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floor with his nest of hair, which had been expertly coiffed to appear fuller and darker with a glossy sheen.
    ‘Judges, take your seats.’
    The judges strode arm in arm down the runway to the panel and took their positions. The music faded and theaudience hushed in anticipation. Just then, a different noise reverberated across the auditorium. It was a phone ringing with the distinctive ringtone of an Italian car horn. The audience murmured in protest. The camera panned across the chamber, looking for the source of the noise.
    Clive cranked his head, irate, searching for the culprit, until he realised the ringtone was strangely familiar: in fact, it was his own. His eyebrows arched as he reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out his hitherto missing mobile phone. The entire arena fell silent. Not sure what to do, Clive cringed, then answered the call.
    ‘Debbie …? Yes, I’ve found my phone.’

    Clive stormed through the backstage corridors, accompanied by a director wearing headphones, resting a hand on his shoulder to console him.
    ‘Don’t worry, we can edit it out of the repeat,’ the director suggested.
    Clive panted, ‘It was the most embarrassing moment in over fifteen years of broadcast telly.’
    ‘Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as embarrassing as what happened on Wheel Spin ,’ the director added, trying to help. Clive spun, his hackles raised. The directorchanged tack. ‘The producers feel it was a very strong show. They told me to say congrats –’
    ‘I want Debbie gone. Fired. Finito,’ Clive barked.
    The director motioned with his hands to calm the situation, until Clive’s phone rang again with its distinctive Italian fanfare.
    Clive turned to the director. ‘Can’t talk any more, Keith –’
    ‘It’s Ken.’
    ‘Ken, Keith, whatever. My agent’s on the horn.’ Clive answered the call. ‘Yes, Veronique?’ A voice rattled through the phone. Clive responded, ‘A new opportunity?’ His face broadened into a jowly grin. ‘Well, you know me. Show me the monaaayyy.’
    Clive hung up and pushed through a set of double doors to find Jackie and Darkus waiting for him in the artists’ parking area. His face dropped.
    ‘You on the other hand, Darkus, you’re a bad penny. A bad omen. A bad spark plug. A lemon.’
    Darkus withstood the verbal bombardment, which he was quite used to.
    ‘Clive!’ Jackie reprimanded.
    But her husband stood his ground. ‘That’s the last time I have you two here to distract me. Remember: I’m in the winner’s circle now, Jax, and I intend to stay there.’ He waved to his waiting stretch limo. ‘ Driver?! ’
    The limo pulled forward and came to a halt, then the driver tipped his cap, swiftly opening doors for the trio to climb inside.
    The limo was warm and quiet, but Darkus’s catastrophiser inexplicably began whirring, noting the driver’s eyes shifting in the rear-view mirror as the engine idled. Jackie sat back in her leather seat and looked out of the tinted window. Clive reached for the minibar and sighed.
    ‘Driver, I asked for hummus and pitta? Hell-ooo?’
    The driver hit the accelerator and the limo lurched away, causing Clive to spill his drink down his front.
    ‘Ruddy hell! Driver?!’
    ‘Dad …?’ Darkus asked.
    Clive turned to his stepson, confused. ‘Huh?’
    ‘Not you,’ Darkus corrected him. ‘ Him …’ He pointed to the driver, having worked out his true identity.
    ‘Sorry about that, Clive,’ conceded Knightley Senior, removing his disguise and resting the chauffeur’s cap on the dashboard. ‘Hello, Jackie.’
    ‘Oh, hello, Alan,’ she replied, unfazed. ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘Yes. What are you doing here?’ Clive demanded angrily, before adding: ‘Did you watch the show?’
    ‘I find light entertainment dulls the mind,’ Knightley responded frankly, then directed his eyes across therear-view mirror to his son. ‘Doc, I need to speak to you urgently.’
    ‘I already gave you my