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that Frank wanted to see him last night and, furious that he’d been denied the chance to give him a roasting, Frank had tried ringing him numerous times to tell him to get his arse straight back, only to find that the little shit had turned his phone off.
    Reaching for the bedside phone now, Frank tried both Larry’s mobile and landline numbers, only to find one still switched off and the other engaged. Slamming the receiver down, he cursed under his breath. He’d been nothing but good to that boy, and the contempt he’d received in return was a real kick in the teeth. Larry had been unknown when Frank had handed him his first big break, and when his star rose and his drinking started to grow in line with his ego, Frank had given him chance after chance to sort himself out. He’d fobbed the crew off when they complained about his on-set behaviour, and had given Larry fatherly talking-tos when pictures of him and his whores falling out of nightclubs began to appear almost every day in the papers. And Larry always promised to curb his ways. But words were obviously cheap because he just carried on as usual, no matter what Frank said. And that angered Frank more than anything, because it gave everybody the impression that he was a pushover – which he most certainly was not .
    Still, everyone had their limits, and Frank had just about reached his. If he could find an excuse to terminate Larry’s contract without giving Alan Corbin the satisfaction of thinking it had been done on his say-so, he’d dump him like a hot brick and bring in Matty Kline without pausing for breath.
    The idea had been growing on him throughout the night, and he was convinced that it was the perfect solution to the problem of saving Star Struck . But his pride was still smarting too much to put his plans into action just yet. Not only because he couldn’t bear giving Corbin cause to gloat, but also because he didn’t want Jeremy Hislop thinking that it had been his suggestion which had swayed him, either. Everybody was just too damn full of their own self-importance these days, and it galled Frank that they all thought they had the right to butt into his business.
    Still stewing, having failed to reach Larry after several attempts, Frank got out of bed and stomped down to the kitchen. Snapping at his wife when she handed him a cup of coffee and accidentally spilled a tiny drop onto the sleeve of his dressing gown, he immediately turned his frustrations onto the dog, yelling at the poor thing for getting under his feet when all it was doing was giving him its usual good-morning greeting.
    Muttering under his breath when the dog slinked away to mope in its basket, he turned his back on his wife’s disapproving face and snatched up the kitchen phone. One last chance, and if Larry still didn’t answer, pride be buggered, he was history.
    The newspapers dropped onto the hall mat with a dull thud. Lips pursed, Brenda Woods stalked past her husband and went to get them. She didn’t know what his problem was, but he’d better snap out of his mood before he even thought about leaving for his precious office today, or he’d find himself with a mutiny on his hands when he came home tonight.
    Bringing the papers back into the kitchen now, she dropped them on the table, sending a cloud of soot from Frank’s ashtray up into the air.
    ‘Bloody hell, woman!’ he complained, snatching his cup up before the ash landed in it. ‘Watch what you’re doing, can’t you?’
    ‘Don’t you woman me,’ Brenda retorted indignantly. ‘I don’t know what’s eating you today, Frank, but whatever it is, it’s none of my doing, and I won’t have you taking it out on me. It was bad enough putting up with you tossing and turning all night. I hardly slept a wink.’
    Muttering ‘Sorry,’ because she was right that this wasn’t about her, Frank clicked the still-unanswered phone off and swept the ash off the table with the back of his hand. But just as he was