Читать книгу Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter - Holly Forrest - Страница 10

The late 1990s. Rush hour. And I was cycling down Oxford Street in London. Ask me to do this now and I’d laugh in your face, warned off by ten years of accident horror stories and, more importantly, the idea of cycling anywhere in the kind of outfits I usually wear. As a green and naïve newbie on the other hand? I was off and pedalling quicker than you can say ‘Pendleton thighs’.

This was during my first few months as a salaried journalist at the magazine. A celebrity court case was taking place at the now-closed Bow Street Magistrates Court and I had been informed by my panicking boss late one afternoon that I needed to get down there, and fast.

‘Y-y-y-you want me to report on the story?’ I stuttered, wide-eyed and in shock.

‘Don’t be silly, Holly –’ She smiled at me in that kind but patronising way bosses are so good at ‘– Sophie’s down there and the batteries have run out on her recorder. I need you to get down there bloody quickly with these.’ She opened up her palm in front of me to reveal a four pack of Duracell.

Yes, my life was sooo glamorous.

‘Dappy cow should’ve taken spares obviously but there you go. If she’s not up and running in the next half an hour, she’ll miss the post-verdict statement on the steps. With shorthand as bad as hers, I can’t rely on her getting anything down. Take my bike. It’s locked up just next to the post-room. That’ll be the quickest way.’

Her other palm then appeared, revealing a set of keys to a bicycle lock. Hungry to prove myself a willing new employee, I grabbed them along with the batteries and hurried off.

Watching that cute show Call the Midwife on TV the other night, I was treated to umpteen scenes of the female stars cycling gracefully around the back streets of fifties London. Poised and pretty, they don’t seem to have a care in the world (despite supposedly being in a rush to deliver the babies of hard-up, slum-dwelling Cockneys). This younger version of me, on the other hand, quickly found herself caught in the middle of a stream of cars, all apparently being driven by countless Jeremy Clarksons in a hurry to get home, with only the vaguest idea of how to get to the court house from our offices. Horns papped as I wobbled nervously into the middle of the road; cab drivers hollered as I dithered aimlessly at junctions and tried to remember the right way to go.

I can only imagine what my parents, already worried about my emigration to ‘The Big Smoke’, would have said if they’d known I was fumbling around W1 on the back of a two-wheeler (sorry Mum!). That said, my boss’s bike was a ridiculously chic and hi-tech affair – one of those lightweight mountain bikes that probably cost as much as I was earning in a month. Should I fall off, I was less worried about my own injuries, more about chipping the paintwork on this work of art.

I had only two resources to guide me: an A to Z that I’d scanned briefly back in the office but which I had unhelpfully placed in my bag, and memories of childhood games of Monopoly. The Strand – that was one of the ‘red’ areas, near to Trafalgar Square, right? I felt for the batteries in my pocket before hooking an uncertain left and praying for guidance. I just needed to get the double AAs to Sophie and everything would be okay. I might even be deemed efficient enough to be given a real story to work on. And I would still be able to write, even with a leg squashed by an impatient London bus driver.

Over the years, I’ve got to know the bustling streets of sprawling Central London extremely well. I’ve had to. Showbiz events aren’t confined to one place, despite Leicester Square being the most famous location for premieres. Swanky hotels from Mayfair to Embankment, Piccadilly to Covent Garden, fight with each other to host showbiz bashes, knowing that having a major record company or film studio as a regular customer would earn them thousands. I’ve been to some venues so many times, the concierge welcomes me like an old friend (although, I sometimes wonder if he realises I’m actually a journalist, not some hooker on a call-out). Now, I favour two feet over any other method of transport, what with buses being at the whim of traffic just like everyone else and the hassle of the London Underground hardly being worth it if the venues are central, and I can just as easily walk. I’ve also found that pacing the streets every week keeps you in shape almost as much as an intense session of Zumba down at the local sports centre would – and without the annoying instructor. On the days that I do have to take a cab I’m as familiar with the shortcuts and alternative routes as the drivers that take me. (My accountant may baulk at these taxi expenses every year, but has he ever tried to maintain a poker-straight blow-dry while walking in the pouring rain from Park Lane to Soho? I don’t think so.)

One thing is for sure – I certainly wouldn’t cycle any more. But, back then, on my mission, I was only just learning about the city’s traffic chaos. Thankfully, after about 20 or so hellish minutes, I finally reached the court and handed over the batteries to a ridiculously thankful Sophie. I hung around for a few minutes, and watched as the musician who’d been in the dock that day came out on to the steps of the building to read out a statement. He’d been involved in a messy court case with former band mates, all of them arguing over royalties. Now he’d won, he looked relieved that it was all over. I knew how he felt.

Sophie was standing in among the throng of microphones and television cameras, holding out her dictaphone to record every word and even throwing in a few questions to the beaming pop star. Forgetful she may have been, but she was doing what I dreamt of doing.

Still, I had hope that one day soon I’d be given a chance. I’d already learnt several important lessons, after all:

1 Always be prepared and carry a spare packet of batteries.

2 Memorise the London street map like your life depends on it.Oh, and

3 Never cycle down Oxford Street at five o’clock in the evening.I wheeled the bike all the way back to the office.