips moved in to position the heavy grey
camera for the next shot, Jo turned to her husband of three minutes.
‘If you ever,’ she hissed, ‘ever
try to stick your tongue down my throat again, I’ll knee you so
hard in the balls you’ll be singing soprano. Is that clear?’
Brett Michaels leered. ‘You don’t know
what you’re missing, love. I’ve never had any complaints
before.’ His muscles bulged inside his morning suit. As
macho Steve Stagg, he was Westfield’s resident sex symbol. Millions
of women tuned in twice a week just to see him looking sweaty and wearing
a vest. He was square-jawed, brutishly handsome and the most obnoxious
man on TV. ‘Really?’ Jo smiled sweetly.
‘That’s not what I read in The News of the World.’
That got him. He was still recovering from the Sunday tabloid revelations
of his latest conquest, a wannabe glamour model called Linzi he’d
picked up during a personal appearance at a Leeds nightclub. According
to her, his ego was the only enormous thing about him.
There was a break while the cameraman set up the next scene. Jo wandered
outside. It was a muggy July day and she could feel her gravity-defying
hairdo wilting under her veil in the damp heat. The crew swarmed around
the moss-covered gravestones of the churchyard, their t-shirts and jeans
mingling incongruously with the smart suits and pastel hats of the wedding
guests, clutching scripts, checking light levels and discussing camera
angles.
She pulled at her frilly neckline to cool herself down. She’d
been sweltering inside her wedding dress for nearly six hours and her
feet had swollen in her white stilettos. She’d been fantasising
about slipping them off but now she wasn’t sure she’d manage
it without surgery.
She picked her way down the path towards the catering van. Some of the
wedding guests gathered around the hatch, clutching styrofoam cups of
coffee. Jo joined the queue behind a couple of extras, or background
artists as they were officially known.
‘I was at that Coronation Street funeral
last week,’ one of them was saying.
‘You know, you really can’t beat Granada’s catering
arrangements.’ She took a sip from her cup and grimaced.
‘I know, they can’t seem to manage
it here, can they?’ They blocked the hatch, ignoring Jo
as she bobbed impatiently behind them. ‘So
you were at the funeral, were you? They asked me, but I was a road accident
in Peak Practice that day.’
‘Excuse me,’ Jo butted in finally.
‘Do you think I could just get served? Only
they’ll be calling me for my next scene in a minute.’
The women stood aside. Jo could feel them looking her up and down as
she ordered her coffee and doughnut. As she walked away one of them
muttered something about ‘pushy stars’.
‘Looking down on the rest of us just because
her name’s in the credits. I’ve been there too, you know.
I was one of the first guests at Crossroads Motel.’
