Vanished Years Read Online Free Page A

home to my own bed.’ Silence. God, I remember thinking, I’ve always hated Red Nose Day, and now this …
    The next evening a car came with the same lady inside to collect me and take me to the secret venue where I was to meet with the rest of my team, and the other team, and, of course, Alan Sugar.
    ‘Who on earth is Alan Sugar?’ I laughed, intrigued.
    ‘You don’t know Alan Sugar?’
    ‘No, I don’t. Is he a singer?’
    ‘No. He is the star of
The Apprentice
.’
    ‘Aha,’ I said knowingly.
    It was just before Christmas. People tumbled about the streets in Santa hats, drunk from the office party. Soon we left the West End behind, then west London. Where the fuck were we going? Finally we arrived at a kind of disused warehouse, where there were a lot of other cars and vans, and more official-looking ladies bundled up against the cold, breathing smoke, waving clipboards and screaming red-carpet jangles into their walkie-talkies.
    ‘Copy that. Go for Ginger. I have Mr Everett.’
    I was taken into a dimly lit scene dock where twelve celebrities were gathered in the gloom. The walls were black and it felt like being in a gigantic aquarium. Cameramen circled the stars likesharks around bloody meat, pilot fish at their shoulders, expressionless lads holding mini lamps, which were shone on the weird pasty faces of our favourite dishes. There was a gnawing tension in the air as everyone tried to acclimatise themselves to the cameras. The women’s team were huddled together, and I wished I was one of them. Susannah Constantine, Cheryl Cole and Jo Brand. They were acting normal, heightened, slightly hysterical, but to anyone in the know their eyes gave them away, momentarily swivelling round, looking for the familiar things: the bar, the PR, the way out. They carried suitcases and seemed to have barricaded themselves behind them against the onslaught of the male team who were circling with the cameramen, trying to get some juicy dialogue going for the show.
    This team of men, this band of brothers, glistened with testosterone in the spotlights. It oozed from their every pore like sap and froze me to the marrow. Alastair Campbell, Piers Morgan and Ross Kemp had their suitcases in their hands as if they were getting on the school train. In fact the whole thing reminded me of school. Here were the same rugger buggers and bullies I had escaped all those years ago, wearing the same slouchy sixth-form clothes. I could think of one thing only. Escape.
    Emma Freud sidled up to me, and I had to restrain myself from breaking her neck. A camera swept in with her.
    ‘So you know the task?’ she giggled. ‘Everyone else does.’
    ‘No. No one told me.’ My eyes were about to pop out. I had to send a message to my eyelids.
    ‘You’re going to love it.’
    ‘Am I? Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes. It’s made for you.’
    Now Piers Morgan emerged from the depths towards me.
    ‘You’ve got to call Madonna,’ he boomed. ‘What’s her number?’
    He got his cellphone out ready to dial.
    At the word Madonna, the camera lens dilated and looked at me questioningly.
    ‘Madonna,’ I blundered. ‘I don’t know if I have her number.’
    ‘Course you do. Where’s your phone?’
    Piers was definitely not afraid of the camera. He had been itching to get in front of it for years. This may have been a charity event but it was also a diving board. He was going to bellyflop into the water and splash around until he got what he wanted. (
American Idol
followed by the Parkinson slot.)
    ‘Come on!’ he said.
    ‘Well, she’s not really talking to me at the moment,’ I said, looking guiltily at the camera.
    ‘Ah!’ mimicked Piers unpleasantly. ‘Where’s your phone?’
    I produced my battered old Nokia with the smashed screen, and waved it hopelessly.
    ‘What am I going to tell her?’
    ‘She’s got to give us a lot of money.’
    ‘She won’t like that.’ I started scrolling.
    Piers looked at me. He was about to speak when our