by Ali Knight
It was hard to remain calm when Paul and Lex were selling the company. It really was an astonishing achievement, causing them excitement and a lot of stress. How are you supposed to feel once your dreams are achieved and you’re not yet forty?
The world Paul moves in is cosmopolitan, fast-paced, glamorous and reckless. He employs fifty-five people at the last count, a large proportion of which are women younger, smarter and prettier than I am. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am bitter about what the beauty lottery has doled out or paranoid about the competition; life has always been this way for me, my looks are not notable and my personality is quiet – I grow on you. I have mid-length brown hair neither curly nor straight, hazel eyes with, apparently, an arresting fleck in them, and a kind smile. Men are normally drawn to girls like Jessie with her stand-out tits and bottle-blonde hair, women to her loud personality and store of amusing anecdotes; however, it was me who walked away with the greatest prize of all my contemporaries: a marriage to and a life with Paul. I pulled it off because I am single-minded. When I believe something is right, and Paul and I were right, nothing can really stand in my way. I worked very hard at putting his needs in front of my own, of living my life in his shadow. I made it impossible for him to live without me. I never tell anyone this of course, it would make me seem surrendered, and I am certainly not that. But after ten years and two kids I’m sensing a shift. It’s time I stepped out from that shadow. My man sobbing on the floor, jabbering of killing whatever it was, is not something I will surrender to. I will find out sooner or later what happened that night, and then I will work tirelessly to put it right.
6
The glamour that clings to TV is in direct contrast to the scuzziness of the offices where Crime Time is produced. To get to work I cower from juggernauts spraying grit as they hurtle towards central London, and when I get there I never linger under the 1960s porch that has chunks of cement missing, as if some feral animal has adapted completely to its urban environment and started eating it. Inside is no better, the carpet tiles under my desk curl up at the edges like stale sandwiches, stains resembling blood splatter the floor.
I turn on my computer and wave at Shaheena, a fellow researcher who sits opposite. We joke to each other that our grotty surroundings match the subjects that we deal with day to day. A bin bag leans against my desk. Before I can ask what it is Shaheena leans forward and whispers, ‘Black Cloud blowing in.’
I sit down and turn to see Livvy, the producer, ‘uh-uhing’ someone on her mobile as she weaves past office chairs towards us. I haven’t worked on Crime Time long enough to have met everyone yet, but Livvy has certainly made an impression. She finishes the call and throws the phone on my desk, huffing with irritation.
‘Not a good day, I take it?’
Livvy snorts. ‘Cretins and morons all.’
I see Shaheena holding back a smile. We call Livvy Black Cloud because she’s relentlessly pessimistic, sees disaster lurking at every turn. ‘I thought we got viewing figures that were up?’
Livvy doesn’t smile. She sits on my desk and swishes a long ponytail back and forth. ‘We did.’ This great news is not enough for Livvy, it simply gives her further to fall later. The frown deepens. ‘But no one is to get complacent.’ She points at the black bin bag. ‘There are more and more videos coming in from viewers. This is just a sample. You need to go through them and find the hard-hitting stories, footage that really shows the nasty little toe-rags we all live among.’ She jabs a finger for emphasis across my computer.
‘No problem,’ I reply.
Livvy does her best to spread her bad mood. ‘Don’t get overexcited. It’s grunt work.’ Nothing I say can persuade Livvy that I really like my job. What she thinks of as tedious, repetitive sorting and collating I see as fascinating insights into the dramas, lives and troubles of the public. That we can then play these videos to millions on TV, help catch individuals who are terrorising estates and make people’s lives better makes me love my job. ‘And there’s more out the back. I’ll show you where and you can lug it all back here.’
‘What else did the feedback reveal about the show?’ asks Shaheena.
‘Marika is a real hit, at least something’s going right.’
‘Ah, the great Marika Cochran,’ I can’t help but gush.
‘Isn’t she just the best?’ Despite Livvy’s mood tending to be dark, even she can’t resist the lure of Marika.
‘It’s a world away from the dancing show she first presented, but she’s got such a young and fresh attitude it really fits,’ I add.
‘God, what a coup it was to get her! It was Paul’s idea of course!’
I smile my sweetest smile, which can be pretty saccharine at times. Marika was my idea.
Livvy has made herself too happy for too long. The frown returns with renewed vigour. ‘Yes, the show’s going well as it stands, but I still get “bring it in under, bring it in under budget”. God, I miss the free-spending Noughties. Look at this rathole of an office!’ The three of us stare forlornly around us and I hazard a guess that I was hired for the main because I was cheap.
‘Why are we in this office?’ Shaheena asks.
‘That’s a polite description! Some jerk-off at Forwood forgot to do something with leases.’ She stands and immediately looks panicked. ‘Where’s my phone?’ I pick it up for her. ‘Kate, the tapes.’
Shaheena gives me a pitying look as I trail after Livvy down a poky corridor. She yanks at a heavy door and we are transported into the Crime Time studio. Livvy marches past a large living-room set with a leather armchair and sofa behind a glass coffee table. This is where Marika holds court when Crime Time is broadcasting, but today the studio is abandoned and quiet. The show asks for the public’s help in solving all types of crime, from murder to rapes and criminal damage, and exploits phone and text voting to raise money for community campaigns – a CCTV camera on a dark corner of an estate, new locks on pensioners’ doors.
To the side of the set sits a bank of desks where the researchers take the calls, texts and emails from the public, and from where we organise the public vote each week. The show is populist and unashamed to be so.
Livvy bangs through a side door and from there into a delivery bay and starts riffling through a black bin bag next to a pile of cardboard boxes.
‘I feel like the people who end up on our show,’ I say.
Livvy grunts. ‘What fool put them out here I can’t imagine.’
I open a bag and see hundreds of envelopes and packages, each one containing a heartfelt letter describing the terrors their authors are living with and, more often than not, a video to accompany it. ‘It’s crime from the bottom up.’
‘The world is full of liars and cheats,’ Livvy adds with gusto. ‘Come on, you take one side and I’ll take the other.’
‘You know, when I did my course in interrogation techniques—’
‘You did what?’ Livvy turns to me in surprise and I realise with a touch of shame that she never read my CV when I applied for the job. Not for the first time I suspect that being Paul’s wife made things easier than it should have been.
‘A course in how to question suspects, whether suspects are lying, that sort of thing. It was me and a load of policemen (they were all men then) and private investigators with a weight problem.’
‘Why on earth—?’
‘When I worked in market research . . .’ Livvy is looking blank. ‘Before I was a TV researcher I worked in market research. I used to design questionnaires and interview people to test their reactions to consumer products – chocolate bars, washing powder or whatever. Problem was, I often thought the results weren’t very helpful, because I often thought the subjects were lying. The classic case is when you ask a housewife how many hours of daytime TV she watches, she’ll tend to claim she watches none, but then if you ask her what she thinks of Jeremy Kyle, she’s tutting at his subjects every morning. So I persuaded my boss to send me on an interrogation course – yo
u know, the “is this person lying?” course, to find out if there might be a commercial application to police techniques. So they paid for me to study part-time.’ We pick up a side each and head back through the studio.
‘And is there?’
‘Mmm, I think so. I’m still not sure, or maybe I just wasn’t very good at reading people.’ Livvy nods. ‘But I did learn some interesting things. Did you know that seventy per cent of prime suspects end up confessing? If the people in those letters and emails’ – I nod at the pile of envelopes in my arms – ‘think their partner or their neighbour is up to no good, it’s because he or she probably is.’
Livvy nods. ‘Like my fuck-up of an ex,’ she adds bitterly. We dump the bag down next to its twin by my desk. She stares into space for a moment and takes the time to be reflective. ‘So I guess market research tells you that my love for that Twix’ – she points at the treat I’ve brought in for my lunch – ‘is because my boyfriend didn’t love me enough?’
‘No. It’s because you just really like chocolate.’ Livvy actually neighs. It’s such a startling sound that a second later we are both roaring. Shaheena comes back from the toilet and stands open-mouthed. ‘Seriously though, one thing I did learn at all those night classes was that criminals are actually pretty stupid. The clever ones are very rare.’
‘Or they just get away with it.’
‘Perhaps. Maybe one reason is that groups can be led surprisingly easily. People are easy to manipulate, but we all think we’re immune, or aware enough to see it.’
Livvy’s eyes glaze over with longing. ‘The master criminal. I’d love to catch one of those.’
‘So would I.’ She has no idea how seriously I mean that.
A trilling cuts into Livvy’s fleeting good mood. ‘Where’s my phone?’ She pats pockets in alarm until I hand it to her from my desk. She listens for a second and then the frown is back. ‘Tell whatever bonehead did that to get it back from accounts.’ She flicks her hair as she marches away.
‘Do I detect a silver lining to that cloud?’ Shaheena asks.
7
Wednesday night is a celebratory work dinner, another stop on the socialising round that is Forwood Television. One of the company’s series (dreamed up and got on air by Paul, obviously) has just been showing and has caused a huge stir. Inside-Out is a reality-TV-style documentary about Gerry Bonacorsi, who thirty years ago strangled his wife, apparently because ‘she was doing his head in’. Bonacorsi wouldn’t be remembered by anyone were it not for the fact that, as he has never expressed any remorse for his crime, and has therefore never been released, he has the distinction of being one of Britain’s longest-serving lifers. He is now seventy and Inside-Out managed to get the Parole Board to agree to have cameras at their hearings and in the jail where Bonacorsi was, to show how decisions are made about whether or not to release prisoners like him. At the beginning of the series we didn’t know if he would get out or not. A month ago, he did. In my opinion he should have rotted in jail till the day he died, but hey, I’m just a wife and part of Joe Public so who am I to say? According to Paul I have a very tabloid take on life, to which I say everyone’s a liberal until they’ve been a victim of violent crime.
So, tonight it’s murderers and mojitos; I don’t know if they mix that well. Paul’s PA, Sergei, has hired the new hot place in town and has organised dinner for about a hundred and fifty people. It’s a great way for employees to back-scratch, navel-gaze and get rat-arsed at somebody else’s expense. The evening is important because CPTV’s founder, Raiph Spencer, is coming with other top brass and Paul is keen to impress. I’ve bought a new dress and had my hair blow-dried so that it shines and shifts in a lovely wave when I turn my head.
‘So, what do you think?’ I swish the full skirt in a slow sashay for Ava and Luciana, the babysitter. Ava is sitting on Luciana’s knee as Luciana combs her hair. They giggle and coo together. Luciana is the Brazilian au pair of some friends of ours and she does babysitting when she’s free. She is obsessed with Ava and plays dollies and ‘school’ with her for hours, while Josh is left free to watch TV uninterrupted.
‘Ah, Mummy looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’ Luciana says, looking at Ava.
‘You look funny,’ Ava says.
‘That’s rich coming from a girl wearing yellow, scarlet and purple,’ I reply. Ava picks her nose in an Alice in Wonderland costume, her wide eyes staring at me as her head bobs back and forth in a tango with the comb. Josh doesn’t even look up from the TV.
‘It’s a wonderful colour on you,’ says Luciana. ‘Paul can be proud that he is with you tonight.’
‘Wow,’ I giggle, a little embarrassed.
Luciana shrugs her skinny arms. ‘Paul is a sexy man. You must stay beautiful, otherwise . . .’ She tails off and sighs dramatically. She wags her finger at me. ‘Otherwise, men are all the same.’ Luciana is twenty going on seventy. How anyone that young and beautiful has learned to be so cynical about men I can’t begin to imagine.
‘You say all the right things, Luciana . . . I think.’ I smile. ‘Have whatever’s in the fridge, don’t let them go to bed too late.’ Luciana nods. It’s the same time-honoured routine to get me out the house. My mobile rings, the taxi is outside. ‘Well, I’m going now, see you all later.’
Josh doesn’t reply, the TV blares on. I double-check the contents of my bag and examine my teeth in the hall mirror. They are still there.
Because I’m wearing high heels I indulge in the luxury of taking a taxing into town. We slide past shops and houses and I watch an old woman battling up the road, her body rocking with the effort of carrying her heavy shopping bag. I feel guilty at how cosseted I am, at the good fortune that has come my way. Have I started to take it for granted? I’m trying to decide whether this is a problem when I feel my mobile vibrating with an incoming message from Jessie. ‘Just had the best sex of my life! Call me x.’ I put my phone back in my bag and let my head loll on the back seat. I must have had a hundred texts from Jessie saying just that. She is nothing if not consistent. “Paul can be proud of you.” That’s a nice thing to hear. And I am proud of him, aren’t I? His sobs from Monday ring in my head. The seat suddenly feels sticky, the air through my window cold. There has been no explanation that has set my mind at rest; uncomfortable thoughts make a fresh journey through my skull. Paul and I need to talk. I crave clarity and a return to my lovely, normal life. The taxi coasts to a stop and I pinch my palm to pull myself together. I am the boss’s wife, I have a part to play and I want to play it well.
8
I am seeing Paul inside because he had a meeting that he knew would overrun. Normally this wouldn’t matter, but tonight I really need an arm to lean on, or hide behind. I stand forlornly in the queue to get in the door and am asked who I am by a bouncer. The bar is a crush of loud people I don’t know and my circuit ends all too soon, leaving me marooned next to the coat check.
‘Kate! It’s great to see you.’ I am rescued by Sergei, a serious-looking Russian in his late twenties wearing a black suit with a black shirt and black tie. Sergei likes black. He is incredibly good at his job and guards Paul like a pitbull guards an East End drug dealer. He kisses me formally on both cheeks and asks after the children by name as Astrid arrives.
‘Hiya! Are you Paul’s wife?’ I nod and smile, having been through this routine with Astrid twice before. Lex has two assistants, one of which is Astrid. Paul and I used to joke that Lex had two secretaries because neither was good enough to do the job on her own. Lex claims there’s method in his madness; he hires wannabes who want to be on TV, and maintains that he’s often got his best ideas from his “satellite dishes”.
‘I’m Kate,’ I say, smiling.
‘Oh bloody hell, that’s it, I can never remember anyone’s name!’ Astrid is Australian. She play-punches Sergei in his rock-solid stomach, her silver top with a cutaway back advertising she’s young enough to get away without a bra. ‘Let’s get slammed!’ She hugs me tightly, pressing a p
lump and fragrant cheek to mine, and grasps my hand as we walk into the main part of the building.
Paul’s and Lex’s personalities are neatly mirrored in their assistants. Paul hired Sergei because he didn’t want the bimbo eruptions Lex has weathered over the years. ‘I can’t stand being a cliché,’ Paul says. ‘Who wants to go to work and be distracted by wanting to fuck their secretary?’ My dad, that’s who, but enough of that.
‘Did you know, Kate, that this building used to be a slaughterhouse?’ says Sergei.
‘So I heard. It’s an amazing place.’ We both stare up at a beautiful vaulted wooden ceiling.
‘I think it’s like a cathedral,’ a man’s voice adds. I turn to find John staring upwards, his Adam’s apple casting a sharp shadow across his neck.
‘Hello, John,’ I say. ‘Are things good? You look really well.’ His cheek is hollow where I kiss it, his skin grey.
John nods and gives me his sad, faraway smile. He points his glass of fruit juice over my head. ‘Look, above the bar they’ve still got the old meat hooks.’ Astrid makes a disgusted sound. Paul has told me over the years how hard it has been for his brother to stay on the wagon, the daily battle with his demons and his addictions. I’ve heard about his iron will and determination. I respect John but I’m not sure I like him. It’s as if there’s a film of defeat between me and him, between him and the world. Paul agrees, but nevertheless he’s family and that’s the end of it. He handles legal matters at Forwood TV, fished from the river of failure by Paul, dried off – and out. Few would have done it, not many would have taken the risk or spent the time, but then Paul is not like most people. He employed his eldest brother after the sale not to mop the floor or paper-push some irrelevance, but to look over vital contracts. ‘Give him responsibility and he will respond, he can’t stand pity,’ Paul said. I’m ashamed to say I completely disagreed with him, told him in no uncertain terms that disaster would ensue, that his company was at risk, but he ignored me. Two years later I have been proved wrong. The whisky and cocaine benders are gone, along with his wife, his fortune, his former career as an advertising lawyer and his sense of humour, and have been replaced by weekly NA and AA meetings, the gym and cigarettes. I look at the meat hooks, their curvy weight illuminated by a hundred down-lighters, dimmers and uplighters, and then I see John studying me. Paul insists he never told John what I thought, but when he looks at me like that, I suspect he did. Blood is thicker than water.