This is the sequel to Not Long Now
 

The première went well, her film was well received and she was congratulated by many of the invited audience. Unfortunately that meant the press took an interest but, as she was using an alias, she wasn't overly worried, and, it was all fiction, wasn't it?

The film wasn't due to go on general release for a few weeks so would only be seen at select cinemas as preview screenings, this didn't matter and she'd told the producers the same. In fact there might even a few changes to the film, so the extra time was valuable.

The after-show party was at the Grand Hotel, an edifice some hundred years old that was probably decent looking about a hundred years ago. There was plenty of alcohol and she told the real story to several people, her tongue becoming looser as she enjoyed the party.

Unfortunately, again, the press weren't far away, none knew her but that wouldn't take long. She took herself to bed when the enjoyment started to wane.

Saturday's newspaper included a review of the film, favourable, and then an article on the back story. All of the documents, the transactions, the lawsuits, had been found in a few brief hours by a diligent journalist. Unfortunately this included her real name.

Her phone started ringing with requests for interviews from the media, and requests for meetings with officials. She switched it off when the requests turned into threats.

She took breakfast in her room, unfortunately the restaurant was full of hangovers and hangers on as well as the next tranche of the esteemed press.

She had to get out of the hotel but didn't have to worry about her room, the producers had paid for that. Unfortunately the front desk had warned her that several people had enquired if she was still there and had prevented a few from climbing to the sixth floor.

Drastic action was needed.

She unpinned her auburn wig, revealing a mess of grey hair. That morning's carefully applied make-up was less than carefully stripped away. She cleaned her nails, removing the polish, and removed all jewellery.

Trousers instead of a skirt, a plain sweatshirt over a tight t-shirt and she was almost done. She looked in the mirror but now saw a slightly effeminate middle-aged man. Her coat was bright red and couldn't be reversed so she stuffed that in her overnight case, a tight squeeze. Fortunately her case was a unisex design but she would, unfortunately, be exposed to the elements.

She called the front desk for a cab and waited a few minutes before going down in the lift. The desk was busy so she dropped the key and shuffled towards the door. Unfortunately she only had heels, court shoes or sandals, so was trying carefully not to click as she walked across the marbled floor to the door.

The cab was outside so she gave directions, to the retail park. She needed better shoes if she had to maintain the disguise. She also needed a better coat and a bigger case, this was not a cheap deal.

Another cab took her to the station, she used the machine for her ticket, her female named debit card might cause a problem. Unfortunately her railway discount card was in her legal name so she couldn't claim the reduced fare. At least the train ride was uneventful.

She took a cab from the station to the seafront, just in time to see her beachside shack being destroyed. Where her shack had been was now a pile of wreckage. She went to find out what was happening but was stopped.

"Sorry Sir, it's dangerous, the storm damaged a few properties. We're making it safe."

She shrugged and walked away, no point in speaking. Unfortunately, nothing else along the shoreline looked damaged, that included the garbage store behind the shack. She owned it but there were official looking signs for the local council emblazoned on the sides, to disguise the fact. She giggled as she had that thought then giggled as to what was to come.

Unfortunately, until the beach was cleared of workmen, there was nothing she could do. She went to a local hotel and checked in, then went to buy some clean underwear - this might take a day or two.

A phone call to the council solicited nothing, an automated message said their staff wouldn't be back at work until Monday. She also had a house but felt certain it would be watched for her return, so phoned a neighbour and said she'd be calling by the house in a few days, unfortunately her shack had a little storm damage.

The neighbour said she suspected that much when a van pulled up and deposited several boxes outside, apparently they had used a pizza delivery van. She asked the neighbour if his CCTV covered her driveway, it did. She asked if he'd send her the appropriate five minutes of video.

After dark she walked to where her shack had been but went instead too the refuse store, opening a panel. She removed the memory cards from a pair of cameras and swapped new ones before quickly leaving the shore. Unfortunately she was seen but fortunately it was the local feral cat.

She had her laptop, too risky to leave it at the shack, and uploaded the video to the web. The memory cards held two days worth of video each, with multiple audio inputs around the shack. She'd been expecting this day for a long time. Her shack, she could see, had survived the storm intact, just as it had before.

She rang the film producer and promised some excellent publicity material, dynamite in fact. Those nice men in Italian suits with Italian accents were first discussing, then searching, then removing and finally destroying. Unfortunately for them every word was captured. There was video of the pizza delivery van driving away from the shack and video of it arriving outside her house.

The producer was very interested. Their film about local corruption was portrayed as fiction but was anything but. The new video would be used at the end of the film and spliced with the promotion material.

The story broke on Sunday morning but she stayed in the hotel with her phone off. She;d spent years trying to get the local journalists involved until she found out they were being paid off, hence the book and then the film. Now, those very same journalists wanted a piece of the action, unfortunately none had seen the film nor read the book and there wasn't a bookstore open on a Sunday anywhere nearby.

They had interviewed everyone, even the council sent a team. Some of the council had been paid off and they'd been named in the film; Brown became Smith, Jones became Hunter and they all became hunted. Unfortunately the journalists got to them after the Italians got to them.

Everyone wanted to speak to her but the public relations expert said to keep quiet.

By Monday the story was at fever pitch, a major police investigation was underway and she was asked to attend a press conference in the same hotel if only to say "no comment" to every question.

She redressed as herself, taking care with her make-up before re-pinning her wig. She took a copy of her book and her laptop then walked down to the lounge once she knew her publicist was outside the room.

The buzz in the room was tremendous but order was called. Eventually one nominated journalist started the questions.

"Is it true you used to be a man?"

"Unfortunately."