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covering what was most probably going on below decks. The second shot clearly showed just how drunk Larry had been as, shocked out of the clinch by the flashing lights and fracas that had reportedly followed, he gazed out with unfocused eyes, not seeming to know what was happening or where he was.
    The girl, however, not only looked absolutely aware of her surroundings, she’d even managed to locate the camera’s lens and was staring straight into it like a seasoned pro, with a mile-wide smile on her lying face – no doubt hoping to launch her future modelling career off the back of this amazing photo opportunity.
    And the gold-digging, publicity-seeking little slut would probably succeed, too, Frank thought, furiously skimming through the rest of the papers now. The Herald was the only one carrying this story, but the rest were full of Larry pissed out of his head live on air, which was just as bad.
    Shoving the papers angrily away when he’d seen enough, Frank lit another cigarette and snatched up the phone again. This was the worst publicity he’d faced in twenty-three years as a producer, and – pride be damned – he’d rather eat Corbin’s shit-caked underpants live on the six o’clock news than have the public think he was standing by Logan after this.
    He would demand an internal investigation, of course – to find out how the girl had managed to slip through the net in the first place, and to nail the stupid bastard who’d let it happen. And he would stop the cheque immediately, before the girl managed to cash it. And – for face-saving’s sake – he would then publicly donate the prize money to the Kiddie Kare fund.
    And then he would murder Logan with his bare hands!
    ‘I take it you’ve seen the papers?’ Jeremy said when he answered – further incensing Frank, who sensed more than a hint of I told you so in his flat tone. ‘Doesn’t look too good, does it?’
    ‘Get everyone in for a meeting,’ Frank barked, letting Jeremy know from the off that he was still in control and wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit. ‘And get hold of Matty Kline while you’re at it.’
    ‘Do you want Larry there, too?’
    ‘Only if you want to see me go down for murder! Just ring the little fuckwit’s agent, and tell her to tell him that if I see him anywhere near the studio again in this lifetime, I will personally rip his fucking face off. Got that?’
    ‘Loud and clear,’ Jeremy replied, sensibly keeping his opinions to himself: that this could have all been avoided if Frank had only taken his advice and kept Larry Logan well away from a live broadcast.

    Over in the city centre just then, the sun was casting an orange glow through the uncurtained floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window of Larry’s penthouse apartment. Hanover Towers boasted some of the finest views, and some of the richest, most famous inhabitants of Manchester – the latter being the major reason why Larry had bought the apartment. No point being a star if you couldn’t show it off to the world, and all that.
    Waking up in his bed now, Tania stretched her arms out above her head and gazed around the unfamiliar room, sleepily studying the designer furniture and the funky artwork decorating the walls. She hadn’t noticed too much after falling through the door in the early hours, but now that she could see everything clearly she was far more impressed than she’d expected to be, because the whole place screamed of money and style.
    Switching her gaze to the window after a while, she sighed longingly as her eyes danced over the few building tops that were visible from up here, imagining what it would be like to live here permanently.
    Turning to look at Larry when he made a soft noise beside her, Tania inhaled softly and bit her lip. He always looked amazing on screen but here, in the naked flesh, with his usually perfect hair tousled, his eyes closed so that his long dark lashes rested on his cheeks, and his lips parted to reveal a sliver