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Major, Crusty Beardstandard. She says he’s one of those crusty old men who are all heart underneath. He was making a new series – six episodes – all on one garden. A garden, apparently, that hadn’t been properly gardened for centuries, and existed in a state of nature round a castle in Scotland recently acquired by a friend of his.
    â€˜What friend?’ I asked warily. Crusty’s friends are a mixed bag.
    â€˜God,’ said the Major.
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜God.’
    GOD????
    GOD!!!!
    Not . . . surely not . . . the God? Hot God, otherwise Godfrey Jakes, the ultimate veteran rock star. Sixties rebel, seventies superstar, eighties alcoholic, nineties comeback kid, millennium icon. You know his story – who doesn’t? It’s like the stories of all the other rock stars rolled into one. Critics say he should have died, it would have been more in keeping with his image, but instead he lived on, giving endless farewell concerts, updating his wives every season. He’d started as Hot God and the Fallen Angels, then moved on, going solo, going mega – shooting up, snorting up, trashing cars and hotel rooms, spawning headlines like ‘ HOT GOD HELLRAISER ’ and ‘ AMERICAN BIBLE-BASHERS BAN GOD ’. A kiss-and-tell feature a few years back had only put a gloss on the halo, claiming ‘ GOD ’ S ROD STILL HOT ’. He’d taken a liability name like Godfrey and abbreviated it into his biggest asset. Never mind his music: the guy was a PR genius.
    Lately, I’d read he was doing the recluse act, which only works if you are a HUGE star. Otherwise people just ignore you.
    Now, apparently, he was into gardening.
    â€˜He’s really keen on it,’ Crusty said. ‘Been boning up on everything. Wants to get involved. I took him to meet Jennie.’
    Crusty took Hot God to meet my mother ? Naturally, she’s a big fan – she’s got a stack of his old albums a yard high – but the idea was still shocking, even embarrassing. Caviar and mashed potato. Glitz and grits. Had he been bored, or merely patronising? Had she blushed and gushed – Mummy, whose face is too weatherbeaten to blush and who only ever gushes over plants? Unthinkable.
    Of course, they are nearly the same age. Come to think of it, he must be older . . .
    â€˜I thought you might like to present,’ Crusty went on. ‘Jennie said you were at a loose end.’
    I am not at a loose end. I’m a star. Stars don’t do loose ends. They have things in the pipeline, exciting new projects, people angling for their time and attention. But Crusty is of the old school, as they say. He just isn’t clued up.
    But never in a million years was I going to turn down the chance to work on Hot God’s briar patch.
    Unfortunately, he also wanted Mortimer Sparrow, the housewives’ pin-up, he of the faux-rustique accent and relaxative manner. I wasn’t eager for the reunion. Morty is an inveterate bum-patter and tit-fondler who, when I started on Earth Works , had thought he could jump on me just because we were colleagues. I didn’t need him, didn’t fancy him, and said so, which hadn’t helped our professional relationship. How someone as cool as Hot God could admire Morty . . . Which just goes to show that even superstars can be as dumb as ordinary people, only on a bigger scale.
    I had protested at the inclusion of Morty but had to give in, so I sort of felt Crusty owed me a favour. Not that I would put it like that, naturally. I do tact, whatever people may say. But the designated producer was due to bunk off on maternity leave at the crucial moment, and the Major hadn’t appointed a replacement yet. It wasn’t Roo’s field, but what she really needed was a complete change of scene.
    Sometimes, things just come together. Fate taking a hand. I felt this was one of those times.
    Roo spent