by Ali Knight
‘I believed it to be a fitting venue to showcase Forwood’s success,’ says Sergei.
‘Well, you certainly deserve it after Inside-Out. The response you’ve had to that programme is phenomenal.’
‘It’s the bollocks!’ says Astrid. Her enthusiasm is infectious and we all laugh.
‘Do you know where Paul is?’ I ask Sergei.
‘Has he abandoned you already?’ He looks behind him.
‘Oh no. We came separately. He had a meeting that went on late so I came on my own.’
I notice a small frown crossing Sergei’s smooth forehead. ‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘Well, let’s see if we can track him down for you, I saw him not five minutes ago. He was with some bigwigs from CPTV.’
‘There he is!’ Astrid shouts. She is tall with legs like a fawn and peers over heads on my behalf. She smiles and waves over my shoulder as Paul arrives and plants a big kiss on my cheek.
‘My wife!’ He keeps his hand round my waist as if he doesn’t want to – or shouldn’t – let me go. ‘Where’s your drink? Come on, champagne for Kate!’ He bags a passing waiter and lifts a flute off the tray. Paul is in a dinner suit. He is glowing with health and looks hot and manic, his dark eyes shining. He slaps a guy on the shoulder, is congratulated on something else by another. Paul introduces me to some high-profile industry people and I put all my effort and attention into making them feel at ease. Apparently it’s something I do well. I cling to comments like that; I’m not sure my list of accomplishments is very long. As we queue up to find our seats Paul is the centre of attention, the main man around which the evening, this crowd and their careers revolve.
Half an hour later we sit down to dinner. I’m at the table where all the important people are, though at evenings like this I feel as relevant as a third wheel on a motorbike. I’m introduced by Paul to Raiph Spencer. I’ve heard about him so often over the years and seen his picture in the media often enough that he feels familiar to me even though this is the first time I’ve met him.
‘It’s an honour,’ I say, gushing more than I should as I pump his hand.
‘You’ll probably call it a curse by the end of the meal,’ he replies, his blue eyes creasing into a smile. His face is sprinkled with large moles from too much Caribbean or Mediterranean sun and he’s shorter and thinner than he looks on TV.
‘Did you get time to watch Inside-Out?’ I ask politely.
‘Yes, I made time for that,’ Raiph replies. ‘You know I was at school with Gerry, although he was a bit older than me. I found the programme fascinating.’
‘What I think is fascinating is how the lives of two people from the same place can take such different paths.’
Raiph gives a small laugh. ‘I think it’s fair to say that he and I are the most famous people to come out of that part of Donegal in more than one generation.’ Raiph wears his charm with an easy grace, which is at odds with his reputation of being the velociraptor of the business world. He pulls out my chair for me and Paul beams in my direction.
‘Notorious rather than famous, surely?’ Raiph’s career trajectory from son of an Irish butcher to a possible star of The Apprentice is a story that’s been told many times.
‘Do you mean Gerry and me, or just me?’
I smile. ‘I’m not sure there’s much difference between the two. Although, it would be more fun to be notorious, wouldn’t it? Sounds a bit more exciting.’
Raiph ponders this for longer than I would. He’s really thinking about his answer. ‘I have quite enough excitement in my life as it is, I think any more and my poor ticker would give out.’ He clasps the front of his very well-made suit and rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll let the Forwood boys here have the challenge of becoming notorious.’
Lex joins the end of our conversation. ‘Turning a killer into a celebrity was my greatest challenge,’ he adds.
‘You can’t deny that the camera loves him,’ Paul adds. ‘He made compulsive viewing. He was so different from what people were expecting, and that makes for great TV.’
‘To great TV,’ Lex says, raising his glass.
‘To great TV,’ we all toast together.
Sergei’s done his seating plan well: I chew my starter listening to an intense man named Jethro tell an amusing story of how to photograph stoats; and the woman next to him repeats a very indiscreet bit of gossip about a rock star she picked up in an editing suite, oh how we roar. I am about to try to warm up a stiff-looking suit two seats away but notice Lex weaving between the tables to the exit. My guess is he’s off for a fag. I make my excuses and head for the door. When I get outside he’s with Astrid and a group of people I don’t recognise. He sees me and nods, beckoning me over.
‘Can I cadge a cigarette? I’m trying to give up but am failing miserably.’ In fact I haven’t smoked for years.
‘Course. You and me both.’ He holds his lighter for me in a sexually suggestive manner. I find it hard to pinpoint why I don’t like Lex. I mean, there are the obvious things: he’s arrogant, vain and selfish, but this doesn’t stop him being immensely popular, particularly with younger women. I don’t get it and I wonder if my unease is fear, the fear that I don’t agree with the crowd, or with Paul; that I’ve missed something.
He smirks and introduces me to everyone and I shoot him a knowing look in return. ‘Hear you had a ding-dong of a night on Monday.’
He blows a smoke ring and smiles. ‘I cannot possibly divulge, Kate, it’s the code of the road.’ Of all the expressions that sum up the TV industry, this is the one I hate the most. The collusion between colleagues and freelancers when they’re on location, the lying to spouses and long-suffering partners about what really happened in that house in Ibiza, or that hotel complex in Russia, or that caravan in Ireland over the course of a six-week shoot (I mean six-week party). There are jobs that require hard work and then there are jobs on location for TV, if the stories I hear are anything to go by. How many secrets have been sealed in at work that because I am a wife I can never uncover?
Someone sniggers and I look round sharply. Get a grip, Kate, I say to myself. I hold my elbow with my other hand, the cigarette near my ear. ‘How boring that tired TV expression is. I’ve got a better one from the music business.’ I lean forward for Lex’s benefit. ‘“Art for art’s sake, but hits for fuck’s sake.”’
Lex laughs and the group relaxes. The nicotine floods my body, making me feel sick.
‘Oh, I’ve got one!’ says Astrid, grinding a fag under her pump. ‘A friend of a friend was working on reception in a music company and Sting walked in and came right up to the desk. So she said, “Don’t stand so close to me.”’ Everyone laughs. This would be fun if I wasn’t so desperate to know the truth, to clutch at the straws of understanding that Lex won’t offer. How can I prise open what really happened on Monday? My head swims uncomfortably.
After five minutes of superficial banter Lex flicks his stub into the gutter. He pats me on the back as he turns to go inside. ‘At this rate you’ll be filming me for Crime Time, now that you’ve parachuted on to the programme.’ He makes an exaggerated gesture of self-defence. My smile is that of an assassin.
Back inside the heat is stifling and the meal drags on. This should be a pleasant dinner, a validation of everything Paul has achieved, but for the first time I’m scanning the room for women who Paul might be attracted to. This is depressing territory and I slam back my wine. At one point Sergei passes and pats me on the shoulder in a gesture that feels like consolation. I think about his small frown earlier, how he attempted to cover his shock when I said Paul was in a meeting. Sour feelings of misgiving swirl inside me.
I’m pulled from my toxic thoughts by a tap on the arm. Portia Wetherall, the CEO of CPTV, is leaning across the seat backs to greet me and I’m so glad to be distracted that I get up and fling my arms around her, gathering her awkwardly in my armpit.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ she says.
‘Oh, I’m just tired, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on
.’ I slap my forehead. ‘Sorry, I know that must sound ridiculous to you.’
She clasps my hand and repeats ‘not at all’ several times. ‘Don’t assume that because I have a high-profile job I’m more stressed than you are. It might well not be the case. I’m very good at delegating.’ She smiles. ‘Plus,’ she holds up a well-manicured finger, ‘I don’t have children to deal with.’ Portia’s the youngest woman to ever head a FTSE 100 quoted company. Whenever she moves I fancy I hear the sound of glass ceilings shattering. Portia’s older than me, but by how much I can’t tell. Her hair is a conservative helmet of blonde in the style called ‘older woman’, her suit is an expensive and timeless caramel. She’s heading one of Britain’s biggest companies and I’ll bet she’s not yet fifty. I can imagine leading Jessie’s life if I didn’t have my own, but Portia’s is as exotic and indecipherable as an Amazonian Indian or Tibetan goat herder, something you marvel at on holiday or gawp at in a documentary.
‘I think you’re being very generous. Tell me, how often are you at events like this?’
‘Oh, once a week I’d say, though this is of course the most interesting one. Forwood events are a real highlight. I think it’s because Paul and Lex are such good company, it all flows from there.’
We smile at each other. ‘But the longer you have to talk to me the less enticing the whole evening becomes.’
‘Oh stop!’ She squeezes my hand. ‘But between you and me,’ she leans right behind the back of the person at the table, ‘if you knew what some of the functions I attended were like, you’d realise how scintillating your company is.’ I feel a warm glow inside and it’s not just the wine. Portia has a rare gift for making me feel special, as though I’m the only person in the room. It’s probably just one of the many talents she’s used to take her right to the top. ‘Talking of interesting people, I met a friend of yours the other day. Jessica Booth.’
‘Jessie! How come?’
‘Raiph is commissioning a portrait.’ She nods towards the founder. ‘He mentioned it to me and so I insisted he used my art adviser to draw up a shortlist and she was on it.’
‘Well, that’s great news! I think she’s really talented.’
Portia nods. ‘I was in the East End last week and dropped in on her show and met her there. I liked her, and her work.’
‘She deserves a bigger platform.’
‘It’s amazing the genius that so often lies hidden from the world.’ She frowns. ‘Or is that sad?’
‘Common, more than anything, I suspect.’
‘That is sad! I wish your friend luck.’ And even though I get the feeling she wants to talk to me further, we are interrupted by a suit butting in.
An hour later I see Lex heading for the toilets, the second time in twenty minutes. I surprise myself because for someone who is not spontaneous I make a sudden decision and follow him. I watch a minute crawl by on my watch, fiddling with my shoe outside the Gents before I open the door. There are two men standing in the stalls but, as I suspected, Lex is not one of them. They look at me open-mouthed and hurriedly zip up. I enter the cubicle next to Lex’s and stand on the toilet. I still can’t see over so I balance on the cistern in my stilettos and peek.
Lex is chopping out a fat line of coke on the porcelain. He nearly drops his twenty-pound note when he sees me. ‘Kate! Fuck, what are you doing here, I mean up there?’ He recovers momentarily. ‘Do you want one? Oh no, sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ His discomfort is palpable.
‘What time did you leave Paul on Monday?’ He wipes his nose, squirming. ‘Think very carefully about your answer. It’s a Forwood showcase tonight, Lex; Paul would not be happy if he knew about this, and if I think you’re lying, he’s gonna know.’
Lex pauses, rolling the twenty back and forth between his thumb and forefinger until it forms a thin tube. ‘I left at nine-thirty. We just had a few drinks.’
‘Where did Paul go?’
Lex defiantly bends over and snorts his coke. ‘I don’t know. He said he was going home. You’re married to him, it’s your funeral.’ He looks up insolently. ‘Sure you don’t want a pick-me-up?’
If I had been in the cubicle I would have slapped Lex, I’m bolshy when I’m drunk. I would have leaned in close to his cheeks red from too much partying and adulation and tried to transfer some of my anguish on to his self-assured mug. But I’m not down there among the piss and bleach, I’ve now been transported to a far more uncomfortable place. ‘Oh fuck off,’ I say.
I come back into the dining room to find Paul has a microphone and is mid-speech, holding the attention of the hundred or so guests. He turns and smiles. ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but I do want to talk about the most controversial programme Forwood TV has ever made. Inside-Out has been running on your TV screens all winter and ended just last month. It has produced very strong reactions in people and prompted debate from Parliament to the pages of The Sun. This is what the best TV programmes do, and I believe that this is one of the very best.’ Someone cheers and Paul holds up his hand. ‘This documentary shows us real life, with all its contradictions, its messy hues. Gerry Bonacorsi is not a nice man. He is a convicted murderer who strangled his wife, and who spent thirty years in jail for that crime. The decision on whether to free him when he has expressed no remorse is, thankfully, not yours or mine to make. Our job was to show the decisions taken about Gerry, in real time’ – there is another cheer – ‘and so give the viewer the most profound experience of being a lifer – and then a free man – they will ever have.
‘Inside-Out shows that reality TV, which is the bread and butter of this company yet long derided by some commentators, is a format that can bring about the most thought-provoking programmes. Inside-Out breaks new ground in TV documentary making, and I want to take this opportunity to thank the dedicated team who had the vision to see the project through, and Channel 4 for taking the risk to show it, not knowing what the ending would be.’ There is a smattering of applause. ‘So, thank you all for your hard work.’ Cheers ring out in the high-ceilinged room and Paul holds out his long arm and beckons to me. ‘But before I finally sit down and let you enjoy the rest of your evening there is someone else that I have to thank, because she’s done the hard and never-ending work of putting up with me.’ Someone laughs. ‘I want you all to stand and raise your glasses to my wonderful wife and partner-in-crime, Kate, without whom none of this would have been possible.’ I hear a thousand scraping chair legs, clapping hands like the beating of wings. Cheers ring hollowly in my ears. Paul’s arms are wide, waiting to snare me in their embrace.
My husband is a dirty shitting liar.
I am rooted to the spot, my only desire to slap Paul again and again for every missing hour between leaving Lex and coming home to me. But I am conventional and private, hidebound by status and appearance. You won’t find me rocking boats. The slaughterhouse waits, Paul wiggles his fingers at me. I feel faint, the oxygen is draining from the room. ‘Honey?’ I force out my most dazzling smile and enter that embrace, dropping the catch on the cage of our marriage.
9
The atmosphere in the taxi going home is glacial. Paul is pleading with me to tell him what the problem is. My fear is damming up against my anger and it’s all about to overflow.
‘Tell me exactly what happened on Monday night.’ I am whispering, I don’t want the driver to have any chance of hearing.
Paul rolls his eyes. ‘I went out, I stayed out too long, I’m sorry—’
‘What time did Lex leave?’
He looks at me sharply. ‘You’ve talked to him, haven’t you? You’re trying to catch me out.’
‘You told me he was with you all night!’
‘No I didn’t!’
‘Sshh.’
Paul frowns. ‘What do I need to be quiet for?’
‘So where were you?’
‘I drove around by myself, went to some bars, I wanted to be alone—’
‘Alone?’ My question hangs forlornly
in the air. When it comes to relationships Paul makes sure he has grasped the next vine before he lets go of the first. If I remember rightly he hasn’t been single since he was sixteen. Paul doesn’t recognise the concept of overinviting or the phrases ‘too many’ or ‘too much’. When he goes away on trips I can hear him on his mobile organising dinner for twelve, a drinking game for some lads; he’ll drive two hours from his hotel to meet an old school friend, just to hang out and catch up. If he is ever delayed at an airport he phones repeatedly, filling in the blanks with conversations with me. Paul cannot tolerate being by himself. ‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘Sometimes . . . I don’t know . . . I just wanted that kind of night.’
‘Are you having an affair?’
‘Kate! How can you even ask the question?’ Right now I have no idea if he’s lying or not, I simply cannot tell and this makes me desperate. I had always assumed I would know, that it would be flagged for me in a look or a habit or a comment. But I am in the dark, groping.
‘Did you . . . Paul, did you hurt someone?’ I still cannot bring myself to utter the word he used himself.
Paul recoils on the back seat. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You were saying some terrible things that night—’
‘I was off my face—’
‘Even so, I’m worried about you.’
‘You don’t believe me.’ He’s watching me carefully, his expression impossible to read.