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  Also by Laura Vaughan

  The Favour

  Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2022 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Laura Vaughan, 2022

  The moral right of Laura Vaughan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 83895 205 1

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 206 8

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 207 5

  Design and typesetting benstudios.co.uk

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  This book is for Hannah Bailey. Nazdrave!

  I’ll tell you the truth,

  Don’t think I’m lying:

  I have to run backwards

  To keep from flying.

  – Old rhyme

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘You know what I blame?’ growled Nina. ‘Me-sodding-Too. All the men are running scared. Even the shameless ones. I mean, it’s all very well for the A-listers to come over all snooty about the casting couch. They can afford it.’

  I was used to Nina mouthing off after failed auditions, so I just laughed and passed her the joint.

  Nina and I first met at the age of ten, at a call-back for a yogurt commercial that neither of us got. Twenty-two years later and we’re still bonding over our mutual rejections.

  ‘Christ – if only I’d known my casting-couch power peaked at sixteen. In those days, they’d be happy with just a handsie, too.’

  ‘Ew.’

  ‘You’re just jealous cos none of the dirty old men wanted you. They tagged you for an uptight little madam, and they were right.’

  I blew her a kiss. It’s never a good idea to rise to Nina’s baits. Even as a kid, Nina was the edgy one, accessorising her own quirky niche with big nerd glasses and a shit-eating grin. I’ve never known how seriously I should take her tales of juvenile debauchery – then or now. But the Momager, for all her faults, kept me on a tight leash. Nina’s mum is a drunk.

  This is one of the many reasons the Momager’s never approved of our friendship. ‘Shop-soiled’ was how she once described Nina, when she was still a teen. Nina didn’t seem to bother with puberty, mind you, going straight from quirky-cute to va-va-voom. On her good days, she has a louche, jolie-laide sexiness that makes other girls seem insipid. I’m sometimes surprised it hasn’t served her better.

  The fact is, Nina Gill’s spot on the ‘Where Are They Now?’ rankings is several places below mine. She gets by on the back of her residuals, supplemented by experimental theatre gigs and the occasional art-house movie, usually involving nudity.

  ‘You and me should do a porno,’ she said another time. ‘We’d clean up. Little Miss Snowflake and the Disney Slut.’ And later, ‘We’re two sides of the same fucked-up coin, baby.’

  There are two things you should know about me. One is that I was briefly famous when I was four. The other is that I had a nose job when I was fifteen. These things are not, of course, unrelated.

  To a great many people, Lily Thane is synonymous with Little Lucie, the winsome orphan who made a wish on a snowflake. (‘All I want for Christmas is a daddy of my own!’) Nobody expected Snow Angels to become a hit. It was a low-budget Brit romcom, with a cast of unknowns and an incongruous magical twist. But twenty-eight years later it’s still on repeat every festive season, having somehow earned the status of a Holiday Classic. There I am, a tousle-haired, rosy-cheeked moppet, gazing upwards as the first cellulose snowflakes begin to fall. Forever frozen in my four-year-old glory.

  I was only on screen for twenty minutes. The focus of the movie was the romance between nerdy Tim Randolf and sassy older sexpot Honey Evans. But even now, people will clock my name and ask me about it. (‘So, what’s Sir Tim really like?’ ‘Did they let you keep one of the snow mice?’ ‘Were you frightened of the icicle goblins?’) The thing is, for a lot of people, that film looms larger in their childhood memories than it does in mine. I mean, c’mon, how much do you remember of what you were doing age four?

  Off the back of Snow Angels, I had three more small film roles and a run of commercials and voice-over work. But the brutal truth is that a kid who is absolutely adorable at, say, four may not be the least bit adorable or even attractive once they’ve outgrown their dimples. Aged fifteen, I’d been pathetically relieved to acquire visible cheekbones. Alas, the loss of puppy fat came with a price: my nose was now distractingly prominent. Or so I thought.

  When Snow Angels came out, reviewers liked to mention that the scene-stealing child actor who played Lucie came from a ‘theatrical dynasty’. It’s true that Pa and his two siblings are all performers of sorts, and my cousin Dido has a couple of Olivier awards in her loo, but none of them are what you’d call household names. In fact, we can only boast of one bone fide National Treasure: my grandfather, Sir Terence Thane, formerly Terry Stubbs, the butcher’s son from Ealing who scaled the thespian heights along with Sirs Larry, Ralph and John. His nose was almost as famous as his Lear, and was long and arched, with flared wings. We’ve all inherited a version of it. On the right sort of profile – Dido’s, for example – it is both handsome and distinctive. On others, it’s simply all-conquering.

  Either way, getting rid of the nose wasn’t the liberation I’d hoped for. The new model was narrow and straight, with a demurely rounded tip. It made my face look neater, sweeter but also oddly unfinished. Work picked up, at least at first, but my late teens and twenties were filled with pilots for series that never got sold, forgettable British crime dramas and my most recent gig, the American legal dramedy Briefs.

  Otherwise, my film credits are mostly along the lines of Pretty Girl on Plane, Prostitute at Party and Crying Bridesmaid.

  If I had kept my nose, would it all have been different?

  Would I still have agreed to beard for Adam Harker?

  What then?

  Ah, what then.

  When the PR blitz began, it made for a cute anecdote: ‘We were childhood sweethearts!’ Like everything else, this was essentially bollocks.

  I first met Adam when I was twelve and we were both enrolled at stage school. Students called it the Fame Factory, as if mock disdain could cover up the rancid whiff of our ambition. My first few years there were not happy ones, on account of the puppy fat and the nose. Meanwhile, the only name Adam had made for himself was that of a cocky little shit. He was small and squat and acne spattered, yet possessed of unshakeable confidence. ‘Ten years from now,’ he used to say, ‘all these talent-show losers will be dining out on how they went to school with me.’

  Adam was a year older than me, so we only got to know each other when we were cast as brother and sister in a play about an upper-crust family at war over their inheritance. They were small parts in a fairly awful show that folded after a month, but as the only juveniles on set we spent a ce
rtain amount of time backstage together. We used to play card games and take the piss out of the director, as well as the Barbies ’n’ Kens (Adam’s term) back at school. Adam liked hearing about the Thanes, too. ‘A pedigree like that’s the real deal,’ he told me once, with a solemnity that surprised me.

  ‘Sure, he’ll be a great character actor,’ the Ken dolls sneered when rumours of Adam’s on-stage charisma began to spread. Then he got his growth spurt, his skin cleared up and, for a while, his rise seemed as effortless as it was inevitable.

  At the age of nineteen, after rave reviews for his part in ITV’s World War I drama The Last Hurrah, Adam headed to LA. From there he bagged a BAFTA for playing Brad Pitt’s troubled son in art-house flick Silent Hour, which was followed by a few small but well-received parts before being cast in Wylderness, billed as the biggest dystopian fantasy franchise since Hunger Games. The box-office returns were disappointing, however, and when they didn’t film the third of the trilogy, Adam’s trajectory began to stall. There were rumours of difficult behaviour, an on-set bust-up that halted production on a film that was later shelved. His prediction that he’d be the Fame Factory graduate we all name-dropped had come true only up to a point. Most people knew who he was, but indistinctly.

  ‘Adam Harker’s a meth head,’ said Nina authoritatively, the same afternoon as her #MeToo rant. ‘He got a bit too much into character during that Deep South family saga. Hasn’t been able to shake the habit since.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The make-up girl on the Evening Standard shoot. So there.’

  Nina always claims the most successful stars are nursing the darkest secrets. Drugs, violence, paedophile rings … She’s got a lot of contacts in showbiz-adjacent roles, so she’s better informed than most. But I also happen to know she makes stuff up and sends it to the blind gossip sites just for shits and giggles. I can see the appeal. I mean, I want to believe it. It’s certainly easier on the ego to assume the famous and beautiful are also the miserable and the damned.

  ‘I wish you’d dig up some dirt on the Thanes.’

  ‘Pfff. No one gives a crap about your family.’ Nina looked mischievous. ‘Though I did hear Dido’s shagging a spear-carrier.’

  ‘No!’ I was delighted. My cousin Dido is three years older than me and the heir apparent to Sir Terry’s luvvie legacy. People still rave about her Lady Macbeth, and her Hedda is almost as fawned over as her Antigone. My one comfort is that she’s too much of a snob to take her talents mainstream.

  Actually, that’s not true. I also take comfort in the fact that Dido’s husband is a dick. Hence the spear-carrier, presumably.

  ‘You can ask her about it tonight,’ said Nina. ‘He’s fresh out of RADA and hung like a donkey. Allegedly. Mind you, those Shakespearean codpieces can be very misleading.’

  ‘Dinner. Shit.’ We’d spent the afternoon in Nina’s flat, getting stoned and watching Fred Astaire movies. It’s Nina’s thing when she’s had a setback. Those big monochrome dance numbers are trippy at the best of times, like an Escher print come to life, but weed slows them down. It’s very soothing. Too soothing on this occasion; I now had less than an hour to straighten out and get to Dido’s. It was her standard invitation: ‘Just a kitchen supper, super relaxed, super fun crowd.’

  For Dido, ‘fun’ means worthy yet snide. Habitat for Humanity meets Mean Girls.

  Dido and Nick live in a large house in Highgate. Patchily painted in Gothic hues, it’s chilly and cluttered, with stacks of Nick’s unpublished novels and Dido’s scripts piled up everywhere. There’s quite a lot of dog hair, too, courtesy of Hotspur. Hotspur is an Afghan hound. Hotspur looks very much like Dido, but of course nobody has ever dared point this out.

  As I said, it’s not an inviting house. The location of these famous kitchen suppers is in the basement; the fittings are unvarnished wood, and the crockery looks like it’s been thrown together by depressed Scandinavian pre-schoolers. But the thing about my cousin is that she can really cook. In interviews, she’ll say things like ‘feasting people is how I show love’ and it’s not entirely bollocks. Dining chez Dido means platters of fragrant meats melting from the bone, lacy lacquers of chocolate and slicks of spiced butter, swirls of boozy cream. The hostess herself will barely touch this largesse. She’ll pick at a slice of fruit or paring of cheese, all the while eating us up with her eyes.

  After retrieving a key from under the usual plant pot, I slunk in late, red-eyed and dishevelled, hoping to find the party in full tipsy swing. But the eleven people gathered around the kitchen table looked disconcertingly alert. Except for Nick, perhaps, who was doing the rounds with a carafe. The sloshing way he poured suggested he’d had a head start on the rest of us.

  ‘Darling Lily,’ said Dido, arms flung wide. ‘We’re all so thrilled you could make it.’

  I wasn’t sure if this was a dig. It can be hard to tell with Dido. I think she honestly believes she’s doing me a favour with her condescending suppers and cast-off clothing and unsolicited advice.

  ‘And how gorgeous you look!’ Definitely a dig, then.

  Dido’s studied carelessness on the domestic front extends to her own appearance. She favours mannish tailoring, oversize shirts and ugly shoes. (‘Who does she think she is?’ sniffs the Momager. ‘A lesbian?’) But Dido can carry it off. She lopes about on her endless legs, curtained by swirls of her endless hair, that famous nose jutting forth like the prow of a very sexy ship. The kind with billowing sails and lots of guns.

  ‘Isn’t she adorable?’ Dido declared to a narrow bearded man sitting at the more shadowy end of the table. ‘Gideon, have you met my adorable cousin? Lily, this is Gideon. He’s a music journalist and the most fascinating man.’

  She ushered me into the seat next to him. Within seconds, a loaded plate of food was steaming in front of me. The gloom of the basement was barely alleviated by a scattering of hurricane lamps, so it was hard to tell exactly what I was eating. The pot had left me ravenous in any case. Blindly, I forked in various richly spiced and scented mouthfuls, as introductions to assorted artistes and do-gooders were made.

  Dido had recently finished a run of Mary Stuart at the National, and the conversation I’d interrupted was moving from Schiller to Goethe. ‘Not a fan of Weimar classicism?’ Gideon asked in a stage-whisper.

  ‘It doesn’t come up much in my line of work.’ I was too busy shovelling in food to pay attention. There was butter on my chin and I didn’t even care.

  ‘Aren’t you an actress too?’

  ‘Ah, but Lily’s in actual “showbiz”,’ Dido trilled from the other end of the table.

  ‘Right.’ I took a long swig from my glass. ‘Here to represent the bread-and-circuses division of Thane, Inc.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the child-star,’ said somebody else.

  ‘I took a lot of growth hormones before coming out tonight.’

  Nobody laughed.

  ‘I remember you from Briefs,’ said the woman across from me, so graciously it was clear she thought she was throwing me a lifeline. ‘Weren’t you the bitchy one? With kleptomania? The Honourable Hermione Whatnot.’

  ‘Hancock. Yeah. It was a … fun role.’

  ‘One of my guilty pleasures. Mostly, I watched it for the power-dressing.’

  It turned out she was a lawyer. Human rights, inevitably. She started to tell me – archly, but in great detail – all the ways that TV shows get the legal profession wrong.

  ‘What I find off-putting about those glossy American dramas,’ said Gideon, cutting in, ‘is how they make up their leading ladies to look like drag queens.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Human Rights made a moue of distaste. ‘False eyelashes and ridiculous hair extensions and all that contouring goop.’

  ‘People get self-conscious with high-definition,’ I said, sounding defensive in spite of myself.

  ‘Why should they? Seems to me everyone on the telly these days is a perfect ten. Or eight, minimum. Take a girl like you.’ Jovially, Gide
on speared an asparagus from my plate. ‘You don’t need three inches of slap to look fuckable.’

  I turned my chair towards Nick, who was on my other side and had contributed even less to the general conversation than I had. He’s quite good looking, in a sneery sort of way, but tonight he looked more than usually morose. Maybe Nina was right and Dido was carrying on with some oversized codpiece. I supposed I should feel sorry for him. ‘So tell me about the new book …’

  Nick had an agent for a while, but they parted ways over the direction of his latest effort, which was written in the voice of a drug dealer from the Bronx who believes he’s the reincarnation of the Earl of Rochester. Writers and actors share the impulse to be as overweening as they’re insecure; the difference is that actors, even failed ones, have a pathological need to win over their audience. Nick has never felt the need to ingratiate himself with anyone. Thanks to family money, he’s under no pressure to produce a bestseller. Or any kind of seller, in fact.

  ‘Ever thought about self-publishing?’ I asked at the end of his monologue on the relationship between gansta-rap and seventeenth-century erotic poetry.

  ‘Vanity publishing?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I mean if, like you say, traditional publishing’s so corrupt … and, you know, the model’s broken, why not look elsewhere? You’d get total creative control. And that could be good. Right?’

  ‘Honestly, Lily.’ He looked at me coldly. ‘Asking a novelist if they’ve thought about self-publishing is like asking an actress if they’ve considered porn.’

  ‘It’s hardly –’

  Gideon leaned in. ‘Maybe you should expand your range. A webcam girl who quotes Schiller … Think about it.’

  ‘Excuse me. I’ve just remembered there’s somewhere I have to be.’ I got up from my chair, which scraped dramatically against the floor, knocking into Hotspur in the process. Amidst the anguished yelping and flurry of dog hair, there was no hope of a swift exit. Dido insisted on escorting me to the door.