The Overnight Fame of Steffi McBride

Chapter Sixteen

The address was in Earls Court, an area of West London I wasn’t familiar with. It was a basement flat in an old red brick building that must once have been quite grand, just behind the crowded, noisy main street. As I descended the steps into the damp shadow of the building a shiver ran right through me. It felt a bit like I was walking back into my own past, a time before I was even born. Very weird. I was tempted to turn and run and lose myself in the bustle and roar of the Earls Court Road, even after I’d knocked on the door. I forced myself to stay put and wait to see what was going to happen next.

     I could see someone approaching through the frosted glass but it was still a shock when the door jerked open and I saw her face. She looked like something from a horror movie. She must have been wearing a wig at Quentin’s office because her real hair was shorter and almost white. The hint of yellow could have been the last remnants of a blonde past, or could have been nicotine staining. But more shocking than that was the state of her face. It looked like she’d been caught in a house fire, all the skin burned and sore, plasters everywhere. She was wearing dark glasses despite the fact that it was evening and the flat behind her was dimly lit.

     ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to recover my composure. ‘It’s Steffi.’

     ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’

     She stood back to let me in. The smell of smoke and stale cooking was overpowering. The place was quite tidy and quite clean, but shabby, like nothing had been replaced or repaired or decorated in twenty years. She led me into a small sitting room next to the front door. There were bars over the window to deter intruders and a gas fire, which had added another smell to the stale air. There were photographs everywhere, most of them of her, some obviously studio portraits taken to try to get modelling or acting work, others snaps taken with people who had the look of celebrities although I didn’t recognise any of them. It was shocking how much I looked like her when she was younger. It was like seeing myself dressed up for a part set in the seventies or eighties.

     ‘If I’d known you were coming I could have warned you,’ she said, gesturing at her face.

    ‘What happened?’

     She laughed. ‘Nothing happened. Self inflicted. Finest plastic surgeon in Harley Street, or so he tells me. I’m having a makeover. It’s part of Quentin’s plan to re-launch my career.’

     ‘A televised facelift?’

     ‘When I did the story I told him I needed enough money for a facelift and he said he could do better than that, said he could arrange for a documentary which would mean I would get paid and they would pay all the expenses; plus I get the exposure on prime time telly.’

     It all sounded a bit desperate to me, but I didn’t say anything.

     ‘Hope it’s all right of me to pop in like this.’

     ‘Of course. I hoped you would.’

     She didn’t ask me how I knew the address, so I guessed she must have known about Quentin texting me.

     ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.

     The business of fetching ice and cutting slices of lemon filled the next few awkward minutes.

    ‘Has Quentin got any other plans for you, then?’ I asked as the atmosphere became a little more comfortable.

    ‘Plenty. Listen, I know it looks like I’m cashing in on your success …’ I said nothing. ‘But you can see that things are pretty desperate. I don’t have many more chances to make it.’