only venturing out at night to stock up on booze, cigarettes and takeaways. Holed up in his apartment, with the blinds closed to keep prying eyes at bay – and he was sure that he was being watched, despite being too high up for anybody to see in unless they used a helicopter – days rolled into nights into weeks into months, with no company except for the TV.
It killed Larry to hear the Star Struck music every Wednesday evening, and he despised the sight of Matty Kline’s smug grinning face on screen. But, perversely, he couldn’t not watch it. It was an open wound which needed to be picked and scratched and poked and prodded – and that was exactly what he did, until the poison festered in his heart and soul. Star Struck was his show and always would be, and he spent that weekly thirty minutes of agony tearing Kline’s performance to pieces and wishing him a slow, painful death. And then he would ring his agent, Georgie, demanding to know why she hadn’t lined him up any new projects yet – and calling her every fat, useless bitch under the sun when she told him that there was nothing in the offing, even though she was the one and only person who had stood by him throughout that terrible time.
Larry knew he should be grateful to her for that, and in his rare moments of lucidity between waking up and getting pissed again, he would berate himself for being such a bastard. But guilt didn’t sit too comfortably with self-pity, so every time he had an attack of remorse after abusing Georgie over the phone, he would drown it with even more alcohol.
Which was precisely what he did when, after almost a year in the showbiz wastelands, she actually called him for a change.
Already halfway through his latest bottle of Scotch despite it being only five in the afternoon, and in a foul mood because there was a noisy party going on in the apartment next door – to which, surprise, surprise – he hadn’t been invited, Larry bit Georgie’s head off when she told him he’d had an offer of a job.
‘What is it? And it’d better be good, ’cos I’m not just taking any old shit.’
Sensing from his tone that he was spoiling for a fight – as he always seemed to be lately – Georgie sighed. Any other agent would have dumped him after the telethon scandal, but her instincts had prevented her from buying into the witch-hunt. Pain in the arse that he undoubtedly was when he was drunk, Larry had been a nice, sober young man when she’d met him, fresh off the cabaret circuit where he’d been muddling along playing host in a strip venue in Blackpool. She’d never for one minute believed that he was a paedophile and, sensing that the sweet, ambitious boy he’d once been still lurked behind the raging ego, she’d stuck in there, sure that when the rumours eventually fizzled and died and he got a grip on his drinking, some smart producer somewhere would remember his appeal to the female viewing population and give him a fresh start.
And it had finally happened, but not in the way she’d hoped, and Georgie just knew that Larry was going to kick off when he heard what was actually being proposed. In fact, she was so sure he would turn it down flat that she’d spent a good ten minutes after speaking with the producer chewing her nails, wondering whether there was any point even telling him about it. But her conscience hadn’t allowed her to keep it from him, and there was always a chance, albeit slim, that he might just surprise her and jump at the chance to get back in front of the camera – like any sensible person would if they had been out of work for as long as he had.
‘Oi!’ Larry barked suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts. ‘Spit it out, or I’m hanging up. I’ve got better things to do than sit here listening to you panting down my ear like a knackered old dog.’
Gritting her teeth, Georgie said, ‘It’s such a joy speaking to you, too, Larry, and if we can forgo the insults for a moment, I’ll
It killed Larry to hear the Star Struck music every Wednesday evening, and he despised the sight of Matty Kline’s smug grinning face on screen. But, perversely, he couldn’t not watch it. It was an open wound which needed to be picked and scratched and poked and prodded – and that was exactly what he did, until the poison festered in his heart and soul. Star Struck was his show and always would be, and he spent that weekly thirty minutes of agony tearing Kline’s performance to pieces and wishing him a slow, painful death. And then he would ring his agent, Georgie, demanding to know why she hadn’t lined him up any new projects yet – and calling her every fat, useless bitch under the sun when she told him that there was nothing in the offing, even though she was the one and only person who had stood by him throughout that terrible time.
Larry knew he should be grateful to her for that, and in his rare moments of lucidity between waking up and getting pissed again, he would berate himself for being such a bastard. But guilt didn’t sit too comfortably with self-pity, so every time he had an attack of remorse after abusing Georgie over the phone, he would drown it with even more alcohol.
Which was precisely what he did when, after almost a year in the showbiz wastelands, she actually called him for a change.
Already halfway through his latest bottle of Scotch despite it being only five in the afternoon, and in a foul mood because there was a noisy party going on in the apartment next door – to which, surprise, surprise – he hadn’t been invited, Larry bit Georgie’s head off when she told him he’d had an offer of a job.
‘What is it? And it’d better be good, ’cos I’m not just taking any old shit.’
Sensing from his tone that he was spoiling for a fight – as he always seemed to be lately – Georgie sighed. Any other agent would have dumped him after the telethon scandal, but her instincts had prevented her from buying into the witch-hunt. Pain in the arse that he undoubtedly was when he was drunk, Larry had been a nice, sober young man when she’d met him, fresh off the cabaret circuit where he’d been muddling along playing host in a strip venue in Blackpool. She’d never for one minute believed that he was a paedophile and, sensing that the sweet, ambitious boy he’d once been still lurked behind the raging ego, she’d stuck in there, sure that when the rumours eventually fizzled and died and he got a grip on his drinking, some smart producer somewhere would remember his appeal to the female viewing population and give him a fresh start.
And it had finally happened, but not in the way she’d hoped, and Georgie just knew that Larry was going to kick off when he heard what was actually being proposed. In fact, she was so sure he would turn it down flat that she’d spent a good ten minutes after speaking with the producer chewing her nails, wondering whether there was any point even telling him about it. But her conscience hadn’t allowed her to keep it from him, and there was always a chance, albeit slim, that he might just surprise her and jump at the chance to get back in front of the camera – like any sensible person would if they had been out of work for as long as he had.
‘Oi!’ Larry barked suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts. ‘Spit it out, or I’m hanging up. I’ve got better things to do than sit here listening to you panting down my ear like a knackered old dog.’
Gritting her teeth, Georgie said, ‘It’s such a joy speaking to you, too, Larry, and if we can forgo the insults for a moment, I’ll
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