The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride

Chapter Eight

Over then next few hours things went from bad to f***ing disastrous. I was just sitting on the floor in the hallway, unable to pull myself together enough to even phone Luke. I’d got the phone out but my hands were shaking uncontrollably and I couldn’t trust myself not to cry if I got through to him. It wasn’t so much Pete who had got to me, as the photographer. I mean, I could understand why Pete should be mad with me; I was quite surprised it hadn’t happened before, but then he always had been a bit slow to pick up on what was going on around him. I hadn’t realised he’d got a gun, but I wasn’t that surprised about that either, given some of the people he did business with sometimes. But how could anyone have behaved like that photographer? How could you just keep taking photographs of someone who’s lying on the pavement and not say anything? Not even offer to help? I mean I know he had to have his pictures, fair enough, it’s how the man earns his living. But once he had them in the bag, couldn’t he at least have helped me up and asked if I needed a cup of tea or something. I mean it’s not every day someone’s ex-boyfriend pulls a gun on them in the street. I suppose not having any hearts is how they are able to take pictures in war zones or in places where everyone is starving. Maybe that’s the only way you can stay sane when you are faced with mountains of dead bodies and starving babies. Maybe a fallen television celebrity comes into the same category of man-made disaster as far as they’re concerned.

      If I was shocked by what had happened outside the house I was even more shocked when my phone started to ring. I didn’t recognise the first number and answered it with a trembling thumb. Didn’t recognise the voice either, a woman’s voice, all cooing and sympathetic, asking if I was okay, did I need help, was I hurt? Question after question.

     ‘Who are you?’I  asked, my voice croaky.

     She was only a bloody reporter, wasn’t she? How the hell had she managed to get to me so quickly? I don’t know if she’d talked to the photographer or the person with the video camera or what, but she seemed to know everything that had happened. I always try to be polite to reporters when they ask their really dumb questions, I mean they’ve got to earn their livings too, haven’t they? But I just couldn’t muster the strength to do the usual bright, cheeky, cockney sparrow act. Unable to think of anything to say and not wanting her to hear me crying I hung up. The phone rang again immediately; another number I didn’t recognise. The calls kept coming and I kept cancelling them, checking each number first in case it was Mum or Luke.

     When the doorbell went I nearly leapt out of my skin. I stood up, my legs wobbling under me, and peered through the peephole. I didn’t recognise the face on the other side, so I just leant back against the wall again and waited. The doorbell kept going because they knew I was in there and the phone kept ringing. So many bells jangling my nerves, making me want to scream. I could hear voices as more of them arrived, then there was some shouting, like someone was getting angry and I recognised Mum’s voice. I put my eye back to the peephole. It was hard to work out what was going on in the darkness. There seemed to be a crowd and then Mum’s face was the one in focus and she was calling out to me.

      ‘Open the door, Baby, open the door, it’s me!’

      The moment I opened it the flashes went off again and they all started shouting their questions as Mum elbowed her way in and slammed it shut behind her.

     ‘What the hell is going on there, Girl?’ she asked and I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer, just sobbing and sobbing, clinging onto her as she rocked me back and forth like she used to when I came home from school to tell her I was being bullied or someone had stolen my favourite toy, just holding me tight, swaying and murmuring soothing words.