During my stay in LA I woke up one day to a disturbing message on my mobile phone. “I know you’re in America, Frith Powell, call me,” said a deep male voice. I didn’t recognise the voice and immediately feared the worst.

“It’s already happened,” I thought as I hid behind the curtains of my room in the Beverly Hills Hilton. “I’m not even famous and I have a stalker.”

I told my husband about it who seemed very relaxed. “It’s probably some ex-boyfriend whose voice has broken since you last saw him,” he said.

I looked at my mobile phone. The same number had tried to call me a few times. It was a UK mobile number. Partly through fear, but mainly through stinginess, I didn’t call it back.

Later that day I was having lunch with Jennifer a screenwriter friend from LA. We were at The Ivy, which is just as posh over there as it is in London. I’m glad Jennifer showed up for two reasons; one she is good company and two before she arrived me (being nobody) was stuck at a table inside (where only the losers dine) not gazing at all the stars as I had imagined, but with my nose stuck against a cupboard in the corner of the restaurant (I mean, hello?, don’t they know I have a stalker?). Luckily Jennifer got us a table outside in the sunshine.

Just as we sat down my mobile phone rang again.

“Frith Powell?” said the same deep voice.

“Who are you?” was my first question.

“I once took you to see Desperately Seeking Susan, I know you have a step-father in Oxford and you did your A’ Levels there.”
My mind was racing. Was this some ex-boyfriend I should know? Was it a stalker? Desperately Seeking Susan, that was about a million years ago.

“You’re going to die when you hear who this is,” said the voice.

Nice voice actually. But who the hell did it belong to?

“This is Marco.”

“Who?”

“My name is Marco, Marco Pierre White.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007