News Where You Are

by Catherine O'Flynn

  ‘Well, I guess a wedding dress isn’t that practical for day-to-day life.’

  Michelle didn’t laugh. ‘Course not, Neil, but I mean we can still take care of ourselves, can’t we? Have some pride in our appearance. You work in business, don’t you, Neil?’

  Neil was wrong-footed. ‘Erm … that’s right, I’m a sales manager for a leading manufacturer of doors.’

  ‘Right, well, I know about working in sales, and I know there’s a lot of schmoozing with clients, wining and dining. You and Carol must be out a lot. Are you proud of the way she looks when you go out on these nights? In front of these clients? Do you think she’s presenting a good image?’

  ‘I think she always looks very nice.’

  ‘Very nice, Neil? In that sequinned kaftan I found in her wardrobe? Come on. You must be embarrassed.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t really notice what she wears. I’m not that into fashion.’

  ‘Well, that’s one thing you have in common, my love. But I mean come on, Neil. What about on a more intimate level? Don’t you ever look at Carol and wonder where the woman you married went? When she’s standing there in the bedroom in those big grey pants, can you honestly say you feel in the least bit romantic?’

  Neil was visibly uncomfortable now. ‘The way she looks just isn’t that important to me. I love her.’

  ‘I don’t think you see her at all, Neil. I think you look straight through her. She’s become invisible to you. No longer a woman. I think you take her for granted. Well, she is a woman, Neil! And you need to value her more!’ Neil was at a loss for words. ‘Don’t you wish she loved herself more? Don’t you wish she had a higher opinion of herself?’

  ‘I know she has very low self-esteem. She’s put on weight since we married and it doesn’t bother me at all, but I know she gets quite depressed about it. She can’t fit into the kinds of clothes she used to wear and that makes her feel bad. When I first met her, I thought she was a stunner, I still do, but she thinks that when people look at her all they see is an overweight, unattractive woman. I tell her she should be more confident. I tell her that I love her and that’s she’s beautiful. Of course I wish that she had more pride in herself. I want her to have a high opinion of herself.’

  ‘And do you see, Neil, that that high opinion, that good self-image starts with the outside? How can she feel good about herself when she’s wearing a sack? We need to throw the sacks in the bin – yeah? Throw them in the bin! Do you see that?’

  He nodded uncertainly.

  ‘So what do we say about the big baggy jumpers?’

  It took a moment for Neil to work it out. ‘Throw them in the bin?’

  ‘And what else?’

  Neil tried to remember. ‘Erm … the sequinned kaftan and the grey pants – throw them in the bin!’

  The scene now changed to a white studio. Michelle sat next to Carol on the couch.

  ‘Now, Carol, Neil had something he wanted to tell you, but finds it difficult to say to your face.’

  Carol frowned as Michelle pressed a remote control and they watched Neil saying: ‘When I first met her I thought she was a stunner.’ Carol rolled her eyes. Neil’s face filled the screen. ‘She’s put on weight over the years.’ Carol tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘She can’t fit into the kinds of clothes she used to wear.’ Now on screen was some footage of Carol in the supermarket wheeling a trolley along an aisle with Neil’s voice-over: ‘People look at her and all they see is an overweight, unattractive woman.’ The camera cut back to Carol, tears rolling down her face as she watched her husband say: ‘Of course I wish that she had more pride in herself.’

  Michelle put her arm round Carol. ‘It’s okay, love. It’s hard for men to say what they mean sometimes. They don’t like to hurt our feelings. When sometimes what we really need is Tough Love.’

  The screen filled with the Tough Love logo and cut to adverts.

  Frank turned to Andrea. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Andrea looked up from her book. ‘I told you.’

  ‘It’s quite harsh, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I think they’ve imported tactics from Mao’s cultural revolution. She’s still in the midst of her re-education. She’ll be a model citizen by the end of it.’

  ‘Michelle’s quite scary on it, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, now maybe you’ll appreciate why I didn’t fancy meeting her last week. She’s turned into the devil.’ Andrea looked anxiously to check Mo wasn’t listening, but saw that she was still glued to the television. ‘We should never have let Mo watch this. All she’s learning is how to hate herself. It’s horrible.’

  Frank looked at Mo. ‘Maybe I could get Michelle to talk to her. Tell her it’s just a role. Tell her it’s all nonsense.’

  Andrea looked unconvinced. ‘Well, good luck with that. I’m not sure Michelle sees it that way.’ They were silent for a few moments, both watching Mo, until Frank spoke again.

  ‘I keep thinking about what she said about Phil.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Michelle.’

  ‘What? The moodiness?’

  ‘It was more than moodiness. It just all sounded really strange. There was the money missing from the bank account, Michelle told me there was a cash withdrawal of £20,000. And the mysterious hit and run …’

  ‘It wasn’t particularly mysterious, was it? It was a hit and run – the driver doesn’t stick around and offer an explanation or apology.’

  Frank ignored the interruption. ‘… and the note from Michael Church.’

  ‘What’s the note got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, it was strange, wasn’t it. What was he saying Phil was wrong about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a disagreement about an episode of Terry and June. It might seem strange, but we don’t know the context – it was probably something completely banal.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s a bit odd, and turning up when it did … It says, “I won’t be there next week.” They must have arranged to meet around the time of Phil’s death.’

  Andrea tried to keep a straight face. ‘Hmm. Very mysterious.’

  Frank looked at her. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  Andrea was by now laughing. ‘Wow, Frank, are we Hart to Hart? Let’s get our safari suits and go and track down some clues!’

  Frank laughed, but was silenced by Mo clearing her throat loudly and saying: ‘It’s quite hard to hear the television.’

  ‘Sorry, Mo.’

  Frank was silent for a while before turning to Andrea and speaking quietly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You told me when I started looking into Michael Church’s life not to go weird. Do I sound like a nutter?’

  ‘It just all sounds a bit conspiracy theory. I’m worried you’re going to start getting interested in UFOs.’

  ‘Or writing in to local television.’

  ‘Watching local television even.’

  Frank threw a cushion at Andrea. They sat and watched the end of Tough Love with Mo. Michelle delivered a piece to camera.

  ‘Sometimes we have to be honest. It’s hard but it’s worth it. We look at the person beside us and we can see that they’ve lost their way, they’ve let themselves go. We say nothing. Like Neil we use love as an excuse. But love alone isn’t enough. Is it, sweetheart?’ The camera pulled out to reveal Carol standing next to Michelle shaking her head.

  Michelle smiled. ‘What is it we really need, Carol?’

  ‘Tough love.’

  They both laughed and the end title sequence began.

  40

  Henry had him in the corner again. ‘ “Points make prizes!” ’

  Frank shook his head.

  ‘ “Cheap as chips!” ’

  ‘What? Henry! No, that’s not me.’

  Henry shrugged with indifference before the finger shot up again. ‘ “Play the game or take the train!” ’

  ‘Is that a catchphrase?’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, quite definitely. Somebody said it. Was it you?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Ooh I know I’ve seen you on something. I’m wracking my brains. Wracking them. Wrrrrrrrrrrrrrracking them.’

  Henry was getting so much pleasure in repeating the word that Frank thought he might make a getaway, but Henry focused on him again. ‘Oh, all right, then! Give me a clue. Come on. Just what is it you say?’

  ‘Hmm. I sometimes say, “Good night.” Or maybe, “Have a good night.” Or other times, “Take care.” ’

  Henry stared at Frank, the humour draining from his face. ‘ “Good night”?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t really have a catchphrase.’

  Henry’s eyes searched Frank’s face as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Well, what’s the bloody use of you?’ he said in disgust as he walked back to his armchair in the window.

  Frank considered the question and really couldn’t think of a satisfactory answer.

  He left the residents’ lounge and walked in the direction of his mother’s room. As he passed the dining room, he saw Irene drinking a cup of tea. She smiled and waved when she saw him.

  ‘Hello, Frank, visiting your mother, are you?’

  ‘Yes, well, partly. I haven’t actually made it to her room yet. I got trapped in the residents’ lounge by Henry.’

  Irene looked blank. ‘I don’t think I’ve met a Henry. Is he a fan of yours?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Frank hesitated. He knew he should let it go, but found himself reaching into his pocket for the photo.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to see you too. There’s something I should have asked you last time, but I just didn’t think. Can I show you something?’

  He waited while some complicated business with glasses was completed. Irene eventually found the right combination and, wearing one pair whilst holding the other a few inches from the photo, she peered at the image.

  ‘My God, look at Phil – he’s just a boy. He wasn’t much older than that when we met. Look at that smile! That was the first thing I noticed about him. When Phil smiled at you, everything was all right. That’s how he got away with murder.’ Her smile faded. ‘Photos are cruel things. It’s terrible to see what’s happened to us. I can’t look at mine any more. They’re too sad.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Frank. ‘What about the other boy? Do you recognize him?’

  Irene angled the glasses again and extended her neck backwards as if avoiding an unpleasant smell. ‘Oh … it’s Mikey, isn’t it?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Michael Church.’

  ‘That’s right, we always called him Mikey. I’ve often wondered what happened to him. I asked Phil about him a few times but they’d lost contact.’

  ‘Do you remember much about him?’

  ‘A fair bit. He was Phil’s oldest friend. They were friends from when they were lads. Well, you can see that from the photo. He was best man at our wedding. I think it was a bit of an ordeal for him, having to make a speech. He was a shy lad.’

  ‘Did you see him much?’

  ‘A fair bit in the early years. He’d often come round to call for Phil. They’d go for a drink or a game of cards. They did their National Service together and I wasn’t really interested in listening to their stories. Phil was always going on about Mikey being a good shot – what is it? A marksman? I don’t know – but apparently Mikey was really something with a gun and Phil thought that was marvellous. Poor Mikey always looked embarrassed when he’d start going on about it.’ She looked at the photo again. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. He was found dead recently. I heard about it and half remembered meeting him one time with Phil. I thought I’d see if I could trace any family. He died alone.’

  ‘Oh, poor Mikey. He was a lovely boy.’ She stopped for a moment to think. ‘I know his mother lived up near town, but she’d be long gone by now, of course. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters. I think Phil and he were like brothers when they were young.’ She put the photo down and looked towards the window.

  ‘I liked Mikey. He was nothing like Phil. He was a quiet lad, a bit of a dreamer. Married his childhood sweetheart. He’d stand by quietly while Phil rattled off his usual nonsense. I don’t know how they ever drifted apart, really – I mean Phil thought the world of him. But then Phil could be careless; he moved around and he didn’t make the effort to keep in touch and I could imagine Mikey as the type who wouldn’t want to bother Phil when he got more famous.’ She paused. ‘Phil was all chat and smiles, but there wasn’t much else underneath – I found that out for myself. This lad was quiet, but I think underneath he had something Phil never had.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was just something there, some substance. He seemed solid somehow.’

  Irene looked up at the ceiling, trying to think. ‘There were far worse men to be married to than Phil, I know that, and I know he was your friend, but he was a weak man and he knew it, as he was drawn to people who weren’t. I think that’s what he saw in me, some strength he didn’t have, and I think it’s what he saw in Mikey. He never told me much about their past, but he did say that Mikey was bullied at school because his dad had been German – he’d done a runner years before, but of course everyone knew. Phil said Mikey would get a beating from the other lads most days, but he’d always fight back. I asked Phil what he used to do while his mate was getting beaten and to give him his due he was at least honest: he said he used to hide. I suppose it’s to his credit that he was the only one who was friendly with Mikey. He said he’d try and make Mikey laugh on the way home. He’d pretend to be a commentator and give his analysis of the fight, or he’d do impressions of the bullies and Mikey would laugh. Phil said he loved the sound of Mikey laughing. I suppose that was what Mikey admired about Phil, his gift of the gab, his ability to make him laugh, his charm. Everyone admired that about Phil and it made him think that that was all you needed in life, a nice surface.’ She peered at Frank through her glasses. ‘You’re not like that, are you?’

  Frank smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t think too much of my surface. I wouldn’t wear jumpers like this if I did.’

  Irene laughed. ‘It does look like it’s seen better days – just like me.’ She looked again at the photo and her face changed. ‘Poor Phil. He was nice enough in his own way, but I’m glad I found a real person to marry in the end.’

  41

  Phil

  February 2009

  As the video clip ends, the doors at the back of the set open to reveal the two guests waiting in a cloud of dry ice waving at the audience. Phil greets them warmly and guides them down to the front of the stage. He has his arm clamped tightly round the waist of the member of the public, keeping her steady and walking in the right direction. With the celebrity his touch is lighter, just a guiding palm. The audience claps and whoops. He looks out into the roaring blackness and is able to make out a few banners being waved; some audience members are standing to applaud. This pair are the favourites to win. As he smiles into camera one, he has a flash of pure blind panic: he can’t remember the guests’ names, he can’t remember his own name, he can’t remember what show this is. It’s gone in less than a second. He’s back in control. The guests are Jane and Toby. He is Phil Smethway. It’s Saturday night and the show is Two Can Play That Game. Eleven million people are watching.

  Through Jane’s chiffon blouse he feels tiny subcutaneous vibrations and spasms of terror and excitement. He’s often thought how handling civilians is like handling horses. Easily spooked, quivering and blinking, they need to be spoken to reassuringly. She’s generating enough heat to power the studio. He gets the two of them to their marker.

  ‘Now then, you two. That was quite an interesting little film we just watched!’ The audience whoop. ‘What on earth were you doing, Toby? Tuna and bacon? What kind of a sandwich is t
hat? Were you trying to put poor Jane here out of business?’

  Toby looks rueful and shakes his head. The audience laughs wildly. ‘I was trying to innovate.’

  Phil pulls a sickly-looking face for the crowd. ‘Innovate? You’ll make ’em regurgitate, more like.’ The audience groans and laughs. Phil shrugs with mock innocence. ‘No, but seriously. Toby. Jane. Thank you for being such wonderful sports. Haven’t they been wonderful, ladies and gentlemen?’ Rapturous applause. ‘How would you sum up your week doing Jane’s job, Toby?’

  Toby’s face is serious now. ‘All joking aside, Phil, I have a hell of a lot of respect for this woman here.’ The applause starts again. ‘This woman here,’ he struggles to be heard over the sound of the crowd, ‘is quite simply a marvel!’ The audience goes wild and he waits for them to quieten down. ‘I had no idea how challenging running your own sandwich shop could be. You know, Phil, you and I both work in TV, and I’m sure we both sometimes like to think we know stress, but, take it from me, you haven’t seen stress till you’ve got a queue of twenty workmen with big appetites all making demands.’

  Phil doesn’t have to say anything; he just cocks an eyebrow at the audience and generates a chorus of high-pitched squeals of delight.

  Toby carries on talking about sandwiches and Phil examines the side of Toby’s face. He admires the quality of the skin and wonders what products he uses. The colour is perfect. Phil thinks it’s Californian Fall. It makes his own Caribbean Caramel look cheap and overdone. Toby’s had some good work done on his brows too. Phil remembers seeing him for the first time a few years ago on some kids’ programme. He was a good-looking lad, but he’s worked hard since then, or someone’s worked hard on him. Now he’s fully formed. His hair is spectacular. Phil counts at least four different low-light tones in there – a really beautiful job.

  He turns now to Jane. ‘Well then, missus. What about you, eh? One minute you’re at the wholesalers stocking up on coleslaw, next you’re the quiz mistress of Clue Sniffers! Now, what did I tell you before you went off and did the job swap? What did I expressly tell you?’