“Amy, hold on,” I say abruptly. “I'm coming.” I lean forward and knock on the driver's window. “We need to make a quick detour to Notting Hill. As fast as you can, please.” As we head up Ladbroke Grove, the taxi roaring with the effort, I'm leaning forward, peering desperately out the window, trying to glimpse Amy... and then suddenly I see a police car. On the corner of Kensington Gardens. 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 shoplifting 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?” 290 “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 wordprocessor. Undercover Celebrity Tour of London Many Hollywood stars have settled in London. See them on this unique tour. Catch glimpses of: Madonna putting out her washing 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 lifeFor 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-winning movie star!” “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!” 292 Amy is sucking in her cheeks as though she's trying not to laugh. Yeah. This is so funny. We're all having a great time. I don't have to be somewhere else really important, or anything. I fill in all the forms as quickly as I can, stamping a furious full stop after my signature.