'CELEBRITY CULTURED'
by Lee Bullen
A scruffy young mum, opens the gate to a modest council house on a Hounslow estate. She wheels a pram past a mock baroque fountain to the front of the house where a gold plaque boasts: 'CELEBRITY MANOR'. Alongside, a commemorative blue plate reads:
2009-
ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ
& LANCE OGDEN
Celebrities
Underneath, ‘twats’ has been scrawled in chalk. The ‘a’ and the ‘t’ tastefully weathered by Father Time. Chanelle rings the bell. Irene Cara - Fame booms out. Mounted above her head, a security camera fixes on her.
Failing to add a hint of intended showbiz sophistication, the eclectic living room houses an odd array of old and new materialistic statements. A large, wall-mounted TV resides beneath showy chandeliers. An ornate interior fountain sits opposite a cross-eyed polar bear rug.
Preened Orlando Santa Cruz, toned beneath a silk dressing gown, races down the stairs to see who’s outside, a leather belt tied around his blistered neck.
Mousey Lance Ogden jostles alongside, wearing headache-inducing pyjamas. Orlando edges in front and Lance yanks him back by the belt. Orlando skims down the last steps on his rear.
At the foot of the stairs they see the glum girl on the TV and both groan in disappointment. Lance turns to Orlando, massaging his throat.
'What’s with the belt?'
Orlando scans the room. 'Was just ‘avin a near-death wank' he replies. Lance shrugs quizzically. 'Auto-erotic asphyxiation' Orlando explains. Lance grimaces.
'I’m trying out this new wild-man image, right? Well, they’re all at it, the A-list bad boys' says Orlando. Lance ponders and nods.
'Any good?', he asks.
Orlando gestures to the TV. 'Dunno. Didn’t get to ‘see the light’ thanks to your stalker'.
Lance looks at the TV just as Chanelle glares into the camera. He nervously ducks down. 'Can she see me through that?'
Frumpy Lucy Mass, appears from under a sleeping-bag.
'Since when did you lot care about privacy?'
Wearing sweatpants and Greenpeace T-shirt, she sits up, yawning. A poster of Karl Marx high-fiving Che Guevara reigns over her corner of revolutionary regalia. Her pink sleeping-bag is emblazoned with Disney Princesses.
Orlando turns angrily, 'Hey! Sleep in your own room!'
Lucy gestures to the living room. 'That would mean crossing the sea of tasteless tat... This corner is my Tibet!'
A section of chandelier falls from the ceiling, narrowly missing her. 'The rest is very much ‘Made in China’!'
Orlando steps forward, 'Well, I still want my pillar back!'
Orlando points to the toppled-over polystyrene pillar which resides in Lucy’s self-declared corner of the room. Covered in cobwebs, with bullet-holes and blood stains, a carved inscription reads: ‘symbol of my struggle’
'Never!' Lucy hisses.
The doorbells plays The Stone Roses – I Wanna Be Adored. Orlando turns excitedly to Lance, 'Quick, flick the fountain on...'
'No, it leaks.' replies Lance.
Orlando eagerly leans across and starts the fountain. 'Your one and only fan deserves the same treatment as all of mine!'
Orlando turns him to face the door. Lance starts to prepare himself.
Orlando carefully unbuckles the belt around his neck. The leather sticks to his blistered skin and dangles. He toys at it as Lucy approaches. She swiftly rips the belt from his skin and yanks the door open, leaving Lance grooming in front of the deadpan young mum.
'Aaaarrrggghhhhh!' screams Orlando.
'Oh. Hi Chanelle!' stutters Lance.
Chanelle thrusts a CD single under Lance’s nose. The cover displays a pretentious photo of Lance, with the title ‘Parachuting Love-Aid To Your Heart’.
'Can I have my £2.99 back?' she asks.
'This again!
'But it’s pish.' she says.
'It was three years ago!'
The young mum looks stumped. She picks up a baby doll from the pram and thrusts it into Lance’s face. 'It’s yours!'
Lance calmly places it back in the pram. Orlando appears at the door sporting a ruff. He puts on a Mediterranean accent. 'Hi. Orlando Santa Cruz...'
Lucy shouts from inside the house, 'Your name’s Mass - Same as mine!'
Orlando smiles and offers his hand. Chanelle picks up the doll and thrusts it at Orlando. 'It’s yours!'
Orlando looks surprised. He cradles the doll, a tear wells.
Struggling agent, Des'ree O'hara, approaches the group carrying a set of newspapers. Jewellery-clad and overly made-up, Des’ree grabs the doll from Orlando and tosses it into the garden fountain. She
pulls Orlando close.
'For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be a ‘wild man’, remember? - and here you are in public, wearing a ruff and carrying on like an ole fanny... you...' she softens, '...beautiful man!'
Des’ree grabs Orlando’s face and kisses his lips. She releases him and swans past Lance, glaring at him disapprovingly.
Des’ree marches into the house, hits the wet spot by the leaking interior fountain, and flies through the air, landing face-down on the polar bear rug. She looks up, shaken. Lance casually gestures to the rug, 'Oh, yeh. S’why that’s there.'
Des’ree dusts herself down. She barks at Lance, 'Papers!'
Lance scrambles to collect the fallen newspapers.
'How’d I get on, Des’ree?' Lance asks.
She grabs the stack from his hands, 'Erm... best we start with Orlando... Page 7, angel cheeks! - You’re back!' She hands Orlando a red top and points to a photo of him drunkenly falling out of a nightclub with a young starlet.
The photo shows the girl on the pavement, knickers on show, as a white-suited Orlando vomits beside her. The headline and lead paragraph read:
LOVE SICK
Former Big Brother star,
Orlando Santa Cruz, and X-Factor
sensation, Rose Monroe, painted the
pavement red last night...
Orlando beams, 'Great photo! We only met and ran through that five minutes before. That’s Sunny Delight I’m spewing there.'
'And it worked a treat! - Great exposure for you and Super-Lungs Monroe.' says Des'ree.
Orlando suggestively nudges Lance, 'A name that applies to more than just her singing!'
Lucy jumps in, 'Like you’d know - You were pleasuring yourself with a belt first thing this morning!'
Lance laughs. Lucy turns to him, 'Her father drinks with ours. He had his hit single the same year that Dad won the snooker title. It was arranged between them last month during a 4-day drinking session.'
'I thought your dad was in rehab?' asks Des'ree.
'Yeh... well... he dug a tunnel...' Lucy nervously answers.
Des’ree looks stumped. She turns to Orlando, 'We’ve got to build on this with a more famous love interest. Really crank up th new wild-man profile.'
Lucy scoffs. Des’ree steps towards Orlando. 'Orlando, babe... for our next love-match, we’re going to need...'
'No Des’ree. No... Me and Lucy don’t speak to her.' barks Orlando.
'But in her showbiz heyday...'
'She was a page 3 girl!' Lucy interrupts.
Des’ree looks intently at Orlando. He scratches his head.
'I dunno...'
Des'ree butts in, 'Look! - She used to know the father of the holy grail we now seek...'
Orlando looks up. 'Holy Grail?'
Des’ree nods emphatically. 'An Emmerdale starlet!'
Orlando whoops and high-fives Des’ree. Lance looks gutted while Lucy walks off in disgust.
'Where are you going, Lucy? Don’t you want to know what I’ve got for you?' asks Des'ree.
Lucy replies curtly, 'No! You’re not my agent.'
'You’re my agent. What you got for me?' demands Lance.
Des’ree ignores him. She continues to press Lucy. 'So you’re not interested in a writing commission in Tibet?'
Lucy’s ears prick up. Des’ree hands her an envelope. 'A hypnotist on my books is married to the editor of a travel guide...'
Lucy sarcastically interjects, 'Suppose they met when he cured her fear of flying?'
'That’s right!' says Des'ree, 'Ironically he tried the same on the last writer, but she now thinks she’s a barnacle goose... so, they need a replacement to travel tomorrow.'
Lucy looks stunned. Des’ree coolly turns away and gathers the newspapers. She turns to Lance who looks at her expectantly. 'Door!' she shouts to him.
Des’ree makes for the front door. Lance scrambles to get there before her, slipping at the fountain.
'Anything about my story there?' he asks.
Des’ree swans out. Lance watches after her and notices broken shards of blue porcelain on the garden path. He takes out a new commemorative blue plate and proudly hangs it on the vacated hook on the outside wall.
Des’ree’s modest office contains a scruffy sofa and TV at one end, opposite a large desk, where rests a half-empty bottle of Martini, a half-eaten apple and a photo of an overweight cat.
Black & white photos of unknown clients dot the walls. A lifesize cardboard cutout of Simon Cowell stands at the side of her throne-like chair.
Lance paces in front of Des’ree, who is sat at her desk, staring intently at the remaining Martini.
'What about my celebrity hero story?'
Des’ree remains fixed on the bottle.
'Des’ree!'
She startles and tosses a folded newspaper towards Lance. 'Alright. Alright - You made page 29.'
Lance looks relieved. 'Well that’s not bad, I thought I hadn’t made the papers at all the way you’ve...'
'In the Hounslow Gazette.' Des'ree bluntly states.
Lance’s face drops. He despondently tries to sit on the desk.
'Don’t sit! I’m prolly gonna cock a leg up there.' says Des'ree. Lost in thought, he stands again. Unsure what to do, Des’ree hoists a leg on the table.
'But I dragged a cat out of the town canal in front of loads of people.' whines Lance.
Des’ree points to the newspaper. 'Says here that it mauled you to pieces. Nothing about a rescue.'
'Well, yes, it mauled me - it probably knew it was me that pushed it in - but everyone saw me go in the canal for it.'
Des'ree ponders a moment. 'And whose idea was this setup?' she asks.
'Yours!'
'Well, there y’are, see? People just aren’t interested anymore...'
Lance looks at Des'ree in disbelief as tall, shaven-headed Rusty Turner enters the office in trendy, casual clothing.
Des’ree gets to her feet with open arms. 'Fair-turn’ Turner!'
'He does a fair turn!', they both say together.
Des'ree grins. 'You never did go in for the grandiose prefixes of other magicians, did ya?'
'Hypnotist!' Rusty corrects. 'Besides, it’s just Rusty now. I’m a record producer these days.'
Des'ree confusedly stares at him. He shrugs.
'Well, it’s all got so easy now no one uses emotive musicians anymore.'
Des’ree nods.
'I’m here about some numpty on your books... Lance Ogden?'
Lance eagerly steps forward. 'I am said ‘numpty’!'
Rusty eyes him disdainfully. 'I wanna speak to you about a video appearance for my new track.'
Lance looks excited. Rusty continues, 'Me and the rap-artist, Bullethole, sampled your pish song from a few years back.'
Lance nods along, pretending to not be offended.
'We needed a parachute hook and, obviously - otherwise we would never have touched that trite - we couldn’t find anything better.'
Lance forces a smile.
'So we sampled the ‘Parachuting Love’ bit from ‘Parachuting Love-Aid To Your Heart’, and cleverly repeated it continuously over a drum sequencer.' explains Rusty.
Des’ree excitedly mimes a hand-clap.
Rusty continues, 'We’re marketing it with an ‘underground edge’ by getting my annoying nephew to rap and snarl a bit - Radio play and advance sales are brutal.'
'Fantastic!' says Des'ree.
'And do I get royalties for this?' asks Lance.
'No. We checked. Your former management team get the lot - and a kidney when required, apparently.'
Lance nods.
'You’ll get a fee for a day filming the video - I presume by your current state of affairs you’re available now?' asks Rusty bluntly.
Lance reluctantly concurs.
'You’ll also have a ‘featuring’ credit as well as a bit of exposure.' says Rusty.
Lance nods contentedly. He smooths an eyebrow. 'And am I the star in the video?'
'No.' Rusty says coldly.
Lance nobly nods. 'Ok. And will lunch be incl...'
'No.'
Silence falls. Des’ree shrugs at Rusty.
'Don’t worry... I’ll parachute-pack a lunch!' jokes Lance.
Rusty turns to leave, 'I’ll wait in the van.'
George and Gloria Mass, impeccably dressed in black waistcoats and trousers, sit in the light, tastefully decorated living room of their manor home. Exhibits of George’s illustrious snooker career occupy the space behind Orlando; sat opposite his parents, looking uncomfortable.
George is distractedly edgy. Gloria peers at Orlando disapprovingly.
'So you’re still a childless man-spinster?'
Orlando looks up, affronted.
'...and what about Lucy? asks Gloria.
'No man could take that level of mental abuse, mum...' He mutters under his breath, '...God knows where she gets it from!'
George dryly interjects, 'Your dopey friend Lance could.'
Orlando laughs. He suddenly stops to ponder this. George walks to a small bar area, where a row of vodka optics hang at head height. He sets up shot glasses on the bar-top.
Gloria leans forward and whispers to Orlando. 'He’s been a week off the booze. Docs scared the crap out of him this time.'
Gloria lowers her voice, 'Those bottles are filled with water – He thinks they still have a hint of flavour!'
She lovingly crinkles her nose at George as he knocks back the shots. Orlando changes the subject.
'So how are you both?'
Gloria excitedly claps her hands. 'We’re doing fantastically well - as is anyone with a few bob during this crisis!'
George and Gloria guffaw. He sits down next to Gloria. They take each others' hand.
'Well, as you can see, your dad and I are back together again... We’re thinking we might even get married this time.'
They kiss. Orlando rudely scoffs.
George takes a cube of blue cue-chalk from his waistcoat pocket and hurls it Orlando’s head.
Orlando scowls as he rubs his forehead.
Gloria slips on a headset-mic. 'Right, gotta go. I’m actually working right now.'
Orlando looks up. 'Yeh? What’re you up to?'
'Catty Consulting.'
Orlando looks confused. 'But you don’t know anything about cats...'
'No. ‘Catty’ - as in malevolent bitch.' George says dryly.
Gloria proudly smiles. 'And a rather gifted one! - People pay a fortune for my consort.'
'Really?' says Orlando surprisedly.
'Yeh. Take socialite, Plums & Cream O'Ryan. She wants to get at her dad for buying her an ugly yacht, so I suggest a fake, highprofile engagement to a pointless celebrity... that’s what I’m organising.'
Orlando's eyes widen. 'Plums & Cream is getting engaged here? Now?'
'Yes, but it’s just a ruse, dear. They’re gonna make a fortune from all the break-up scandals I’ve got organised! Says Gloria, rubbing her hands.
Orlando sits up. 'So who’s the celebrity gonna be? Coz, y’know...'
'Your Dad.' says Gloria.
Orlando chokes on air. 'What!'
Lance, dressed in a red jumpsuit, jumps excitedly beside a small aeroplane on an airfield. Alongside, Rusty and his rapper nephew stand with the cameraman. Rusty hands Lance a backpack.
'Right. So you’re going up with Brian here, the cameraman who’s gonna film your tandem jump. Your instructor’s on his way.'
Lance stops dead. 'Sorry. What’s going on?'
Rusty tuts. 'For the video. We’re filming you mime the line ‘Parachuting love’ as you free-fall
from 12,000 feet - Was that not clear?'
'No, it wasn’t! - Look, I’m like, really scared of heights. The highest I’ve ever been was getting in a car with George Michael.'
Rusty sighs impatiently. 'Well, the frickin’ song’s called ‘Parachuting Love’ and you’re standing on
an airstrip wearing a jumpsuit, I thought it was pretty obvious.'
Bullethole scoffs. Rusty composes himself. An idea comes. He grabs Lance's shoulders and looks at him assuredly.
'I’m a hypnotist... I can put you under.'
Lance shakes his head. 'Oh... I dunno...'
'Look, you’ll go up there, do the jump, mime the line, land safely and won’t know a thing.'
Lance looks skeptical. 'Does it hurt?'
'No... you’ll be in a trance and when you hear ‘un-dos-tres’ you’ll come round again.'
Lance looks confused. 'But I don’t speak Spanish.'
Rusty sighs.
'Ooh, did you just teach me it then?' asks Lance.
Orlando jumps to his feet. 'But why Dad? Why not me?'
Gloria sighs. 'Look, since retiring, your Dad’s done nothing but drink! Now he’s teetotal he needs
something to do.
George picks up a box of chocolate liqueurs and desperately shakes the contents into his mouth.
'A big story like this and he’ll be on the next series of ‘Dancing on Ice’. After that, the path opens up.' says Gloria.
'Yeh... MY path!' Orlando says incredulously.
'Anyway, the media will be here soon... Must get on...' says Gloria, turning to leave.
'Wait! I need to speak to you abo...' Orlando stops short. Gloria glares and walks out.
Orlando grins to himself. 'Media!'
A devilish look crosses his face. He spies several crates of champagne sitting in the hall.
He peers over at his father, now licking a bowl clean.
George shouts out to Gloria, 'Did you put any sherry in this trifle, dear?'
Lucy, smiling and resplendent in Tibetan robes, sits at her workstation at home and calls Lance’s number from her mobile phone.
Lance, expressionless, sits calmly as wind noisily rushes in from the open door of the plane in flight. Robot-like, he removes his phone. 'Lance Ogden.'
'Hey, you. Wot ‘cha doin?' asks Lucy breezily.
'Being a confident individual, unafraid of heights and completely open to the practice of skydiving.'
'Riiight' says Lucy, confused. 'Anyway... guess where I’m flying to tomorrow?'
'Concluding from your jaunty demeanour I confidently surmise Tibet. And that the travel editor has offered you the writing commission. I offer my Congratulations.'
'Are you okay?' Lucy asks suspiciously.
'No. I am promptly melancholic that the woman I’ve admired since secondary education is to discover a far-off destiny void of my loving participation,' says Lance without emotion.
The instructor taps Lance on the shoulder. 'I must now terminate the call. It appears my instructor is ready to mount me.'
The dark, moustached Spanish instructor places his hands on Lance’s shoulders and shouts above the wind din.
'Buenos días... Estás preparado?'
'Lance replies, 'Si, colega. Completamente.'
An overly-photogenic Plums & Cream O'Ryan is seated at the head table in a small dining hall in George and Gloria's manor. An empty chair beside her.
Gloria, standing behind, addresses the small group of guests and media. Talking through her headset-mic, her voice booms. 'Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the press. In just a moment, we’ll proudly present Plums & Cream’s fiancée...'
From within the dimly lit living room, Gloria's muffled announcement echos around the walls. '...but first, allow me to give you a clue! - He’s a highly accomplished, much-admired genius in his field, and someone who I personally know and love dearly...'
Antsy, Orlando hastily fastens the buttons on a black waistcoat. His phone rings. He clumsily handles it.
'What?' he barks.
'Where are you?' asks Lucy.
'Mum & Dads’.'
'Turncoat!'
Orlando tuts. 'Not now.' He starts to groom himself, shouldering the phone.
'Guess what? - I’m going to Tibet!' Lucy announces excitedly. Orlando murmurs along, pretending to listen.
'Why is no one excited about this?' Lucy asks herself. She puts the phone back to her ear. 'Listen, I’m leaving first thing and need to pack. Go find Lance, it sounds like he’s in some trouble.'
Orlando snaps back to the conversation.
'What? - No... I can’t...' His face turns white, 'I think I’m about to get engaged!'
He hangs up. At his feet, amidst several empty champagne bottles, lies George in his underwear, drunkenly moaning!
Wearing George’s fineries, Orlando takes a deep breath and walks towards the dining hall. Gloria voice beckons the mystery man. '...so allow me to now welcome to the head table, Plum & Cream’s best-kept secret.'
The guests’ applause rings through the walls. A cunning smile crosses Orlando’s face.
Lance, strapped to the front of the Spanish instructor and seated by the open door, stares serenely ahead. The instructor gives Brian the cameraman the thumbs up and he exits. He then taps Lance on the shoulder.
'Okay? - Vamos.' Cradling Lance, the instructor rocks back and forth. He counts aloud, 'Un... dos... tres!'
The pair roll out of the plane.
Lance jolts to consciousness in free-fall. The scene in front of him sinks in.
'Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhh!'
Orlando confidently struts into the hall. The applause dies down and disappointed groans fill the air.
Cameras sporadically flash.
'Genius in his field?' a reporter sarcastically shouts.
Orlando sits next to Plums & Cream, who turns quizzically to Gloria, looking stunned. She speaks into her mic.
'Er... Ladies and gentlemen. Chris Ma...'
Orlando springs up and speaks into Gloria’s mic. '...Orlando Santa Cruz!'
Light hand-clapping ensues. Orlando looks round at Plums & Cream who seductively eyes him. He returns the look.
Under the table, she places a hand on his thigh.
'Play this right and I may take you away this weekend!'
Des’ree, sat at her desk watching TV, an apple core on the table, drinks the last of the Martini from the bottle. 'Lunch over!'
On the news channel, she sees a live feed with the banner:
PLUMS & CREAM AND ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ TO MARRY
Live from their engagement at Bluechalk Manor.
She stares open-eyed. 'Oh, this is big!' She grabs her jacket and scrambles out of the office.
'You beautiful man!'
The dining hall is in good spirits with Orlando, next to Plums & Cream, impressively batting questions from the press.
'Are you two ‘soul-mates’?' asks one smiling reporter.
'I don’t know about soul-mates... but we definitely mate with all our soul!'
The room erupts. Photos flash. Plums & Cream spontaneously kisses Orlando. Gloria jumps in.
'Okay. That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much for coming.'
Guests start to pack-up. Des’ree rushes in, greeting anyone ‘important-looking’ as she makes her way to the head table.
'Hi. Des’ree O’Hara. Orlando’s Fame Guru... Hi. Des’ree. Fame Guru...'
At the head table, Gloria angrily barks into Orlando’s ear, 'What happened to your father?'
'Oh, think he may ‘ave fallen-off the wagon,' says Orlando with innocent eyes. 'I had to step in, mother.'
Gloria glares at him before hurrying off to find George.
Des’ree greets Orlando with open arms. He gets up, grinning.
'Emmerdale starlets? - Pah! - You’ve hit the jackpot, son!'
Plums & Cream jokingly interrupts. 'This one’s mine!'
She looks Orlando deep in the eye. She leans in seductively.
'Pack a bag. You’re coming away with me tonight!' She gyrates against him. Two members of her security entourage tap her on the shoulder to leave. She looks longingly at Orlando, grabs his groin and departs.
Des'ree turns excitedly to Orlando. 'The phone is gonna ring off the hook!'
Orlando distractedly watches Plums & Cream leave. Aroused, he shifts his groin and turns to Des’ree. 'Sorry, Des’ree... but I... need the loo...'
Orlando rushes off. Des’ree turns to the nearest ‘suit’. 'Hi. Des’ree O’Hara. Fame Guru...'
Aroused, Orlando stands in front of a large mirror in the downstairs bathroom, and excitedly whips off his clothes. Standing semi-naked, making sex faces at his reflexion, he carries away.
After a moment he notices a belt hanging on the door. He pauses. A devilish look creases his face. He takes the belt off the hook...
Des’ree stands next to a TV Reporter as he hangs up a call.
'They tell me there’s nothing bigger to lead with, so the engagement will be the main showbiz story tonight.' he tells Des'ree, who grins excitedly.
'Barring some humiliating catastrophe!' he jokes.
Des’ree playfully wags a finger. She kisses his cheek. 'Fantastic! - Orlando’s gonna be huge...' She pauses for effect. '...barring some humiliating catastrophe!'
The pair laugh.
Outside on George and Gloria's driveway, an ambulance speeds off, sirens blaring. Des’ree stands in utter disbelief, shaking her head.
George wobbles alongside Gloria, looking weary and still halfnaked. They smirk smugly as the ambulance disappears.
The reporter finishes a phone call and looks over at Des’ree. He sympathetically shrugs, rubs his hands and hurries off.
Lucy, in Tibetan attire, stands by her cleared corner of the living room. A Disney Princesses bag sits by her feet. She looks around. 'Guess I’m packed then.'
Her phone rings. 'Oh. Hi, Liz! - Yeh, all set to go...' She scoffs loudly, 'Lance? He’s fine. Tell Rusty it’s a small fracture - Although he thinks he’s dying!' She laughs, 'Yeh! - I know he is...'
Lucy looks serious. 'No, no, no. I’m not gonna be his wet nurse! - He’s got Orlando to look after
him... nothing can stop me going to...'
Lucy stops dead, eyes transfixed on the plasma screen showing a photo of Orlando with the headline graphic:
ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ IN “NEAR-DEATH W*NK” CATASTROPHE
“All the A-list bad boys are up to it” says gruff-voiced star.
The story cuts to the TV reporter beaming smugly at a hospital.
'Sources now tell us that following the scenes at Bluechalk Manor, Orlando’s father - snooker idol, George Mass – has ran off with Plums & Cream to a ‘secret, spicy, sex-haven’. His long-term glamour girlfriend, Gloria, is said to be ‘mildly peeved’...'
Stunned, Lucy drops the phone. A section of chandelier narrowly misses her. She doesn’t notice.
Lance, with his ankle in plaster, and Orlando, wearing a neck brace, sit together on the sofa watching TV.
Lucy, wearing a saucy nurse outfit and red lipstick, seductively puts her finger in Lance’s mouth. She whispers breathlessly, 'Let me take your temperature, big boy...'
Lance snaps out of his daydream. Lucy, standing grumpily in front of Lance, wearing T-shirt and sweatpants, holds a tray of medication and water. She drops it on Orlando’s lap, who dramatically yelps. She marches back to her corner.
Des’ree enters the house and casts Orlando a dirty look. Lucy immediately leaves. Des’ree calls after her.
'Don’t be like that - I couldn’t look after them - I’m cleaning up all the mess...'
Lucy points to the pair and accumulated clutter. 'Yes, you are!'
She slams the door. Des’ree walks right past Orlando and sits next to Lance. She shuffles close and ruffles his hair.
'How’s my favourite client today?' Des'ree hands him a lollypop. Surprised, Lance gleefully accepts.
'Guess who has a fresh-of-the-press copy of the ‘Parachuting Love’ video?' teases Des'ree.
Lance sits up. 'Yeh? - Wicked! Whack it on...'
Des’ree tosses it at Orlando, who begrudgingly puts it in the player.
'At last a client who’s not a total arsehole!' she aims at him.
Orlando sits down. The title graphic to the video reads:
RUSTY with BULLETHOLE feat LANCE OGDEN
Orlando and Lance look at each in shock. They read aloud, 'Rusty bullethole - Lance Ogden?'
As the naff song and video plays, the trio stare with mouths agape. They shrink in their seats.
Des’ree jumps up, unbuckles her belt and makes a noose with it. She menacingly gestures at both of them. Terrified, the pair lean close and protect their throats.
'Oh, this isn’t going round your necks...'
..
(Editorial)
Celebrity Cultured
Posted by leebullen (#57) 119 days ago (Editorial)Tweet
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