‘So what? The industry loves a victim of their own kind – you must realise that. They’ll bring you down quite happily – if they find out.’ He studied the end of his cigar with great interest. ‘And you’ll never work again if they knew what came next.’

I gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Christ, Charlie, what’s this all about?’

But I knew the answer really. Charlie had created me – so he’d only let me go on his own terms. The closeness that we’d built as colleagues stood for nothing, I realised now, if it wasn’t all up to him. And if it wasn’t, he’d rather destroy me first: he was that power-hungry.

I thought miserably of Gillian Router, the series producer before me. She’d fallen out with Charlie so badly there’d been talk of legal action at one point when she left Renee Reveals. With some considerable guilt I remembered that I’d simply seen the debacle as a weakness in her, and a great opening for me.

‘Can’t do without you, Maggie darling. Straightforward as that.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Maggie Warren?’

I swung round as a familiar smell pervaded the small room, fighting with the pungent smoke that swirled visibly in the air. The post-room boy stood in the doorway brandishing a huge bouquet of flowers – of gloriously reeking lilies. My heart hit the floor.

‘These are for you,’ the boy said to me proudly, as if he’d just grown them himself.

Twice in one day was a first. Reluctantly, I opened the card.

‘In Sympathy.’

My blood turned to ice.

‘How charming.’ Charlie ground out his cigar and smiled wolfishly. ‘You don’t look very pleased, I must say. I do wonder who they’re from, eh, darling?’

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon. I signed off Sally’s show and viewed a VT of Renee’s best bits (the back of her as she walked away, in my opinion) for the National TV Awards. In between tasks, I tracked down the florist who’d delivered the latest flowers. She just confirmed what all the rest had –a man had rung through the order, paying on a card in the name of Steven I. Sweeger. It sounded American to me, and I had racked my befuddled brain quite desperately, but it rang no bells.

‘Can you describe his voice?’

‘Not really.’ The florist sounded bored. ‘Hang on – the red ones are three pound a stem, love.’ She came back on the line. ‘Kind of posh, I s’pose. Look, sorry, but I’m busy –’

‘If you remember anything else about him, can you please call me? It’s really important.’

‘Sure.’ I felt her shrug down the line. I knew damn well I’d never hear from her again.