Rupert swallowed his liquid lunch of tomato juice and noticed how difficult it was to suck the juice from the many large cubes of ice the bar man had filled his glass with. He looked over the rim of his glass at the gathering glitterati assembling for the charity concert in Convent Garden.

I will get a good interview tonight, he told himself psyching himself up to assertively approach the famous people and gain their attention.

Ah there was Amelia the emaciated model with her much shorter millionaire husband, entering the VIP suite. Rupert let them pass; they had already sold their souls to Hello Magazine. He wanted someone more interesting who did not often talk to the press.

Then coming in through the entrance along the red carpet he saw the cockney film actor headed for the bar, obviously relieved he had finally passed all the yelling crowds and photographers. Rupert just managed not to choke on an ice cube and smiled. Putting on a fake cockney accent he said

“Like your ‘titfer’ mate” pointing to the stylish hat Bernie was wearing.

“Best to take it off in here. It hides your face.”

Bernie a round squat man, looked up at tall skinny Rupert, and took his hat off and balanced it on the bar top. “What are you drinking?” he asked gratefully.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic thank you.” Rupert replied his heart pounding with excitement. He was on the way to getting a major article for his newspaper at last.

Bernie ordered a pint of ale for himself and sat on the bar stool surveying the crowd.

“What a business! Still, got to support the charity. Every little bit ‘elps,” he murmured. “Me wife died of cancer and now I’m on me own.”

Rupert was glad he had already started recording the conversation in his tiny hidden Dictaphone.

“So sorry,” he answered.

“Yes she was wonderful. I miss ‘er so much.”

He wiped a tear from his eye.

Rupert was just about to ask Bernie what he thought of his producer’s drug problem when Bernie stood up, stuck his hat back on his bald head, and, jerking his thumb towards Rupert, he growled, “See to this jerk Dave” he told his assistant who had been hovering in the background. And he walked off.

Dave lunged forward and got Rupert by his throat, whilst he scooped the Dictaphone out of Rupert’s inside pocket. He threw it on the floor and crunched it under his steel capped boot.

“Bernie don’t do not interviews, creep,” he hissed.

And then as more glitterati passed through the bar he pretended to straighten Rupert’s tie.

“This didn’t ‘appen OK? You print this and your dead mate.” was his parting shot.