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  ‘Hello, my babies!’ Annie gushed.

  ‘Hey, cuties,’ Amelia had to join in.

  ‘Awwww,’ Ginger added.

  Micky and Minnie were perfect. They were chubby, giggly and drooling. They crawled, they wriggled, they had delicious, chunky rolls of fat on legs which they waved about delightedly at nappy-changing time.

  Their dark blond hair curled on top of their big heads and they had pearly white teeth that winked with every smile. Minnie had Ed’s sparkling blue eyes, Micky had eyes that were a hazel green-brown, and apart from this one difference, it might have been hard for even family members to tell the twins apart; although, obviously, they were dressed as a boy and a girl.

  The dressing of the babies was something of a little ‘discussion topic’. In fact, the sleeping and eating routines of the babies, the reading material for the babies, the feeding of the babies, the placing of the babies’ cots and so on and so forth: these were all little ‘discussion topics’ for Annie and Ed.

  Annie had been a mummy twice before (to Lana, now seventeen, as well as Owen). Ed was entirely new to the game. He was the over-anxious first-time parent, whereas Annie, who had a whole TV career taking up quite a portion of her time, tended to be relaxed. Maybe sometimes just a little too relaxed.

  Such as when she fell asleep with Micky in her arms and dropped him off the sofa and on to the dog, Dave. Or when she re-heated a bottle of defrosted breast-milk and gave Minnie food poisoning. Or what about when she walked home from the corner shop without the pram? She hadn’t realized until she’d put on the kettle and then gone upstairs to look for the babies in their cots. That was a moment she’d never forget.

  ‘Annie?’ Ed asked her now. ‘Do you have a second?’

  ‘Ermmm …’

  Her face was done, but there were still nails to file and paint just as soon as she’d been buttoned into the purple and white dress which had been given the Amelia seal of approval.

  ‘I think we need to talk about the whole builder thing again,’ Ed said, narrowing his eyes the way he did whenever he was worried.

  Any moment now and he would push back his messy (in a good way) tangle of brown curly hair and then she would know that he was really agitated.

  ‘The builder is going to be fine, really fine…’ she rushed to reassure him. ‘I’ve spoken to two other people he’s done work for and they were both totally positive.’

  ‘Yeah, but do we really need the work done?’ Ed asked. ‘It’s not as if we don’t have enough going on. And it’s very expensive.’

  ‘Ed!’ She looked at him with a touch of exasperation. ‘We will all enjoy having a fantastic new bathroom. I promise you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he was prepared to concede, ‘but huge new windows for the kitchen?’

  ‘Loads more light,’ she countered, ‘plus, they are triple-glazed, so even though they’re bigger, the room will be warmer.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ He still sounded doubtful. ‘But the cupola? Surely we do not need a cupola slap bang in the middle of a roof that we paid a complete fortune to repair?’

  Ah, the cupola. The cupola was going to be much, much harder to argue for, she had to admit, as she stripped down to her strict and controlling mega-underwear.

  ‘While we’ve got the builders in anyway,’ she began, ‘we might as well get everything done that we want to get done. We don’t want to go through all the mess and upheaval all over again.’

  ‘You said that the last time,’ Ed reminded her. ‘It’s only three years since the house was entirely “remodelled” …’

  ‘But it’s dark and gloomy in the hallway; if we let in more light, by putting in some windows…’

  Some windows … She was talking about a copper-domed turret, she was soooo playing it down here, but this was her little indulgence. She’d worked unbelievably hard, right through her pregnancy, back in the studio two months after the birth. She’d earned that cupola.

  ‘If we put in more windows,’ she went on, ‘think of all the money we’ll save on lighting the hall.’

  ‘We’re making a hole in the roof, Annie.’

  ‘But it’s so well insulated,’ she protested.

  ‘That’s really nice,’ Amelia broke in cheerfully, ‘maybe with a chunky belt?’ She was pretending to tune out this domestic disagreement, but really she and Ginger were lapping up every single word.

  ‘Yeah, I have a good belt for this,’ Annie agreed, before turning to Ed once again. ‘Babes’ – she gave him her biggest, most soothing smile – ‘I think you’re a bit tired. As soon as I’m back this afternoon, I’ll take the babies and you have a nap. You’ll feel much better when you’ve had more sleep.’

  She didn’t add: and so would I, but it’s completely impossible, because these bloomin’ babies are the worst sleepers in the whole world.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Ed conceded. It was hopeless trying to talk to Annie like this anyway: him with his armful of baby, her with her army of helpers.

  Despite having a baby in each arm, Ed still managed to use his foot to give the door a huffy slam on his way out.

  The door slam sent a blast of air across the room, scattering papers across Annie’s desk and sending the small yellow Post-it over the edge and down to the floor, where it settled behind a neatly stacked pile of Vogue magazines.

  Chapter Two

  TV boss Tamsin:

  Pink merino tunic (Whistles)

  Purple satin skirt (Miu Miu)

  Purple over-the-knee boots (Russell & Bromley)

  Pink tights (John Lewis)

  Chunky gold necklace (Tiffany)

  Total est. cost: £1780

  ‘Don’t we pay you enough?’

  ‘Oh. My. Goodness. What do we think of the new, improved, interview Rachel? We like her, we like very much, do we not?’ Annie said, beaming at the camera.

  Rachel’s smile flickered for a moment, then she went back to looking nervous under the hot glare of the studio lights as she stepped carefully over the cables and wires and made her way towards Annie and the great big looming black camera.

  Rachel had been filmed earlier in the interview outfit she’d chosen for herself: a sober grey trouser suit and white blouse with her blond hair falling over her shoulders.

  Now she was wearing the interview outfit Annie had picked for her: a black fitted cardigan, a beautiful silk skirt patterned in sober grey, gold and black and a pair of black suede boots. Her hair had been pulled back into a loose up-do and she was wearing an elaborate gold and black necklace.

  ‘How do you feel looking like this?’ Annie asked her.

  ‘Good,’ came the reply, followed by a shy smile.

  ‘Professional but memorable and really personalized,’ Annie told both Rachel and the camera. She put her hand on Rachel’s arm and faced her gently towards the lens. ‘The problem with anonymous suits is that every other person up for the job will be wearing an anonymous suit, so even if you say all sorts of amazing things, it’s hard to stand out. But this’ – she gestured to Rachel’s lovely new outfit – ‘is unique and different and feminine.

  ‘OK, my top tips for the career girls out there.’ Annie smiled, full beam, at the camera. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to leave your personality at home, it’s fine to be a little more you at work. I’m not mad about super-smart trouser suits with messy hair. I would rather you dressed down a little but made sure your hair was groomed. That’s more chic and professional. Sober colours are fine, but they can still be in a dress or a skirt, no one says you have to wear suits all the time. Michelle Obama wore a cardigan to meet the Queen. It was white cashmere with sparkles, yes, but still a cardigan.

  ‘The more skin you show, the less power you have. So sandals, cleavage, even sleeveless tops are a no-no if you’re aiming for the penthouse office upstairs,’ Annie went on. ‘Obviously if you work in fashion or the creative arts, you can wear whatever is so hot it’s cool, and if you have a uniform – hey even pole dancers have a uniform – t
he accessory is your best friend.’

  She paused to let this message sink in, before telling her viewers: ‘Next week, we’re going to have Katy Flinn, head of recruitment agency Flinn–Power, here to talk to us about what to wear to work. Because it’s interesting! The rules are changing all the time. Work is changing all the time. Shake yourselves up, girls!

  ‘OK, Rachel, you do a twirl for us. Oh, isn’t she pretty damn smart-looking? Right …’ The camera zoomed in close on Annie’s face. ‘It’s nearly time to say goodbye, but I’m just going to squeeze in a little email feedback.’ She turned to a laptop perched on a desk just to her right as an assistant led Rachel silently out. ‘Petra from Derby.’ Annie shook her head at the screen. ‘Petra, Petra,’ she tutted. ‘Petra thinks I am too cheeky about anoraks and sensible shoes.’ Annie raised her eyebrows at the camera, gave a little wink, then she read out: ‘ “I live in a part of the country where it is chilly and rainy. Anoraks are a necessity! They may not look very exciting but we need them. I wear comfortable, sensible, waterproof shoes that I could even hillwalk in if I had to. There’s nothing wrong with this. Please stop telling women to swan about in flimsy dresses with their feet stuffed into torture devices. It’s total rubbish.” ’

  ‘Petra …’ Annie looked up at the camera and shook her head again. ‘It is not all about dressing for the worst-case scenario. I promise you. Where is the fun in that? Is there a Mr Petra? Does he like anoraks and sensible shoes? Anyway, in case you’re wondering, I could hill-climb in three-inch heels and a dress, carrying a very nice handbag, looking like a lady who lunches at The Store. Easily. Training …’ Annie added and with that she stepped out from behind the desk, showed her high wooden wedges to the camera and proceeded to give a little skip and hop.

  ‘Believe me,’ she assured the screen, ‘without my heels, I don’t feel dressed. I feel like a little fat frump. I’m convinced nothing exciting will ever happen to me if I’m not wearing interesting shoes. So there!’ She stuck her tongue out cheekily.

  ‘OK, time to rewind and review,’ Tamsin began. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Annie. The show producer and her presenter held a regular brief meeting when filming was on to catch up with problems, bounce new ratings-boosting ideas about and to bond with each other.

  Annie genuinely liked Tamsin and was learning so much from her; Tamsin really liked Annie and was learning plenty right back.

  ‘Too much focus on work going on, maybe?’ Annie dived straight in with her thoughts. ‘We did Rachel’s interview outfit this week; we’ve got Katy Flinn in next week. Are we getting a little too heavy?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so …’ Tamsin assured her. ‘Next week’s other items are sexy lingerie for all shapes and sizes and the best of the discount fashion websites, so I think that’s fluffy enough. But will you phone Svetlana up and see when we can use her again? She’s very popular. And by the way,’ Tamsin added, ‘you look exhausted. There’s only so much concealer Ginger can put on your face without using a trowel.’

  ‘I am absolutely blooming shagged,’ was Annie’s response to this. ‘If those babies don’t learn to sleep soon, I am going to die. Is it possible to die of tiredness?’ she wondered.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Tamsin warned her, ‘you’ll drive your horrible green mini-van into a brick wall and that will be the end of the Annie Valentine show and all its potentially lucrative spin-offs.’

  ‘Don’t talk about the mini-van,’ Annie groaned. This was the single worst thing about having four children. Her trusty black Jeep, which had served her so well for so many years, had been sold off to make way for the hulking great super-sensible VW Sharan. A seven-seater! She felt like a bus driver whenever she got behind the wheel of that thing.

  ‘But talking of the lucrative spin-offs,’ Tamsin went on, ‘I know you’ve got a talent agent now, putting you up for personal appearances, but what is this chitter-chatter I hear about an Annie Valentine fashion line?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Annie was quick to answer. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to humiliate Channel Four with some tacky tie-in that upsets all their advertisers.’

  ‘So what is the source of this intriguing gossip?’ Tamsin asked, pushing her long hair behind her shoulder and fixing Annie with a serious look.

  ‘Ermmm …’ Annie felt a little nervous now. It was one thing plotting away at meetings with agents and sub-agents and marketing division heads, but sitting here in Tamsin’s all-white, girlie but professional office, having to spell out the ways in which she planned to sell her soul, was just a little nerve-racking. ‘Well … so long as it’s OK with you, I’m going to collaborate with a handbag company,’ Annie admitted. ‘I’ve looked over some designs and I’m going to put my name to an “Annie V” handbag.’

  ‘A handbag? That sounds fine.’ Tamsin looked pacified. ‘Just make sure you really like it, otherwise you might feel a bit silly.’

  ‘Of course!’ Annie agreed, relieved because plans for the handbag were further on than she’d made out.

  ‘Don’t we pay you enough?’ Tamsin wondered.

  The question pricked Annie’s conscience. Hadn’t Ed asked her this just the other day? He too had wanted to know why she needed a talent agent and a handbag collaboration. Wasn’t what she earned with the TV show enough?

  ‘Why be satisfied with enough when there is plenty more to make?’ she’d asked him.

  He’d shaken his head and asked if she’d considered how much time it would all take up.

  Annie felt Tamsin’s eyes on her. It felt hard to explain that she didn’t think she would ever have enough. She would always want more. And anyway, where was the fun in life if you weren’t chasing more?

  ‘I’m happy with the pay … for now,’ Annie answered, shooting Tamsin a wink, ‘but I don’t want to have all my eggs in one basket. I’ve been sacked twice before and I think it’s good to have a back-up.’

  ‘Maybe you should save some money as a back-up, Annie, instead of tearing your lovely house apart.’ Now it was Tamsin’s turn to shoot Annie a wink.

  ‘Ouch!’ Annie replied.

  ‘OK … the hillwalking rant? Are we really going to leave that in?’ Tamsin asked.

  Annie looked at her blankly.

  ‘You know, Petra from Derby?’ Tamsin jogged her memory. ‘Anoraks and sensible shoes and you going on about how you could hillwalk with three-inch heels and a handbag.’

  ‘I could!’ Annie insisted.

  ‘Well, I’m just warning you now, there might be a campaign to get you up a mountain in a pair of Manolos.’

  ‘Bring in on!’ Annie smiled. ‘Might be a ratings winner.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Tamsin glanced down at the tiny silver laptop on her desk and frowned. ‘I’ve had some worrying news. Viewing figures for last week are good, still close to the two million mark. Channel Four sound like they want to sign us up for a third series,’ she said carefully, ‘but …’

  Annie anxiously met Tamsin’s eyes. ‘But?’ she asked, feeling her heart leap into her mouth. Maybe it was silly and irresponsible of her, but she hadn’t considered for a moment that there wouldn’t be a third series. She thought she was on an endless upward trajectory; she thought she was a big success.

  ‘There are rumblings, Annie … rumblings about bringing back the show but putting a much bigger celebrity in your place to really grow the audience. Myleene Klass is apparently “interested”. I doubt they can afford her and I’m going to do everything I can …’

  But Annie could barely make out the words of reassurance that followed. The thought of How Not To Shop just carrying on without her … it hadn’t even occurred to her! The thought of being ‘replaced’ just as she’d thought she was arriving … It was terrible. Devastating. And what the bloody hell would she do instead?

  ‘For the two last episodes of this series,’ Tamsin was telling her now, ‘we’ve got to think of something amazing, barnstorming! We have to end the season with all our viewers clamouring to
have you back. That’s our mission, girl.’

  ‘Right,’ Annie said, barely managing to whisper the word. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

  Chapter Three

  Svetlana in her office:

  Very tight cobalt blue dress (Issa)

  Very high green and blue stilettos (Prada)

  2.4-carat diamond ring (last ex-husband)

  22-carat gold rope necklace (same)

  3.5-carat diamond earrings (first husband, deceased)

  Silk underwear (La Perla)

  Total est. cost: £78,400

  ‘He say “no”!’

  ‘Ya. Is great idea. No? I put big heap of money in, Harry put money in but we still need more, so I think of you. You big, clever, rich man …’ Svetlana Wisneski was on the phone, using her most charmingly persuasive voice.

  She was always on the phone these days because her daughter, Elena, was working her very hard.

  Svetlana Wisneski had in fact become Svetlana Roscoff over a year ago. But she still liked to use the name of her most recent ex-husband because she was mildly famous through him and she liked it that way. Igor Wisneski was one of the richest Russians in the world: a gas baron. Svetlana was still the mother of his two and, as yet, only sons and heirs and although she’d suffered a very public divorce, the silver lining to the cloud was the multi-million-pound divorce settlement she and her barrister-turned-fourth husband, Harry Roscoff, had wrung out of Igor.

  Well, that was then and this was now. Post credit crunch, post stock market crash, it turned out Igor’s fortune had been downsized from billions into millions, so Svetlana’s settlement and monthly maintenance had shrunk accordingly. For nearly a year, Svetlana had raged and tried by every means possible to squeeze more money out of her ex.

  It wasn’t as if she was penniless. Very far from it. She still had her beautiful four-storey house in Mayfair: no. 7 Divorce Settlement Row, and Harry was undoubtedly wealthy. But Svetlana had been super-rich. She’d been the wife of a billionaire. She had been used to limitless oceans of cash, all the luxuries life could offer and never once having to consider the cost of anything.