Perfect on Paper

by Gillian Harvey

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, grinning and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead in a ‘phew’ motion.

  ‘And you don’t think anyone will recognise me?’ Clare pulled at the ends of the very realistic wig which Nadia had found for her.

  ‘Not once you get your shades on. Remember, nobody’s going to expect it, are they? Clare the solicitor rapping on TV,’ Nadia smiled.

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  There was still ten minutes before they’d be going through. And the rehearsal had gone well. She’d even noticed Pete – the show’s brand-new presenter – nodding his head to the beat.

  The dancing had got easier, too. She’d become fitter over the course of the rehearsals, felt her body move more easily. She’d never really been a natural dancer, but she reckoned she could just about pull it off.

  For a moment, she wondered whether she ought to just come out – to admit who she was, rather than the mysterious character she’d invented for herself. Be proud of it.

  But then she thought about her day job. The serious office atmosphere. Corporate sexiness, whatever that was.

  It was better to remain under the radar for now, at least.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Dan said, suddenly, as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah, about the wig. I mean it looks good, but I just thought, well, Eezee Troupe, we’re about keepin’ it real …’

  This again?

  ‘Look, Dan. I get it,’ she said. ‘I get that you want to give the act the best chance. That you want to keep things real,’ – in retrospect, it probably wasn’t a good idea to use her fingers for air quotes at this point – ‘but I have a job. A boss. A new client who’s pretty high profile.’

  ‘I know but …’

  ‘This isn’t my life. This isn’t going to be my life. I get that it’s your chance. I get that we’ve kind of been stuck together in this weird situation, but after the show, the competition, Martha B. is probably going to disappear.’

  ‘Really?’ he seemed surprised. Surely he had known this wasn’t for ever?

  ‘Yeah. Look as soon as Eezee Troupe have an audience, a following, they won’t need me any more. I’m just … well, something that makes the act more noticeable I suppose. I’m not the talent. Not really. I know you said I’m good … and I know I can hold a beat a bit, but when it comes down to it, I’m a gimmick. People get bored of gimmicks.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be able to show my face at work after rapping on live TV. Nobody would take me seriously again.’

  ‘What about the women?’ he said. ‘They don’t think you’re a gimmick.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yeah. All the women who started the hashtag stuff. Women are starting to challenge their bosses, ask for pay rises. There was an article in the news about a woman who’s divorcing her husband because of you.’

  ‘Divorcing?’

  ‘No, no, it’s a good thing. He was a right bastard by the sound of it.’

  ‘Right.’ She still wasn’t sure if she wanted to be responsible for breaking up a marriage. ‘I don’t see what this has got to do with my wearing a wig though.’

  ‘The whole rap thing – your poem, whatever – you’ve encouraged them to be honest. You’ve got women talking about how they feel. My mum thinks you’re amazing!’

  ‘That’s nice, but …’

  ‘We all think you’re amazing. And it kind of seems wrong if you don’t have the courage to be yourself; to stand up on that stage and own it, you know?’

  ‘Dan, I just can’t. I get it, but I just can’t.’

  ‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘But just know I’m not going to let you quit without a fight!’

  Clare smiled weakly. She was risking a lot by being involved in this. Toby was already suspicious about her afternoon out ‘shopping with the girls’. And although he didn’t say anything, Nigel had seemed a little edgy about her referring any queries from Camberwaddle to Will this afternoon. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said at last.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dan said. ‘Thanks, Clare.’

  ‘Hey, don’t reveal my secret identity,’ she laughed, poking him in the ribs.

  ‘I won’t if you don’t.’

  When the runner came and led them to their positions on a small stage area across from the main presenters, she felt for a moment as if this was something that was happening to someone else, not her. It was weird seeing the set of a show she watched every now and then in the flesh – it looked messy and rudimentary compared to the way it appeared on camera.

  ‘But first,’ Pete said, turning towards the camera and flashing a short smile. ‘An unlikely act has taken the internet by storm. Martha B. with dance troupe Eezee Troupe have captured the imagination of the masses with their raps about women’s rights.’

  ‘And they’re here now to perform in the studio,’ continued his co-host, Melissa. ‘So give it up for Martha B. and her boys!’

  With her heart hammering and her lips stretched into a smile, Clare listened to the beat and came in on cue:

  ‘It’s Martha B., here to disrupt your life,

  I’m speakin’ to your sister, your mother, your wife.

  Got my boys Eezee Troupe and they’re keepin’ it real,

  Got a message about your women and just how they feel.

  We’re tired of being sidelined, tired of being ignored,

  Being judged on how we look, that’s not what we stand for.

  We are liberated, educated, ready to go,

  We’re fit, legit and loving it, enjoyin’ the flow.

  Yeah, we keep things goin’, do the tidying up,

  We like things smooth, get in the groove, like fillin’ your cup.

  But it’s hard to keep things goin’ when you’re being ignored,

  When we tell you what our day’s been like and you just look bored.

  Yeah, hashtag MehToo! I hear ya all the women out there,

  It’s time we started stepping out and makin’ things clear.

  Just because we’re getting older doesn’t mean we are less,

  Like wine the years improve us – but, dress to impress?

  Why should we think about you when we’re getting dressed?

  It’s our minds you should be seeing, look and you’ll be impressed!

  We’re invisible? Yeah right, we blend right into the crowd,

  Well no longer, Martha’s women gonna shout it aloud.

  The world is run by men, well just look where that got us,

  It’s time for a new movement, just in case you forgot us.

  No matter if we’re older, or not part of your game,

  It’s gonna change, I’m Martha B.,

  Remember my name.’

  The camera zoomed in and, as instructed, Clare dropped into a half-split. For the first time, she made it, although her hamstrings screamied in protest.

  The presenters and crew clapped. ‘Well, that told us!’ said Pete, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Well done, guys.’

  ‘Yes, brilliant,’ smiled Melissa. ‘And now, to a story of a tortoise who trekked twenty miles to find his owner after a house move …’

  In what felt like a complete anti-climax, Clare and the boys were ushered from the stage and back into the changing room. ‘Great job,’ the runner said, giving them the thumbs up.

  ‘Was that OK?’ she asked Dan when they were sitting in the foyer afterwards. ‘Do you think people will like it?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ he said, flashing his phone, which he seemed to be able to carry with him invisibly whatever he was wearing, ‘I know.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yeah. Twitter’s gone crazy!’

  It was what she’d hoped for and dreaded simultaneously. #MehToo was trending again at nu
mber five – and from what she could see as she looked over his shoulder, the feedback was overwhelmingly positive.

  ‘And you don’t think—’ she began.

  ‘Clare, nobody will recognise you in that get up,’ he said, removing her sunglasses in a way that felt strangely intimate. ‘But I still reckon you should still think about – you know – coming out or whatever.’

  ‘But Dan, this is never going to be my main job. My day job is pretty serious. Professional.’

  ‘But who says?’ he asked.

  ‘Who says what?’

  ‘Who says you can’t be both? You’re already a pretty good mother, I reckon.’

  She snorted at this but said nothing.

  ‘And you’re nailing it at work, right?’

  ‘Well, kind of …’

  ‘Well, I can’t see why you can’t have this, too. Why do you have to choose? You’ve got a talent.’

  ‘I know … I’m a poet, and I know it,’ she quipped, partly out of embarrassment.

  ‘No, it’s more than that,’ he said. ‘You can speak to people. You can see how people are feeling and get it into verse. And the way you perform – it isn’t the novelty that’s keeping people interested. It’s the message. It’s the performance. Clare, face it,’ he said, looking at her intensely. ‘You’re good at this.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘And no buts,’ he said. ‘You’re the one showing everyone that women can have it all. That there’s this “new movement” or whatever. Maybe it’s time to listen to your own words.’

  He was right, she realised. The only person setting limits was her.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘So, the auction for the land and property in section B of the development plan takes place tomorrow,’ Camberwaddle said, sliding a glossy brochure towards Clare over her desk.

  ‘Right,’ she said, looking at the small bungalow on its generous plot and trying to imagine the twenty-five houses Camberwaddle hoped to build in its place.

  ‘I’ll get my assistant to call you with the details once the transaction has gone through.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Clare was still at a loss as to why Camberwaddle had needed to tell her this information in person, rather than simply emailing it to her as usual. Looking at her top client, his silver hair looking slightly more unkempt than usual, a flush on his cheeks, she wondered if he was all right. ‘Was there anything else?’ she prompted after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘Sorry, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve signed those contracts, so they’ve just gone to be countersigned by the head of commerce, then they’ll be winging their way back to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Another silence.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she said again.

  ‘Um … no, I think that’s it,’ he said, shuffling papers back into his leather satchel. Then, ‘Oh!’ he said, as if he’d just remembered something. ‘I was going to ask how things are going for your husband. Quite a coup, him getting into frontline presenting as it were. Even if he is only doing a women’s show.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, holding her tongue.

  Camberwaddle suddenly grimaced.

  ‘Are you all right? Do you want some water?’ she asked. Please, don’t let him vomit in my office, she thought. There isn’t a window. It’ll stink for weeks.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, straightening up and fishing a rather grey handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow. ‘Just a bug; I don’t seem able to shake it.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘You know,’ he said, once his colour had returned to normal, ‘seeing as we’re working together closely … well, perhaps it would be nice to meet up for a drink or something. Not just us of course, perhaps I could bring my wife, and you could, erm, bring Toby? Might be, well, a pleasant evening? We could talk to him about … well, his TV stuff?’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she lied, wondering how much sway he really thought the presenter of Woman’s World TV show would have over the repurposing of greenbelt land, and whether he really thought he was being subtle.

  ‘Great. Great.’

  ‘Well, I’ll wait for your call Stefan, on the properties.’

  ‘And, um, yes, I’ll contact you about that dinner,’ he said, turning towards her as he left. ‘See if we can’t pencil something in.’

  Yes, why not, she thought. Perhaps she’d invite Hatty as well – that could make for an entertaining evening. Friends in high places indeed.

  Minutes later, Ann stepped in with a document for Clare to sign.

  ‘Was Mr Camberwaddle all right?’ she asked, leaning on the desk conspiratorially. ‘He looked a bit flustered when he left.’

  ‘He said he felt a bit off colour; but I think he’s OK.’

  ‘Right. I was quite worried about him when I saw him walking through reception just now. He looked – I don’t know – frail almost.’

  Probably weighed down by the weight of his own subterfuge, thought Clare meanly. It was annoying that the client she thought she’d landed fair and square seemed to have his eyes on her husband rather than her. Having Camberwaddle in her corner was great – but she’d rather have him on the books because of her great legal brain, rather than her husband’s great connections.

  As it was, things with Toby were, if anything, looking more rocky than before. He was trying, he’d really started to listen to her, but this was the wrong time for him to notice her – he’d begun to worry what she was up to. And she didn’t know how to tell him about Martha B. How could she begin to explain when she’d done so much behind his back already? Besides, it would all be over soon.

  ‘It’s just … all these phone calls. Sudden late nights. It’s nothing to do with this Camberwaddle bloke, is it?’ he’d said last night.

  ‘What? Of course not!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said. ‘It’s just … you never seem to tell me anything.’

  ‘That’s because you never listen!’ she’d snapped.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I do tell you things, but you’re always so preoccupied with your job you don’t really listen to me,’ she’d said, feeling tears prick at her eyes. ‘Last time I told you about a work problem you told me I should make a lasagne.’

  ‘Now come on! Your lasagne is legendary,’ he’d said, missing the point. ‘I thought you’d be pleased that I liked it so much.’

  ‘But I wasn’t … I was telling you about a work meeting, not meal planning for the week. You just assumed I was talking about dinner. Probably because I’m a woman – that’s what you think, isn’t it? That I should be at home, in the kitchen.’

  ‘How can I listen if you never talk! I don’t understand women!’

  ‘Coming from the presenter of Woman’s World, that comment is pretty alarming.’

  ‘But seriously, how can I understand how you feel,’ he’d replied, more softly now, ‘if you don’t ever tell me?’ He’d reached out and touched her upper arm, pulling her lightly towards him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know I’ve been a bit crap. Preoccupied. But I love you, you know. I do want to know how you’re feeling. Even if I get things wrong sometimes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Telling him directly how she felt hadn’t actually crossed her mind recently, she’d realised. She’d tried to show him instead. She’d felt her skin prickle – had she really become an online rap sensation simply because she was avoiding having a proper conversation with her husband? Was that a proportionate reaction?

  Steph was right, she should have opted for a new lipstick, not a new identity.

  ‘It’s like that Martha B. character,’ he’d said, suddenly.

  Her heart had somersaulted. ‘What?’ she’d squeaked.

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s great, right? Women love her. She goes o
n TV, creates a furore, the whole hashtag thing, but when I actually want to contact her, to come on the show, for christsake, she’s nowhere to be found. Like she doesn’t really exist. Doesn’t actually want to talk about it.’

  ‘But … Martha B.?’

  ‘Yeah, I contacted The One Show, and they gave me the number of a guy called Dan – her manager, or whatever. But he was really cagey when I rang him.’

  ‘But why … why would you even want her on your show? Most of the time you speak to business leaders, lawyers, politicians … sometimes a film star.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s like the voice for women at the moment. Hatty reckons she’s going to be a big thing. That hashtag business. You know that women are suing their bosses now?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s like she’s united all these women with problems. Not just the big take-your-boss-to-court problems. But the little problems that mount up. Being ignored. Overlooked for promotion. Being expected to do stuff that isn’t really their job.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘But what’s the point of having this important message, if when people actually want to hear it, you’re nowhere to be found?’

  Clare was just beginning to look through the brochure that Camberwaddle had passed to her when she heard the sound of running footsteps. Ann burst into her office, glasses on a slant, eyes wide with alarm.

  ‘Come quickly!’ she said. ‘It’s Mr Camberwaddle! He’s collapsed in the street!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes! He had a glass of water in reception, got a couple of paces out of the door and just went! I’ve called an ambulance. They’ll be here in a second, but I think it might be serious!’

  Without really knowing what she’d do when she got there, Clare leapt from her chair and raced down to the reception area just in time to see her million-dollar client being wheeled away by paramedics.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ she said, rushing out of the main entrance. ‘Can I call anyone?’

  ‘Yes,’ he squeaked, lifting up his oxygen mask for a second. ‘Call Dawn. My wife.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Left foot, right foot, spin and jazz hands!’ Dan prompted, as Clare attempted to work her way through the routine for what seemed like the millionth time. ‘Good! Good! That was almost there.’