Another Way

by Frankie McGowan

  Who would have thought that in spite of the high profile crowd she had been running around with, it would take the Randalls to be the most inspirational?

  *

  ‘Such news, my child,’ whispered Jed theatrically when she called him later. ‘No, not telling you unless you promise to come out to dinner with me and…’ there was an infinitesimal pause, ‘…Ashley.’

  ‘Love to when I get back. But... er... Ashley? Is he back?’

  Jed sighed. ‘Yes and no, and I’m not sure that I should even be encouraging him, but you know him, Ellie. It always was one of those relationships that was heading for the rocks before we had even set sail.’

  It was a sore subject between Jed and Ellie, who could never understand why her friend remained devoted to the capricious designer who had yet to demonstrate his loyalty to anyone other than himself. Even Jed found it difficult to explain; the best he could offer was that it stopped him getting tied down.

  ‘Anyway, all that nonsense about playing the field has been curtailed duck,’ he said. ‘Too many good friends meeting the Old Reaper before they should. Ashley understands that.’

  Ellie wasn’t sure that Ashley understood it at all, but he had a curious hold on Jed’s feelings. His habit of reappearing and taking up where he had left off, just when she believed Jed was learning to live without him — and happily too — was a source of irritation to her. The way Jed just accepted it, never tried to assert himself. Just put up with erratic moods, unreasonable emotional burdens. She stopped. Christ, she could talk. Didn’t that sound just like her own relationship with Paul? When she’d finished her call to Jed, she wandered into her sitting room. Kneeling down she lit the gas log fire and leaned back against the sofa.

  Although she found it difficult to admit, Ellie had been deeply hurt by Paul’s defection, the way he had just taken off when she needed support. The TV film could have waited, they both knew that, he had turned down such offers before. No message of support, comfort, love had come when he must have known, did know, yes, absolutely did know, that she was on her own at the flat, feeling desolate.

  And then Beth Wickham. Beth Wickham. Bloody old slag, Ellie thought viciously, punching the cushion she was hugging to her as she sat watching the flames lick up the chimney. Wasn’t there anything belonging to her that Beth Wickham didn’t want? Her place chairing WIN, her boyfriend?

  And now, the message on her machine from Paul in New York. Where are you? She wasn’t fooled. Paul, like Polly, kept all his options open.

  ‘This won’t do,’ she told herself, rising to her feet and heading for the bedroom, in a half-hearted attempt to get organized for the trip back to Dorset. Thinking about Paul did nothing for her self-esteem. What was it Theo Stirling had said: ‘No-one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’

  Well, she announced, looking at her haggard reflection in the mirror, taking in the unkempt hair and the red eyes, better stop giving the world permission. God, what a sight. Peering forward she pulled down the corner of her eye, not really knowing what to expect, but that’s what they did in films when they were nearly dead on their feet, didn’t they?

  Then she examined her jawline, pulling it this way and that. Would she ever consider a lift? Mmm. Sticking her tongue out, she rolled her eyes, recalling that a magazine article somewhere had said it worked wonders for the muscles in that area. Perhaps, she thought, leaning forward, pressing her elbows either side of her breasts to examine her cleavage, it would do wonders here. Sighing, she decided that a life of stress and strain and weight loss wasn’t helping. She stopped and sank her chin into her hands. God, you’re really losing your marbles, she decided. Or so tired you don’t know what to do next.

  An hour tossing and turning on her bed had failed to send her to sleep. Her mind was too full of the events of the last twenty-four hours and finally, not wanting to risk driving, she decided to catch the two o’clock train to Dorset.

  Before she left she put a call through to Joe McPhee and learned from his secretary that he was locked in an editorial conference.

  Dialling the hotel, she caught Oliver as he was about to leave to walk back to the house, and arranged to stay the night with him after the TV broadcast. They were, he said, poised to record it so she could see it back later, and all of their friends had been alerted.

  Protesting that she was likely to fall into a gentle slumber, and that she could barely remember her name let alone what she was supposed to say, Ellie felt an even greater need not to let them all down. They were so loyal, so confident that she would be brilliant.

  ‘And Ellie,’ Oliver finished, ‘I’ve told Pa.’

  She moved the phone to her other ear, wincing.

  ‘Told him what? About the land or me?’

  ‘Both,’ said Oliver. His voice sounded strained.

  She wasn’t surprised. She began to draw circles with her toes on the carpet.

  ‘What did he say? How did he take it?’

  ‘Oh God, El, I don’t know. I’ll tell you later. It isn’t worth going into it. It’s just that TVW covers Devon and he was bound to see it. I didn’t want him to hear it from you on television.’

  Oliver sounded really cut up and she knew her father had taken it badly. Don’t, she admonished herself, don’t let it worry you, not yet, not now. Later, maybe. But not now.

  Ellie had been delaying confrontation over so many things it was becoming second nature. ‘Deal with it when you feel strong enough,’ was Gemma’s advice. ‘If it’s going to upset you, delay it. Start loving yourself a little, spoil yourself.’

  Grimly Ellie tried to apply the maxim to herself, but she failed miserably. Her father’s distress had always had the power to slay her and Oliver. Some things never changed.

  Before she left she raced round to the high street and bought a bouquet of freesias and white carnations from the stall outside the deli, and in the gift shop next door a miniature T-shirt in sky blue that would just match Amy Randalls’ sleepy eyes, which carried the legend ‘A Star is Born’.

  While she didn’t begrudge Gemma and Amy a second, shopping had taken longer than expected. Instead of having all the time in the world, it was now fast approaching one o’clock. The train left at two and Waterloo was half an hour away.

  Really, she must be mad, Ellie decided as she flew around her small flat for the second time in two days, securing it before she left. She hadn’t stopped for three days. Not even in her most frantic moments at Focus had she been up against such pressure. And not earning a penny of money either. The letter from the bank manager was stuffed into one of the kitchen drawers; Ellie knew what it said without opening it. It said that she was going to have to do another piece for the show biz page of the Strumpet, the nickname she had for the Daily News.

  Meanwhile, she concluded that people on the campaign trail who have recently been made redundant should not make television appearances unless they were brave enough to wear scarlet, and defiantly she pulled from the wardrobe the suit that Theo had given her. Holding it against her body, she surveyed herself in the mirror. Perfect. Theo was still in New York, unlikely to hear about her television appearance; she didn’t know whether to be sad or glad. In the end glad won, and she zipped the suit into a plastic cover and threw it over the Gucci holdall already packed on her bed.

  As she propped the flowers and the extravagantly wrapped present for Amy outside Bill’s door for him to take to the hospital later, she convinced herself that she had adopted the right attitude. Much as she would have relished the idea of letting Theo Stirling see she might well be down, but out she had yet to encounter, Ellie had to admit that there seemed to be something ethically quite wrong about going into battle wearing the armour provided by the opposition.

  *

  The television station was housed in a chrome-and-glass, triple-storey building, and was not the crowded hive of activity Ellie had imagined.

  Joe McPhee, tracked down by Oliver, had picked her up from the train station
and on the short drive to TVW he had brought her up to date with events as they had been unfolding in Willetts Green.

  ‘Seems to me, lassie, that you’ve got two campaigns on your hands and that’s no bad thing. I’m not one for praise, as you know, but it took courage to do what you did. I always knew you had it, but sometimes it got drowned in all that family pride. Oliver’s got it and your mother had it.’

  ‘And Dad too,’ said Ellie absently.

  She didn’t notice the hesitation or the way Joe said a bit too readily, ‘Aye, yes, and John too.’

  They were met by a flustered production assistant who introduced herself as Maria Cheriton, ordered everyone about, and kept telling Ellie that Taylor Carnforth, the anchorman, was an absolute love, a real poppet. Nothing to worry about.

  As the absolute love and real poppet chose that moment to storm past them roaring for the heads of the researchers on individual plates, Ellie could only marvel at how Maria loyally maintained that he really needed a break, poor lamb.

  Joe was ushered into the hospitality room and Ellie was taken off to be made up. Her outfit was whisked away to be pressed. After two months of near neglect, Ellie felt awkward about having her face made up so expertly by a chatty girl called Jillie, and kept making excuses for her dry skin and lacklustre hair.

  Jillie looked at her in amazement. ‘Honestly, you’ll look great when I’ve finished. You should see what I have to do to half the presenters to make them look half way presentable. They’d kill for your skin.’

  Ellie didn’t really believe her, but she was grateful that she hadn’t been made to feel a real challenge to Jillie’s entire talent.

  ‘Now a quick run through with Letty Brereton, the producer — not Taylor, I’m afraid,’ apologized Maria, collecting Ellie half an hour later. ‘Poor love, he’s had the most awful day. Awful cold coming, I think.’

  ‘Awful come down more like,’ breathed Jillie. ‘He’s such a prat. Snorting far too much. You’ll have him eating out of your hand if you just tell him he’s better than Brook Wetherby.’

  Ellie knew she would have no trouble at all telling anyone they were more talented than Brook Wetherby but all the same, after nearly thirty-six hours without sleep, she would much rather someone massage her frail ego than cope with a coke-addicted presenter on her first TV appearance.

  Following Maria through the maze of corridors and finally through double swing doors into the studio, Ellie stepped across layers of cable, ducking under TV monitors until ahead of her, past some silent technicians, she saw a blaze of lights and a set that reminded her of a rather dated nightclub.

  ‘Taylor always sits on the right of the set, his guest on the left,’ explained Maria, ushering her across the set to where Letty, headphones clamped on firmly, was issuing instructions into a small microphone angled in front of her mouth. Letty waved a silent acknowledgement to Ellie, taking her arm to keep her from moving on while she finished the conversation.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, pulling the headphones off. ‘Glad you could make it. Great interview with Sandy Barlow.’

  As she spoke she was guiding Ellie to the edge of the set. Peering round the corner, Ellie could see the studio audience already in place and hear the floor manager welcoming them, joking about their role in the forthcoming drama.

  ‘Now, Taylor will be with us in a moment,’ said Letty, looking pointedly at Maria and as the other woman scuttled away to verify this, Letty turned her attention to Ellie.

  Somewhere in her late thirties, Letty was taller than Ellie, slender as a beanpole, with short spiky hair and glasses that were both owlish and splendidly eccentric. Ellie wasn’t sure why, but she instantly liked her.

  Letty, studying her running order, seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. ‘The programme is for forty-five minutes. You will be first on for about fifteen minutes... Charlie! Taylor’s cues are meant to be in the studio, not in the car park... right... but we would like you to stay put for the rest of the programme because at the end there is a general discussion.... Maria, where is Taylor?

  ‘Bart Fellowes is on after the first break,’ she went on, turning back to Ellie, who recognized the name of an actor currently promoting his latest film. ‘Then there’s a ten-minute slice of Jonquil Adams on film talking to that historian, Charles Peterhouse, and then by that time Clive O’Connell Moore will have joined us to talk about his fight to get his book published.’

  Ellie looked swiftly up at her. ‘I know,’ smiled Letty. ‘I used your interview for background notes. Good stuff. Now your bit. Taylor will ask you about how you came to be made redundant, then the immediate problems followed by the emotional level you have to cope with. Then...’

  Ellie froze. This isn’t what she had agreed to. There had been a terrible mistake.

  ‘Letty, I’m sorry,’ she interrupted. ‘I thought we were talking about the campaign for Linton’s Field. We are going to talk about that, aren’t we? I mean, I don’t mind about saying I’m out of work, but the whole point about this is, it’s my brother who will be out of work if that damn field is sold to a property developer.’

  Letty argued that Ellie’s redundancy was more interesting. Ellie countered by insisting it was a personal decision for her, not a public issue, which the campaign was. Conceding she had a point, Letty pressed Ellie to try and understand that she had to have a riveting programme, one that would have the viewers writing in, that would get the ratings up. A campaign about a conservation area wouldn’t do that.

  Ellie stuck to her guns. The room was hot, her makeup felt like a pound and a half of plasticine. The lack of sleep was beginning to tell and here she was, minutes away from transmission, arguing about her role in all this.

  Letty looked straight at her and sighed. Ellie’s unwavering gaze had settled it.

  ‘Bugger it,’ she said baldly. ‘Yes, okay. I thought I might get away with it. But I can see it isn’t worth struggling about it.’

  Waves of relief flooded over Ellie. ‘I promise you faithfully I’ll make it interesting,’ she assured the disappointed Letty. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  Minutes later, Ellie was fitted with a radio mike by the sound man, and Taylor Carnforth strode on to the set, sniffing and wiping his nose with a large white handkerchief. Close to, his face was grey, his eyes a paler blue than Ellie remembered and the fine lines around his eyes were nothing compared to the deeper recesses of those around his mouth.

  ‘My dear,’ he smiled, showing perfectly even white teeth. ‘I read your interview with Brook Wetherby. You were far too kind. He’s really rather passé now, isn’t he?’

  After which he ignored her, contenting himself with calling for make-up, the cue boards to be brought nearer and plaintively telling wardrobe that he knew he was right, grey was simply not his colour.

  Ellie watched in fascination, wondering if he would ever get round to the job in hand. The hands on the studio clock crept up to five to seven. Letty was whispering to Taylor, who seemed bored, as he glanced indifferently at Ellie and then with a shrug, ran his eye down a set of questions Letty thrust into his hand.

  Left alone for the last few seconds of the countdown, Ellie felt only a dry mouth, clammy hands and a deep longing to be anywhere other than where she was.

  Too late. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joe, hands thrust into his pockets, smiling encouragingly at her. She smiled nervously back. The cue music came up, the credits rolled. Taylor was adjusting his tie, his trousers, his cuffs. And then the red light on top of the camera flashed and he moved smoothly into his opening comments.

  ‘... Eleanor Carter.’

  Someone pushed her urgently, but gently, in the small of her back. The lights blinded her. Her face felt as though every muscle was locked terminally into place.

  Afterwards she remembered nothing of the walk from the wings, out across the studio floor, the audience, urged on by the floor manager, politely clapping, Taylor standing with his hand out. Up one step, Taylor kissing her on both c
heeks and waiting until she had seated herself in the left-hand chair, before sitting down opposite her, his best profile to the camera.

  ‘Welcome, Ellie. Nice to see you again. What an extraordinary thing for you to be doing. There must be something more to all this than just an ambition to save some land?’

  For one horrifying moment Ellie couldn’t think what on earth that could possibly be. Crossing her long, slender legs encased in sheer black tights, she could only smile at him. And then, miraculously, the words came, just as they had with Sandy Barlow.

  Taylor, for all his affectations and his tantrums, proved to be a competent and well-prepared interviewer, moving skilfully across a range of questions, until Ellie forgot that thousands of people would be watching her and pushed the campaign message to the hilt.

  Fifteen minutes passed in a flash and, as Taylor thanked her and asked her to stay with them, she leaned back in relief and caught Joe’s eye. He was standing behind a camera, clenching both hands jubilantly above his head.

  Then Bart strode on, kissing Ellie on both cheeks although he’d never laid eyes on her before. Jonquil’s film ran after the break and then she saw Clive O’Connell Moore being led on to the set by Letty, waiting to be cued.

  ‘I am pleased to welcome Clive O’Connell Moore to PrimeMovers,’ and the controversial author joined them, shaking Ellie by the hand and paying her a graceful compliment as he took the seat next to Taylor.

  Listening to someone else interviewing Clive aroused all Ellie’s professional instincts. She envied some of Taylor’s questions, the way he stubbornly kept Clive to the point. She also admired Clive’s courtesy and lack of anger at even the most pointed questions, and found herself enjoying the exchanges between the two men.

  ‘And you don’t think that publishing your book, revealing such lapses in the way the government has handled the economy, is going to damage it irreparably?’