Remember Me?

My heart freezes. I’m too late. She’s been shot. She’s been knifed.

Weak with terror, I thrust the cash at the driver and get out of the cab. There’s a throng of people in front of the police car, masking my view, all peering and gesturing at something and talking agitatedly to each other. Bloody rubberneckers.

“Excuse me.” My voice isn’t working properly as I approach the crowd. “It’s my sister, can I get through…” Somehow I manage to push my way in between the anoraks and denim jackets, steeling myself for what I might see…

And there’s Amy. Not shot or knifed. Sitting on a wall, wearing a policeman’s hat, looking totally cheery.

“Lexi!” Amy turns to the policeman standing next to her. “There she is. I told you she’d come.”

“What’s been going on?” I demand, shaky with relief. “I thought you were in trouble!”

“Is this your sister?” The policeman chimes in. He’s stocky and sandy-haired, with large freckled forearms, and has been making notes on a clipboard.

“Er…yes.” My heart is sinking. Has she been shop-lifting or something? “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid this young lady’s in trouble. She’s been exploiting tourists. A lot of angry people here.” He gestures at the crowd. “Nothing to do with you, is this?”

“No! Of course not! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

“Celebrity tours.” He hands me a leaflet, his eyebrows raised sky-high. “So-called.”

In disbelief I read the leaflet, which is fluorescent yellow and has obviously been put together on some crappy word-processor.

Undercover Celebrity Tour of London

Many Hollywood stars have settled in London. See them on this unique tour. Catch glimpses of:

*Mado

*Gwyneth in her garden *

*Elton John relaxing at home *

Impress your friends with all the insider gossip! £10 per person including souvenir A-Z

Important note:

If you challenge the stars, they may deny their identities.

Do not be fooled! This is part of their Undercover Secret!

I look up in a daze. “Is this serious?” The policeman nods.

“Your sister’s been leading people around London, telling them they’re seeing celebrities.”

“And who are they seeing?”

“Well, people like her.” He gestures across the road, where a thin blond woman is standing on the steps of her big white stucco house in jeans and a peasant top, holding a little girl of about two on her hip.

“I’m not bloody Gwyneth Paltrow!” she’s snapping irately at a pair of tourists in Burberry raincoats. “And no, you can’t have an autograph.”

Actually, she does look rather like Gwyneth Paltrow. She has the same long blond straight hair and a similar kind of face. Just a bit older and more haggard.

“Are you with her?” The Gwyneth look-alike suddenly spots me and comes down her steps. “I want to make an official complaint. I’ve had people taking pictures of my home all week, intruding into my life-For the last time, she’s not called fucking Apple!” She turns to a young Japanese woman who is calling “Apple! Apple!” to the little girl, trying to get a picture.

This woman is furious. And I don’t blame her.

“The more I tell people I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow, the more they think I am her,” she’s saying to the policeman. “I can’t win. I’ll have to move!”

“You should be flattered!” Amy says insouciantly. “They think you’re an Oscar-wi

“You should be put in jail!” snarls not-Gwyneth. She looks like she wants to hit Amy over the head.

To be honest, I’d be right behind her.

“I’m going to have to reprimand your sister officially.” The policeman turns to me as a policewoman tactfully steps in and leads not-Gwyneth back to her house. “I can release her into your custody, but only when you’ve filled in these forms and arranged an appointment at the station.”

“Fine,” I say, and shoot a murderous look at Amy. “Whatever.”

“Piss off!” Not-Gwyneth is rounding on a young geeky guy who is tagging along behind her hopefully, holding out a CD. “No, I can’t get that to Chris Martin! I don’t even like bloody Coldplay!”

Amy is sucking in her cheeks as though she’s trying not to laugh.

Yeah. This is so fu

I fill in all the forms as quickly as I can, stamping a furious full stop after my signature.

“Can we go now?”

“All right. Try and keep tabs on her,” the policeman adds, handing me back a duplicate form and leaflet entitled “Your Guide to a Police Reprimand.”

Keep tabs on her? Why should I have to keep tabs on her?

“Sure.” I give a tight smile and stuff the documents into my bag. “I’ll do my best. Come on, Amy.” I glance at my watch and feel a spasm of panic. It’s already ten to twelve. “Quick. We need to find a taxi.”

“But I want to go to Portobello-”

“We need to find a fucking taxi!” I yell. “I need to get to my meeting!” Her eyes widen and she obediently starts sca

“Victoria Palace Road, please. Quick as you can.”

There’s no way I’ll make it for the start. But I can still get there. I can still say my piece. I can still do it.

“Lexi…thanks,” says Amy in a small voice.

“It’s fine.” As the taxi heads back down Ladbroke Grove my eyes are glued to the road, desperately willing lights to change, willing traffic to move over. But everything’s suddenly solid. I’m never going to get there for midday.

Abruptly I pull out my phone, dial Simon Johnson’s office number, and wait for his PA, Natasha, to answer.

“Hi, Natasha?” I say, trying to sound calm and professional. “It’s Lexi. I’m having a slight holdup, but it’s really vital that I speak at the meeting. Could you tell them to wait for me? I’m on my way in a taxi.”

“Sure,” Natasha says pleasantly. “I’ll tell them. See you later.”

“Thanks!”

I ring off and lean back in my seat, a tiny bit more relaxed.

“Sorry,” Amy says suddenly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“No, really, I am.”

I sigh, and look at Amy properly for the first time since we got in the cab. “Why, Amy?”

“To make money.” She shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll get in serious trouble! If you need money, can’t you get a job? Or ask Mum?”

“Ask Mum,” she echoes scornfully. “Mum doesn’t have any money.”

“Okay, maybe she doesn’t have loads of money-”

“She doesn’t have any. Why d’you think the house is falling down? Why d’you think the heating’s never on? I spent half of last winter at my friend Rachel’s house. At least they put on the radiators. We’re skint.”

“But that’s weird,” I say, puzzled. “How come? Didn’t Dad leave Mum anything?”

I know some of Dad’s businesses were a bit dodgy. But there were quite a few of them, and I know she was expecting a windfall when he died. Not that she ever would have admitted it.

“Du

“Well, whatever, you can’t carry on like this. Seriously, you’ll end up in jail or something.”

“Bring it on.” Amy tosses back her blue-streaked hair. “Prison’s cool.”

“Prison’s not cool!” I stare at her. “Where d’you get that idea? It’s gross! It’s manky! Everyone has bad hair, and you can’t shave your legs or use cleanser.”

I’m making all this up. Probably these days they have in-prison spas and blow dryers.

“And there aren’t any boys,” I add for good measure. “And you’re not allowed an iPod, or any chocolate or DVDs. You just have to march around a yard.” That bit I’m sure isn’t true. But I’m on a roll now. “With chains around your legs.”

“They don’t have leg chains anymore,” Amy says scornfully.