Perfect on Paper

by Gillian Harvey

  Almost instantly she’d been noticed. Whether people recognised her, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps they just thought she was weird. But she’d definitely begun to see people giving her second glances. One woman had lifted her mobile phone for a snap.

  This, she’d thought doggedly, as she’d tried to avoid eye contact, is what it is to be very, very visible.

  After they’d whipped through the traffic in record time, she paid the extortionate fare – hoping Toby wouldn’t question it when their joint bank statement came in later that month. ‘Well, good luck!’ said the driver, whose name was Gloria and who, she’d informed Clare in great detail, was having trouble with her boyfriend, Clive.

  The taxi had pulled up outside the main entrance, but it was impossible to ignore the cluster of about twenty protesters standing with signs reading ‘Women for Woman’s World’ and ‘Bog off Bailey’ standing nearby. Their attention seemed to be focused on a window, whose half-opened blind revealed someone wearing an orange shirt.

  ‘Come down here and have it out!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Yeah, man up!’ another said, and the group dissolved into laughter.

  Hoping not to be seen, she walked quickly towards the entrance with her head down, but just as she reached the revolving doors she heard a cry of ‘It’s Martha B.!’ and a thunder of footsteps. Luckily, she slid past the security guard on the front door in the nick of time, leaving protesters with their noses pressed to the glass like sperm around an already fertilised egg.

  Sure, the protesters were on her side, but Clare didn’t know how they’d react if she told them she was here to be interviewed by the enemy.

  This is the test, she told herself as she spoke to the girl on the front desk and a runner met her to take her to the right place. This was when she’d really know whether her disguise held up.

  When she was shown into a small studio, with two chairs facing each other flagged by screens emblazoned with ‘Woman’s World’, she felt her stomach rumble in protest. How could Toby not recognise her if she was sitting so close to him? Her voice, her mannerisms, the small part of her face that was visible, albeit covered in make-up?

  The cameraman strode over, his hand extended. ‘Neil Down,’ he said, shaking her hand profusely. ‘Great to meet you.’

  ‘Do you know where Tob … where Mr Bailey is?’

  ‘I think he’s on his way. Just setting up.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And this is George, he’ll be doing a piece to camera just before you have your … your chat with Toby,’ Neil added.

  ‘Hi, George.’ This time she remembered to use her slightly altered ‘Martha B.’ voice – a little lower, with what she hoped was a slight northern accent.

  Neil looked at her for a moment, clearly clocking the change in pitch, then carried on adjusting his camera.

  George, who looked to be about eighteen, shook her hand. ‘Big fan,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then the door opened and suddenly Toby – wearing an astonishing orange shirt – strode into the room, looking more confident than she’d ever seen him.

  ‘Good afternoon, all!’ he said, in a rather loud voice. Clare noticed he had a couple of red patches on his neck. Despite his manner, her husband was nervous.

  Afterwards, on her way back to the public toilets in which the transformation from Clare to Martha had to be reversed, she reflected on how it had gone.

  Was it good, she wondered, that Toby had seemed not to recognise her at all? In fact, still emphasised the fact that his wife was a ‘big fan’ and asked for her autograph. ‘Dear Clare,’ she’d written. ‘Hope to meet you one day, Martha B.’

  ‘So, what’s your message to women out there?’ Toby had asked, once the cameras had started rolling.

  ‘The message isn’t so much for women,’ Martha B. had replied. ‘The message is for all of us – how we need to see each other more; understand and recognise the part we all play in each other’s lives. And that includes women – many of whom feel overlooked even by the people who ought to champion them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And we’re all guilty of that … We can all become preoccupied with our personal journey and forget to see others.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘yes, I see that. Can I ask you something, Martha?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll know that there have been protests about my … my role on this show. But having met me – seen how it all works – would you say that I’m suited to this position?’

  It was quite an ask. On the one hand, she had wanted to say yes. But thinking of Hatty – more experienced, more suited to the job – had made it difficult.

  ‘Well,’ she’d replied carefully. ‘On the face of it there’s no reason why a man can’t perform this role, provided he is prepared to listen and come to understand the issues that women face, in the workplace, in the home and beyond.’

  Toby had visibly relaxed at her words and she’d realised how much importance he must have placed on this weird interview.

  ‘But,’ she’d said, watching him pale, ‘I do wonder whether it would be better to have female input too.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, wouldn’t it be great to have both? A male presenter – like yourself. And maybe … maybe a female host, someone experienced,’ she’d said.

  Overall, it hadn’t been too bad, though, she thought, changing out of the Martha B. tracksuit then having to climb back into the bottoms after dropping her work trousers in a puddle of wee on the toilet floor. They might well cut the last bit, but she’d got her point across. She was all for Toby having his shot at the limelight, but the fact that Hatty – or another woman – would add something more to the show was undeniable.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Clare leaped out of bed and was almost in the shower before she realised it was Saturday and retreated back under the covers. Toby was asleep by her side and she stroked his hair, only to feel the crispy texture of hair gel in his once-soft barnet.

  She was just about to relax back for a bit more of a doze when she suddenly realised the significance of the day. If it was Saturday, that meant the audition shows were on TV tonight. She had to think fast or her cover would be well and truly blown.

  ‘So,’ she said a little later, as Toby sipped the cup of tea she’d brought him in bed. ‘The weekend! I thought we could maybe go out for a meal this evening.’

  ‘What, like a date?’ he said, eyeing her with a mixture of interest and suspicion.

  ‘Well, not really, although that sounds lovely, too,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘I thought all of us – you know, the whole family.’

  ‘On a Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘Do you think the kids will be up for it?’

  Clare pondered for a second. ‘Probably not. But you know, maybe we ought to encourage them to come anyway. It’s been so long since we did anything as a family.’ Plus I’m going to be on national TV and don’t want either of them to see me.

  They didn’t always watch TV on a Saturday night. Sometimes they went out, sometimes had a takeaway. But there was every chance that if she didn’t remove her family from the house someone might just click on the TV to see the auditions show. On which, she’d been reliably informed, there would be a rather big segment on the heart-warming story of a dance troupe who’d found their way to fame with a mother figure known only as Martha B. The gold buzzer would be activated. They would be the main feature of the show. She had to keep her family away from the TV at all costs.

  ‘So, what shall I book? Pizza place?’

  ‘I thought maybe the Rose and Crown? They do a great menu, apparently.’

  ‘OK, done,’ he grinned. ‘It’ll be nice to all be together.’

  He looked so pleased about it that she felt guilty. />
  Predictably, the children were less than thrilled about going out, especially Katie, who had a long-standing Saturday night date arranged around her best friend Tessa’s house (where the pair of them ate chocolate and – as far as Clare could work out – did each other’s make-up). But Clare insisted – she happened to know that Tessa’s family liked to keep a TV in every room, and there was always something on in the background.

  Most likely, on Saturday night, it would be You’ve Got Talent.

  After she’d bribed Katie with the promise of a future sleepover to make up for it, she tackled Alfie, who was in his room playing some sort of shoot-and-kill game with a disembodied voice that sounded American and female.

  ‘What?’ he said, distractedly, when she came in the room. Then, ‘sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, is that your mommy?’ the American voice responded. ‘That is just soo cute!’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Alfie said. ‘What?’ he said again.

  There was a silence when she momentarily forgot why she’d come in the room in the first place. ‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘We’re off out to dinner tonight at the Rose and Crown.’

  ‘Great,’ he said.

  ‘Great?’

  ‘Yeah. Great.’

  ‘So, you’ll come?’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise you meant … me. But yeah,’ he said with a shrug, ‘count me in.’

  ‘Aww, a date with your mommy?’ said the voice again.

  ‘Shut up.’

  It was almost too easy.

  The Rose and Crown was labelled a family friendly pub, due to its generous playpark and beer garden. None of which was very useful to them on this particular evening with its biting wind and tiny prickles of icy rain.

  Inside, the bar was heaving, and by the time they were shown to the small corner table that Clare had booked, she’d already removed two of her outer layers and was debating whether her silver and lace bra would pass as a crop top if things got any warmer.

  She decided to keep things decent, after all, this was a family establishment and as Toby’s wife she was a woman in the (semi) public eye – the last thing she wanted was for someone to tweet a picture of her, leading to tabloid outcry and the discussions on morning TV that – by law – have to occur every time a well-known woman appears in public with a questionable outfit choice.

  Even though they were there with their children, and even though they’d ridden in near silence in the car, it was actually nice to be out with Toby. They’d used to do date nights once in a while; when had they stopped? She reached down and instinctively grabbed Toby’s hand and to her surprise, he gave hers a little affectionate squeeze.

  The big TV in the corner of their annex was showing some sort of football results programme with a bar of scrolling news underneath, and Clare noticed almost instantly that Toby’s eyes were glued to the screen. Which was weird, as he didn’t follow football particularly.

  ‘Toby,’ Clare said, noticing the waitress hovering at his side. ‘I think she’s waiting to take your drinks order.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, smiling at the waitress in such a friendly manner that Clare’s stomach began to knot a little. ‘Just keeping an eye on the news,’ he said. ‘Wondering, well – you know – if there’s been any developments with the … you know, protesters.’

  ‘They’re still there?’

  He shrugged, ‘probably.’

  After they’d ordered their wine and a couple of Cokes, Clare glanced around the table at her family. Toby’s eyes were still intermittently creeping across to the scrolling news. Alfie had his phone on the table. Katie was sitting playing with a small packet of sugar that someone had left. ‘Well,’ Clare said, brightly, ‘this is nice! But put your phone away, Alfie.’

  ‘Just on Twitter,’ he said. ‘Not messaging anyone.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘I’m waiting to see if the new codes have been released.’

  A gaming thing. Clare sighed – she knew if she banned his phone from the table he’d be sneaking off to the loo every five minutes to check. She wondered, briefly, whether her son was an addict. All this obsession with levels and points and when the next gaming codes were out on the net. She’d worry about it later.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But just check it once in a while – and no messaging.’

  Across the table, Alfie gave her a mock salute.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Katie interjected. ‘We’ve usually eaten by now, and we haven’t even ordered.’

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. They all made their food orders then sipped happily for a few seconds.

  ‘Nice wine,’ Clare said, wondering why it was she seemed to have nothing particular to say to her family – the most important people in her life. She glanced up at Toby and was annoyed to find his gaze once more directed to the TV. ‘For God’s sake! Can’t you switch off from work for a minute!’ she snapped.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he replied. ‘It’s not work any more; they’ve switched the channel. And it’s just hard to keep my eyes off the screen with that weird bloke on it.’ He nodded towards the TV and Clare turned to look. On it, there was a man dressed in a long, rather grubby raincoat, standing on a stage with a look of panic in his eyes. ‘Just wondering if he’s about to get himself arrested.’

  She recognised that grubby mac! ‘Mr Flasher,’ she whispered to herself, watching the man as he flung off his raincoat of restraint and did a delicate twirl in the sequinned leotard he was wearing underneath. ‘Oh shit,’ she muttered. Because if Mr Flasher was on TV, that meant the talent show was on TV. In the pub. On the big screen.

  And if they were showing the talent show in the pub, that meant that in about half an hour, she was going to be projected onto the screen – the screen her family seemed unable to avert their eyes from – performing a rap in front of thirteen young backing dancers.

  She realised then that she’d made a terrible mistake. Because she could have controlled the environment back at home. She could have outed the power or insisted on watching something on the other side. At the very least, she’d have been able to distract anyone watching at the pertinent moment.

  Here, she was a sitting duck.

  A duck whose secret rap star identity was about to be exposed.

  To make matters worse, one of the men leaning on the bar walked over to the TV and turned on the subtitles. ‘Can’t hear a feckin’ thing,’ he said to them as he walked back.

  ‘Any chance of flicking back to the news in a bit?’ Toby asked him. ‘Just … well, I’m expecting some news. On the news. You know?’ He winked at the man conspiratorially.

  The man looked at him with a furrowed brow. ‘There’s always news on the news,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s why it’s called the news.’

  ‘I know,’ Toby said, patiently. ‘But tonight, I think there might be some news. You know …’ he winked again. ‘Actual news.’

  ‘Right …’ The man clearly wasn’t a fan of Woman’s World and had no idea what Toby was going on about.

  ‘Could I?’ Toby made to get up, but the man shook his head.

  ‘Sorry mate, boss wants it on – his wife was in the audience apparently.’ He nodded to the bloke behind the bar, who gave him a thumbs up. ‘We can switch over after?’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Toby shook off his disappointment then turned to the family. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I think I rather intimidated him, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, look!’ Clare said brightly, hoping to distract everyone from her imminent TV debut. ‘Our food has arrived!’

  On the screen she saw a man in a bear costume. The subtitles across the bottom of the screen read: ‘I’m sixty-nine you know!’ ‘Audience gasps.’

  ‘Sixty-nine!’ Alfie said. ‘That’s amazing!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Alfie. Sixty-nine is nothing. Grandad’s sixty-nin
e for a start and you don’t see him getting dressed up as a bear and parading himself on TV, do you?’ Toby said.

  ‘He could if he wanted to!’ Alfie replied, defensively, missing the point entirely. He looked at his phone and laughed. ‘Someone’s saying he looks a bit like Keith Lemon,’ he said, delighted. ‘He does, doesn’t he?!’ He clicked on the You’ve Got Talent hashtag. ‘Oh, he’s a grandad to four.’

  ‘Leave the phone,’ Clare said.

  He pushed it slightly away from him. ‘Sorry.’

  Glancing at the screen again, she felt a shudder of recognition.

  ‘So,’ she said, desperately trying to distract their attention from the screen. ‘Would anyone like to try one of my garlic mushrooms?’

  ‘Look at this woman,’ Alfie said. ‘Looks a bit like Aunty Steph, I reckon!’

  ‘That,’ said Toby, ‘is Martha B.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘I interviewed her.’

  ‘I know, Dad,’ said Katie. ‘Even if Alfie’s clueless as usual.’

  Clare turned and was confronted by herself in her full Martha B. garb. She felt her cheeks get hot.

  But nobody seemed to have recognised her. Perhaps she’d dodged a bullet.

  ‘God, big reaction!’ Alfie said, glancing at his phone again. ‘People saying about it being refreshing or something. Weird.’

  ‘Alfie,’ Toby admonished. ‘Your mum said no more phones.’

  This was the moment when he decided to back her up?

  ‘Bloody hell, Macey gave them the golden buzzer!’

  ‘What else does it say?’ Clare said, grabbing the phone for a look.

  Love the ridiculous suit #You’veGotTalent

  Are those all her kids? The slag! #You’veGotTalent

  I agree with her – fed up with being judged for my looks #You’veGotTalent

  Martha to win! #MehToo

  Lovin the Eezee Troupe #MehToo

  As the hashtag gathered pace once more, Clare realised that rather than feeling shocked or alarmed, she actually felt just a little bit proud.