Curtain Call to Murder: The brand-new, laugh-out-loud murder mystery series from national treasure Julian Clary by Julian Clary

Author:Julian Clary [Clary, Julian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781398717336
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2024-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

Act Three

Chapter 28

Julian on opening night

It had been a fairly standard West End press night: red carpet outside the entrance of the Palladium, a heavy braided rope strung between brass poles holding the press at bay, posh cars drawing up, lightbulbs flashing.

VIPs walked along the carpet and were obliged to stop at the top of the stairs and smile for the photographers. (Ordinary members of the public were made to queue to one side and not get in the way before entering through a far less decorative door.)

Once inside you were pounced on by the publicists who ushered you to a corner where you stood under bright lights in front of a huge Leopard Spots poster. An eager, fresh-faced youth from marketing and social media (dressed in a leopard-print shirt which he looked very pleased with) thrust a microphone in your face and asked: ‘Are you excited?’ and ‘What are you most looking forward to?’ as he filmed you on his smartphone.

After this, another, more lowly, member of the team gently placed a hand on your back and guided you to the Val Parnell room where you were given prosecco and a free programme. I skipped the canapes as they looked as if they might have been regurgitated.

The room was buzzing and over-crowded and I was quickly air-kissing vaguely familiar celebs I didn’t remember ever meeting before. Trevor Millicent gave me a bear hug; Lesley Joseph told me how much she loved last year’s panto; Ulrika waved; Biggins hooted and someone from Big Brother spilled his drink down Alesha Dixon’s dress. A pouting Laura Porter, pupils dilated like saucers, told me what a fan of mine her husband was and Katheryn, Peter’s wife, offered a rather manly handshake.

I lost Ken in the melee but assumed I’d find him again once we took our seats. I’ve never been good at these showbiz occasions, where everyone is dressed up, a bit tense, some networking, others settling old scores, everyone hot and bothered and trying to look like they’re enjoying themselves. It was a relief when the bell rang, and we all filed into the auditorium.

Inevitably, there was more waving and greeting once seated. Was that Anneka Rice? No, it was Richard Madeley.

Ken finally appeared, glowing and sweaty, saying he’d had a run-in in the loos with ‘That dreadful political pundit man from the Mail’ and his evening was in tatters, and did I have a tissue I could give him?

Finally, the lights went down, the incessant chatter stopped, the curtain went up and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The light on stage slowly grew brighter through a mist – warm yellow and orange then pink and white, as if it was the dawn of a new day, to reveal a very impressive set. A dilapidated colonial-style terrace, all faded glamour and chipped, peeling balustrades; 1940s rattan loungers scattered with cushions facing towards us on one side and a well-stocked, rather messy bar area on the other. Dusty, mismatched Turkish rugs and runners on the floor.

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