Do You Want to Know a Secret? by Claudia Carroll

sure every actor’s agent in town will be there. I want this gig to be the hottest ticket since U2 did their homecoming tour. Therefore I suggest we do three performances only, a bit like the opera companies, to keep supply well below demand. Everyone except special invited guests pays full price. My personal vision is that we’ll have ticket touts outside buying and selling tickets at twice their face value, like they did when Justin Timberlake played here. Remember? There were nearly fist fights.’
    ‘What about funding?’ Laura asks, flicking through the file on her lap.
    ‘Ladies, if you’ll kindly turn to your blue sticker, you’ll see a list of companies and clients I already represent, who might just be willing to invest. It’s a tax write-off for them too, you know. Now brace yourselves for this one, girls. My other idea is that any profit we do make is donated to charity.’
    ‘What?’ Laura nearly sprays the wall with margarita, she’s spluttering so much, but then money is always a touchy subject with her.
    ‘Because remember, this venture isn’t about making money. It’s about making Barbara a star.’
    ‘LOVIN’ it and LOVIN’ you,’ says Barbara, looking at me, stunned. ‘Keep this up and I’ll put you in my will.’
    ‘Oh yes, and a big question for you,’ I say to her. ‘What is your absolute dream role? The one part that you’d knife someone in the back for?’
    For once in her life, she doesn’t have a smart answer to hand.
    ‘Emm . . . oh . . . well, when you put it like that . . . jeez . . . can I think about it and get back to you? I just, well, I didn’t expect you to be this . . . emm . . .
organized
.’
    They both look at me, dead impressed, and I glow a bit.
    Then they give me a round of applause, and although I act mortified, I’m actually thrilled. Then . . . oh
shit
.
    I remember that I’ve gone to all this time and trouble over ‘project Barbara’, and I have sweet bugger-all for Laura . . . apart from one really tiny thing I thought of, but a) I don’t know how she’ll react, and b) I’m terrified of insulting her.
    I mean, at aged thirteen when the rest of us were all squabbling over
Jackie
magazine and stuffing our training bras with tissues, Laura was a fully paid-up member of Mensa. Honestly. I mean, she’s just so intelligent and brilliant, with first-class honours degrees hanging out of her, and what I’m about to propose is . . . well, it’s not a million miles from asking Thomas Edison if he’d mind changing a light bulb for you. Or Einstein to give a hand with your four-year-old’s sums.
    Anyway, and I’m not just playing for time here, I get up, mix more margaritas and am just sitting back down again, when she says to me, ‘So, Glenda the good witch of the East, don’t suppose you’ve anything in your bag of tricks for this particular Dorothy?’ I look hopefully over to Barbara, but no joy. She’s just looking back at me with an expression that might as well say, ‘Go on then, you’re the prime organizer here, you’re the one with all the colouredy folders.’
    Right, nothing for it, then.
    ‘Right then, Laura, here’s the thing. The way I see it is, of course you’re dying to get back to the Bar the minute the baby is in proper, big school . . .’
    ‘Which will be in approximately twenty-eight months’ time,’ she interrupts. ‘But who’s counting?’
    ‘But until that happy day dawns, you need a way to generate cash while working from home.’
    ‘You could become an escort,’ says Barbara, crunching an ice cube between her teeth. ‘You know, like in the film
Belle de Jour
. Pays in cash, too.’
    A withering glare from Laura and it’s back to me. I fish around in my briefcase, and after a lot of rummaging produce a copy of this month’s glossy new
Tattle
magazine.
    ‘What, you’re suggesting I become a gossip columnist? Or an agony aunt?’
    ‘Hear me out, honey. Have a look at this.’ I hand over the magazine, with a