‘David O’Donnell is still in hiding today after being outed by the Daily Mail,’ the news anchor informed.
‘Oh, fuck me, not another paedophile scandal,’ I muttered to myself, and turned up the volume to catch the rest of the report.
‘Mr O’Donnell, former game-show host, original ITV breakfast television presenter and co-host on Good Morning with David and Mina, has reportedly gone to ground after the Daily Mail published an article claiming that he is a transvestite. Mr O’Donnell has been off air from presenting Good Morning with David and Mina on Channel Five since the scandal broke two days ago. Stephen Jones, the outside broadcast correspondent, has been filling in for him. Trisha Templeton, his wife, Loose Women panellist and a former Miss Great Britain, has tweeted “could people please give the couple some privacy and allow them to collect their thoughts during this difficult time”.’ The screen flicked to scenes of a pack of baying paparazzi outside a tall white Georgian town house somewhere in London, surrounding the gate so no one could get in or out. ‘A spokesperson for Good Morning with David and Mina has said that Mr O’Donnell will return to the show as soon as possible.’
‘Fucking Daily Mail. Who cares if he’s a transvestite?’ I switched the TV off and could hear a lot of banging car doors and low voices outside. Naturally I poked my head between the curtains after I switched the lights off. A flurry of activity was happening outside Samantha’s house. I could make out Samantha silhouetted in the doorway, and a man and woman grabbing bags from the boot of a Porsche and hurrying inside. The man’s head was bent low into his chest, but his companion turned round cautiously before also dipping her head down. It was impossible not to work out who she was. Her glorious mane of blond hair and iconic height made her stand out a mile, even in dusky evening light. Trisha Templeton.
25
Jo
Jo didn’t know what to do with herself. She paced round the kitchen, a familiar sensation raging in her chest, forcing her back where she didn’t want to be, shaking Steve’s lifeless body, a waxy sheen on his face already letting slip he’d gone. The repressed memory always unravelled her from the inside out.
‘I must be able to do something,’ she mumbled. She finally settled on the task of feeding the menagerie of pets. Her lodgers were all at college so the house felt less hectic, not something she relished. The animals were always here and always needed a cuddle, or a walk, or food. She pulled the two giant sacks of kibble out of the cupboard and spooned the food into the various bowls. The cats were already in the kitchen, sitting on the table, viewing her with impassive eyes; cats and their conditional cupboard love. The dogs came waddling in as soon as they heard the cupboard open. ‘Pavlov’s dogs,’ she chuckled affectionately.
She sent another text to Debbie.
If you need anything, please let me know. I can go to the shops, get you guys a takeaway, you name it.
Debbie didn’t reply. Jo gazed out of the window to see if she could spot the kids coming back from school. Jo would have liked her own kids. She always thought she would one day, but time was ticking now. She was past forty and she’d ideally like to bring them up in a relationship rather than as a single mum. She’d obviously pay a surrogate; she wasn’t having all that nonsense of pregnancy, no drinking for nine months or vomiting night and day. Someone else could do all that shit. She’d almost made enough money to retire now and could offer a good life to a young family. Daring property deals in the nineties supporting her property development business in the early noughties meant she could pick and choose when to work. Working in property, traditionally considered a very male-dominated industry, had never fazed her. In fact, the challenge egged her on to succeed where so many had failed.
Jo didn’t like failing, or being told what to do, or being on her own. The longest she had been single was about three months, and even then, she was constantly going on dates, the thrill of the chase like a chemical high, always with straight women. To be fair, they were invariably up for a change of scene. She knew she could never persuade Ali, so she’d let that one go, but Debbie had been ripe for it. She sighed and her shoulders sagged when she thought of Debbie.
The one thing all these women had in common was some bastard bloke treating them really badly, so in swooped Jo on a charm offensive and before they knew what had hit them, they had fallen for her. All of them subtly needed fixing too, but Jo didn’t register any of that. She just felt drawn to them like a moth to a flickering flame, dancing in their fading light until another spark caught her eye, needed her and the dance began again…
Jo didn’t understand why she managed to plough through relationships at a rate of knots. Fran had mentioned maybe not trying to constantly control every aspect, trying to live in the moment, but Jo liked things how she liked them. What was wrong with that? She wasn’t purposely vindictive, abusive or sneaky, though she had been known to carelessly overlap before and wasn’t averse to running two people round the block at the same time. Francesca would always shake her head and tell her she was terrible in an indulgent way like you do to a favourite naughty child. It would seem people rarely said no to Jo.
Jo was used to managing everyone, including her parents, whom she adored. She’d bought them a lovely little retirement home near Bromley – just the right distance away. So she was struggling to work out why Debbie was ignoring her in her hour of need. When they’d got together after Jo’s trip to A and E, they’d made plans to go away for a holiday, tell the children about their relationship so they could get used to the idea that their mum was possibly a lesbian. Jo liked the idea of the ready-made family, though the children were a lot older than was her preferred ideal. She loved little kids – cute button noses, chubby knees, squeaky voices – but Charlie and Isabelle appealed because they were beautifully brought up. They had lovely manners, and Jo approved of that. She knew it would take time for them to accept her, but she thought they would eventually; children were adaptable, weren’t they?
She ran upstairs to her office and switched on her laptop. She googled oncologists in London, scribbled down numbers of clinics, checked out their websites, the facilities, their mission statements and started making calls.
‘Hello, yes, could you tell me how soon I could book someone for a consultation in regards to a lumpectomy? Yes, she’s already been seen by the NHS, it’s a ductal carcinoma in situ in her left breast … a DCIS, yes. Friday at ten? Fabulous. Yes, that’s fine, I can do a bank transfer. What’s your name, my darling? Well, thank you so much, Tessa. We’ll see you then.’
Jo finished the call and sat back on her office chair. Money talked and if she could help, she would. She didn’t see the point of not acting on something, getting the ball rolling. Why procrastinate? Bish bash bosh, tick that box, get a result, move on. It worked for most things. She had that sorted, but she didn’t want to tell Debbie on a text. She’d wait until the kids were at school tomorrow and go round, surprise her. Yes, that was the best plan. She breathed a sigh of relief. The memories had been successfully encased in their lead box.
26
PR SOS
I need to talk to you urgently. Can I come to your house with Lila for a meeting?
Samantha’s text popped up like a slice of toast at six the following morning. I was already awake, having been subjected to an unsettling raunchy dream involving Carl, a pair of handcuffs and chocolate body paint from back in its late nineties’ heyday. I shook off the remnants of the dream and texted back a yes. I decided to get up and win against the day by attempting yoga in the living room before Grace woke at seven but I couldn’t escape the image of Carl licking chocolate goo off my naked thighs with his nimble tongue. Was this how desperate I was, having fantasies about my next-door neighbour, who wouldn’t fancy me in a million years because I wasn’t a skinny twenty-something model? Even in Savasana, lying in relaxation at the end of the practice, my head lolling to one side, Carl’s beautiful face loomed into my third eye and the kiss he delivered had me coveting a sly qu
ickie with Rampant Rabbit. There was no Om going on.
Later on, I handed out coffees and a poor selection of biscuits for our meeting, perched at the breakfast bar.
‘So, I know I said I needed to cancel the filming this Friday. Well, I’ve changed my mind. It’s back on.’ Samantha picked up a custard cream and inspected it before nibbling the end.
‘How come?’ Lila asked.
I remained silent, in possession of an uncertain inkling.
‘OK, this is highly confidential and I am going to have to get you to sign these NDAs before we can go any further.’
‘What on earth?’ Lila blurted out. ‘We’ve got an A-list celebrity on the vlog using your connections? It won’t be just Ali and me arsing around in Stella McCartney?’
I was a non-disclosure agreement virgin. Z-listers never used them and glamour models wanted all the press they could get. Samantha slapped her Louis Vuitton handbag on the counter and leafed through it, retrieving an A4 manila envelope. She slipped out two binding agreements and handed one to each of us.
‘OMG!’ Lila cried. ‘No way!’
I scanned the top of the document to find the name I had expected: David O’Donnell.
‘He wants to come out publicly in a sympathetic environment. He has final say, and we are to air it the night before he returns to the show with Mina. Mina will be there too. Everyone’s on board.’
‘Oh, I love her!’ I cried. Mina Prajapati was a presenter who had solidly worked her way up through the ranks of Saturday morning kids’ TV that post-clubbing kidults would customarily watch in a catatonic comedown. She had forged a successful break-away career into adult presenting in her thirties and now she was my age, with three kids, she was co-hosting her own show. She was no dolly bird, or arm candy for David; she was feisty, very funny, and she said it how it was in her strong Bradford accent.
‘Is it being filmed by Good Morning with David and Mina?’ I asked.
‘No, you two are doing it. Mina is going to interview David before you girls help him transform, along with his daughter. I just need a few identical outfits. The production team and Channel Five are all behind it.’
‘I can’t take it in,’ Lila said, clearly in shock. ‘How did this come about?’
‘David is godfather to my two boys. I used to be his agent when I worked at William Morris. He wanted to stay there when I set up on my own because Trisha was already there, but we remained very close. We meet for lunch once a month.’
‘So he asked you to do this for him?’ Lila quizzed, shaking her head at the enormity of it all.
‘No, I suggested it. He and Trisha are staying with me until things die down. No one knows they’re here. The press can’t find out because we would all be under siege – their home is surrounded by press, waiting for them to leave. Thankfully, they have a back entrance through to a neighbour’s and escaped last night.’
‘So they came to you for advice or to hide?’ Lila continued her interrogation.
‘Just to hide. But we stayed up all last night going round in circles. David is mortified. He feels justified in keeping his cross-dressing a secret because there is still so much stigma attached to it, especially if you have never alluded to it before. It’s different for Eddie Izzard because it’s synonymous with who he is, but David is so far in the closet he’s in Narnia. He’s always managed to keep his identity secret when he goes out dressed as Viola.’
‘Did his family always know?’ I asked, fascinated.
‘Not always. He came out to them about ten years ago. Trisha is a legend and so supportive. She has always known – they go shopping together; it’s very cute.’
‘Did any of his friends know? Did you know?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I did know. I’ve known David for thirty-five years – I introduced him to Trisha after his first wife died. I knew she would be the best companion for him because she is so kind, and also totally non-judgemental. She came from a very tough mining background that hardly anyone ever escaped.’
‘Didn’t she support the miners during the strike in the eighties?’ I said, my foggy brain grasping at a hazy image of a very youthful Trisha marching with a placard, her Miss Great Britain crown on her head.
‘Yes, she did. She was also a huge supporter of gay and lesbian rights back in the day when no one was. She’s fab. I think that’s why she’s so popular still – the gay community love her and when the gay community love you, your star always shines!’
‘So is this a bit of PR SOS?’ Lila asked, dipping a plain digestive into her coffee.
‘I actually think this will be the making of David and Good Morning with David and Mina. The show has been going only a year, and it lags a long way behind This Morning in the ratings. It was kind of the big hope for Channel Five after previous shows failed to make a dent. Mina is obviously a big draw, and David has always been popular with the older viewers, but maybe now this is a chance to reach out to a different audience. People love an underdog and they love redemption. Not that he’s done anything wrong, but the way the Mail have portrayed him, you would believe he’s been caught as a practising paedophile.’
‘Isn’t he scared of a backlash?’ I asked. ‘I mean, there will be equal numbers of haters. All the Britain First dickheads and UKIP supporters.’
‘There will be anyway, Ali. He’s been outed. What’s important is to not take any of it on board, show you don’t care and carry on as normal. When people make protests like that, it’s usually because it’s ignited something inside about their own lives.’
‘Shouldn’t we do it somewhere more glamorous then, if so much is riding on it? How will everyone fit in the house?’ I suggested. ‘Doesn’t he want to do this on TV instead?’
‘No – platforms like YouTube are the future of broadcasting instant content like this. He doesn’t want to be live, and TV takes so long to record. We can be in and out, and Lila can edit in a day. Lila, your boyfriend will also have to sign an NDA.’
My head was spinning out of control. I was mentally tallying up where I could go to source women’s clothes and shoes that would fit a man – I needed to measure him.
‘I think we need to stick to the original premise of the vlog, in a neutral house, nothing fancy, and it’s all about the clothes and how they make you feel – the audience will relate to that so much more than in some swanky hotel. Why don’t you both come over to mine now?’ Samantha said calmly. ‘David and Trisha obviously have to stay inside; you know what Nosy Norman’s like!’
Ten minutes later, we nervously entered the living room where they were both sitting down on the sofa, nursing cups of tea. They jumped up, instantly revealing their height disparity. Even in her ballet pumps and simple green tea dress, Trisha was a good three inches taller than David; she must have been over six foot. He wasn’t tiny, and was taller than me, it was just that Trisha’s Amazonian height was breathtaking. In real life, she was leonine, her impressive mane of hair enriching her majestic aura. Make-up free and subtly tanned, her fifty-something face appeared well tended.
‘Hello,’ she greeted us in her sing-song Welsh accent. She offered out her hand for us to take turns in shaking. ‘I’m Trisha, and this is David.’ I wanted to laugh – did the Queen ever offer her hand and reveal the ineffable secret that she was indeed the Queen? David reached over and shook our hands too.
‘Hello,’ we said in unison. He appeared older in the flesh, probably because studio make-up does its job well. If Trisha had had work done, it was subtle because she wasn’t line-free, just naturally blessed with cheekbones that the rest of her face could confidently hang off without collapsing into the Pillsbury Doughboy.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ David asked in his Irish brogue. ‘I just boiled the kettle.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I answered as Lila declined. David made a move towards the kitchen when Samantha intervened.
‘Dave! I’ll make the tea. You’ve got to be measured and discuss outfits. Stop trying to escape!
’
‘So, I know you both understand what has happened,’ Trisha opened with.
Just before Lila and I joined them, we had googled it all and got up to speed online with what utter bollocks the tabloids were reporting. Some of the headlines were ridiculous and plain nasty.
‘We’re not staying at Sam’s because we have anything to hide or are ashamed of David in any way, it’s purely because we were trapped inside our house with people constantly focusing lenses on our every move. We couldn’t think straight in there.’
‘It must be awful and so invasive,’ I sympathised. ‘When is David back on the show?’
‘Monday, so really this all needs to happen now.’
‘How soon can you turn the vlog around?’ David asked softly, sitting back down so we all followed suit.
‘Well, if we shoot Friday, me and Hayden can just stay up all night and edit it, get it to you Saturday. You can make changes, approve it, whatever you do, and then we’re ready to launch Sunday evening.’
I was desperate to ask personal questions, like had David always worn ladies’ clothes? How on earth did he walk in heels and could he teach me? And finally, did he wear the dreaded Spanx? He seemed rather subdued compared to his screen persona of jovial gentleman in a jumper softly probing guests on the studio sofa while Mina dived in with a more direct approach. Could there be a chance of him appearing as Viola on his own show?
‘What kind of clothes are you looking to wear on Friday?’ I opened with, hoping it was the right thing to say, scared I was going to ask the wrong questions or inadvertently say something offensive.
David glanced at Trisha before answering, his lip twitching while he clenched and unclenched his hands.
‘Come on, love, these girls aren’t going to bite.’ Trisha smiled encouragingly at him.
‘I want to wear something classic.’ He endearingly flushed pink, finally letting his guard down. ‘I know you haven’t got much time and can’t reveal who this is all for to shops or designers, so I know we’ll just have to go with what you can find.’
The Single Mums Move On Page 16