by Frances Pye
Her dressing room was far from the visions of her youth. Then, she had pictured ranks and ranks of exotic flowers, velvet chairs, silk curtains, shaded lights, and elaborate screens. Instead, just like every other one she’d ever been in, it was a dull, uniform space, all cream walls, plastic chairs, and harsh lighting. And, mercifully, showers. Lily pulled off her costume, turned on the water, and stepped into the warm, steady stream. Bliss.
Half an hour later, she was squeaky clean, sitting in front of the room’s wide mirror, wrapped in a toweling robe, brushing out her hair. She could hear the other members of the cast trooping past her door, making jokes with each other, discussing their roles, their lines, the audience’s reaction. This episode was over. Only two more to go.
There was a knock on the door. “Lily? You decent?” Raymond called out.
“Yeah. Come in.” Raymond entered, his round, usually smiling face looking a touch nervous. “What’s up?”
“You haven’t given up smoking again?”
Lily laughed and pointed out the pack of Silk Cut and the lighter lying on the dressing top in front of the mirror. “You’re safe. Spit it out. Charlie and Nick making you do their dirty work again? What is it? Early meeting tomorrow? More new scenes?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Raymond paused. Lily wasn’t going to like this. “You know Steve? The new security guard at the office? Well, he just came to me, didn’t know what to do.” Raymond took a deep breath. “It’s Clive, Lily, sniffing round again.”
“Fuck.” Clive was now a leading investigative journalist with one of the major tabloids. His TV company had gone bankrupt just after he and Lily split up; he’d disappeared for a year, only to come back, reborn as a successful, sleaze-driven reporter. Since then, he’d been responsible for a string of high-profile scoops, from trapping a member of the royal family’s staff into admitting he was selling off official gifts to getting evidence of a top footballer having an affair with his head coach’s new, young wife.
“What the hell was it this time?”
“Just the usual to begin with. You know, what are you like to work for? How do you behave in the office? Have you tried to fuck Steve?”
“Bastard…Hold on. You said to begin with? What else did he try?”
Raymond hesitated. But he had to tell her. “He wanted Steve to tap your phone. Newspaper would pay, lots, apparently.”
“Shit.”
When Clive had started trying to dig up dirt on her, Lily had decided that the best thing to do was ignore him. He was like a wasp. If she flapped her arms around, she’d get stung. But if she stayed still, did nothing, he’d get bored and fly off home. And so she’d closed her eyes to his activities. Never called, never complained, never tried to persuade him to stop his campaign against her. But he was still buzzing about.
He’d already come up with two unpleasant stories about her. One of her disappointed ex-lovers had been angry enough to talk to him and he’d done a piece on how hard-hearted and selfish she was, gobbling men up and spitting them out as she chose. A disgruntled director who’d been fired from the first series of We Can Work It Out—by the producers, not by Lily, but that had made no difference—had given him stuff about how difficult she was to work with. Apparently, he’d called her a vicious prima donna with all the social skills of Saddam Hussein, but Lily suspected that that had been Clive putting words in the man’s mouth. It sounded like the kind of snide insult Lily’s ex-husband had always specialized in.
Now it seemed those stories hadn’t been enough for Clive. He wanted more. More embarrassing dirt, more titillating gossip. It was time for Lily to do something else. To use the flyswatter. The bastard had taken things too far.
Lily looked up at Raymond and forced a smile. “Thanks, Ray. I’ll deal with it.”
“Are you okay?” Raymond asked. Lily’s face looked grim despite the smile.
“Sure. I’m fine. But I’ve got to do something about that shit I married.” Raymond hesitated, concerned. “Go on. I’m only going to talk to him, not poison him. And tell Steve not to worry. He did the right thing.”
“Thanks, Lily. He’ll appreciate that.” Raymond walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Lily picked up her new, tiny, silvery mobile phone. She hadn’t spoken to Clive since they’d taken Jack and Bella to the airport to get their plane to Australia a couple of months before. Normally, Lily spent as little time with her ex-husband as possible, just enough to hand over or pick up the twins. But that day had been different; their kids had been going traveling on their own for the first time. And it seemed right that they should both see them off. Then, on the way back into London, Clive had suggested they go for a drink. And Lily, missing Jack and Bella already, hating the idea of months and months without any more contact than the occasional phone call, and not looking forward to going home to a now-empty and all too quiet house, had agreed.
It had been a mistake. Over a bottle of wine in an obscure Islington bar, after she’d shed a few tears over the twins’ departure, Clive had grabbed her and kissed her. All the rage and the misery she’d felt when she’d first found out about him and Beatrice resurfaced. Sickened, she’d pushed him away as hard as she could and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, back and forth, back and forth, in a gesture of total disgust. He’d stood up, spat on the table in front of her, then turned and stomped out.
His first, failed attempt to win over one of her colleagues had occurred ten days after that. Followed by others. Then there had been the two stories. Clive was out for revenge. And he wasn’t giving up. Lily punched a number into her phone. Ignoring him hadn’t worked, maybe talking would.
CLIVE WAS sitting at a desk in a large, chaotic, open-plan office, surrounded by the hum of other people on the phone, the whir of computers, the clack of keyboards. Still handsome, his full head of hair only just turning gray at the temples, his smile as charming as ever, there was no sign on his lightly tanned, unlined face of the bitterness that was eating away at him.
He’d been more successful as a tabloid journalist than he could ever have imagined. After a year spent grubbing about at the bottom of the TV market, he’d gotten himself a job as a reporter and through some hard work, a bit of luck, and a previously unrecognized natural aptitude for poking around in other people’s private lives, he’d risen right to the top. He was highly paid, esteemed by his peers, wanted by every editor on Fleet Street. But he wasn’t happy.
And the way he saw it, there was only one person to blame.
Lily.
Over the years, unable to face the fact that he had failed in television because of his own mistakes and shortcomings, he had persuaded himself that his troubles had all started when his ex-wife threw him out. He’d gone bankrupt, lost his company, lost his lover—Beatrice had dumped him for someone who could help her in her continued pursuit of success—and ended up an exile from the world he had once thought to rule, because of her. Lily’s recent achievements had only made his failure that much harder to bear.
Then, his relationship with the twins had never been the same since the split up. He hadn’t ever been the most attentive of fathers, only rarely turning up at carol concerts and school plays, choosing work over attending birthday parties, but in his own selfish way he loved Jack and Bella and resented finding himself on the outside of their lives. He saw them when he could, took them out for the day and even occasionally away for the weekend, but he was second choice. And he blamed his ex-wife for that also.
Then Lily had refused him. No, not just refused. She’d snubbed him. When all he’d been doing was giving her a simple little kiss for old time’s sake. Ignoring the hurt she’d caused him, the harm she’d done. And she’d thrown it back in his face. Wiping herself clean of his touch as if he were a disgusting piece of filth just crawled out of the sewers.
It had been one crime too many. He wanted revenge. And now that Lily was a celebrity, he had a surefire way to get it. His two recent stories on her had been a
start. They’d gotten several people talking for a few days, but they were too soon forgotten, just another batch of tomorrow’s cat litter. Clive longed to humiliate Lily, to check that growing reputation of hers, turn the public off their latest celebrity. And make her feel the misery and embarrassment of failure and rejection, just as he had.
The phone on his desk rang. He reached out to pick it up while continuing to type into his computer. “Clive Morris.”
“Hello, you shit.”
“The famous Lily James.” A broad grin split Clive’s face. Some response at last. “What can I do for you?”
“You have to ask?”
“It’s rare someone of your elevated status calls me. It must be important.”
“Yeah, Clive, it’s important.” Her ex-husband’s sardonic, biting tone got up her nose but Lily held back the torrent of abuse she longed to hurl at him. “You can leave my employees alone,” she said, emphasizing each word separately.
“And why should I do that?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be enough for me to ask you nicely?”
“Shouldn’t think so. You could try though.”
“Haven’t you had enough of this yet, Clive?”
“No, Lilibet. You see, it’s such fun.” Clive’s old, secret nickname for her. Once it had amused her and made her feel loved; now it just irritated her. But she wasn’t going to say anything. If Clive knew how much the name annoyed her, he’d only use it all the more.
“What about the kids? What’ll they think?”
“They’re away.”
“But they’ll be back. They’ll find out, they’ll read what you’ve written.”
“Maybe. But they’re eighteen. They’re grown-ups. They’ll cope.”
Lily gritted her teeth. She was not going to lose it. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened in the restaurant.”
“Sorry, Lilibet? You, sorry?” Clive sneered.
God, she was stupid. Expecting him to accept her apology without sniggering. But she was sorry she’d rejected him so harshly. “Yes, I am.”
“And what is it you’re sorry about? Stealing my kids? Fucking up my life? Or just treating me like pond scum?”
Lily’s free hand clenched into a fist. Same old Clive. How could he accuse her of stealing the twins when for years she’d struggled to persuade them to see him at all? But there was no point in arguing with him. There never had been. “If I hear of you trying to talk to any more of my colleagues about me, I’ll get my lawyers on to you so fast you’ll think you’re watching the Concorde.” There. She’d been firm but not hysterical.
“Aren’t you grand. Plural ‘lawyers.’ Most people just have one.”
“I mean it, Clive. Keep away from me.”
“Freedom of the press, my dear. Freedom of the press.”
“Bastard. That doesn’t include bribing people to bug phones.”
“You’re a star now. It goes with the territory.”
“That’s crap. What about the Press Complaints Commission?”
“Oh, no, please no. Not the Press Complaints Commission. Anything but that. I’m really scared now.”
The conversation brought back bitter memories of hundreds of others over the years, all of them featuring Clive at his nonchalant, cynical, sarcastic worst. Lily had tried but she could hold herself back no longer. “All right. Write what the fuck you like. Do I care? Tell the world I’m giving birth to a vampire baby, why don’t you. Who believes that crap anyway?”
“Can I quote you on that?” Clive mocked.
Lily spluttered on the other end of the line. There weren’t enough swear words in all the languages in all the world for her to describe just exactly what she thought of her ex-husband.
“Good-bye, Lilibet. Nice to talk to you.” Clive smiled with satisfaction and replaced the phone in its cradle.
Lily looked at her mobile, at the crystal display asking her if she wanted to call the last number again. “Never,” she shouted at the phone. All too often in recent years, no matter what she decided at the beginning of a conversation, no matter how determined she was not to lose her temper, Clive’s annoying, whining voice ended up driving her mad. Hard to believe that she’d found his wisecracks amusing when they’d first been together.
Lily took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She’d been right all along. It was a waste of time talking to Clive. Or shouting at him. If he was determined to pursue her, pursue her he would. Thank God no one who knew her well would speak to him. Best she just got on with her life and paid no attention to whatever he was doing. And made a note to have the office regularly swept for bugs.
ten
Still in her black bus driver’s uniform, Terry sat outside the headmaster’s office, waiting. She’d been on early shift that day and when she’d gotten home around two P.M., there had been a message on her machine. Immediately, she had started to worry; it was rare for anyone to ring during the day. All her friends knew she was at work. It was either the kind of official call—bank or insurance company or the like—that she hated or something had happened at school. Scared of what she was about to hear, Terry pressed the button.
“Mrs. McKellar. It’s Mr. Wallace’s office at Newington High School. Could you call us as soon as you get this message?”
Her mind conjuring up hideous images of death and disaster, Terry grabbed the phone and quickly dialed the school. Busy. Why the hell couldn’t that place get more lines? She pressed redial, again and again, faster and faster, until she got through. The school secretary’s deep voice answered.
“It’s Terry McKellar. You called me. What’s happened? Is Paul okay?”
“Calm down, Mrs. McKellar. Your son is fine. But there has been an…incident. Mr. Wallace needs to see you as soon as possible. Can you come in this afternoon?”
Terry had agreed to go to the school immediately. She’d jumped on her bike and pedaled the mile or so to Newington High, only to sit for half an hour waiting for Wallace to see her, that peculiarly schoolish smell of cheap detergent, sweat, and stale food taking her back to her own nightmare days as a student, ruled by nuns with rods of bamboo.
Finally, after worrying her well-bitten nails to the quick, she was called in. Mr. Wallace was in his fifties, a cadaverous-looking man, thin, long-faced, his eyes deep-set. Terry looked at his grim expression and her nerves got worse.
“Mrs. McKellar? Sorry to keep you waiting. Do sit down.”
He didn’t look sorry, but Terry was too worried to take much notice. “What is it? What’s he done?” she asked, trying to keep calm.
“Your son was caught with a girl, Mrs. McKellar.”
“With a girl?” Terry was confused. “Doing what?”
“I don’t think I need to say anymore.”
“Yes, you do. What was he doing?”
Wallace paused, reluctant to speak. Finally, he barked out, “Having sex. In the boiler room.”
“Oh. Is that all.” After the phone call, on her way in to the school, Terry had imagined all kinds of things. Bullying. Stealing. Drugs. A few months ago, she’d never have thought of any of those things in relation to Paul, but she wasn’t sure how well she knew her son anymore. And compared to selling dope, a quick grope in the boiler room didn’t sound so bad.
“This is not something we can dismiss. He is far too young to be thinking of things like that.”
“I was relieved it wasn’t something worse.”
“It is quite bad enough. Not the behavior we expect of boys in this school.”
“No. Course not. Who was the girl?”
“I don’t see that as at all germane to the issue.”
“It might be. If she was older, or…”
“She was in his class.”
“Oh.”
“This is a serious matter. Paul is losing his way. His grades are slipping and his teachers”—the headmaster pointed to a file open on the desk in front of him—“are concerned.”
“Yes, I know. I know. But I don’t
know what to do. I’ve lost…I can’t get through to him. I’ve been hoping it’s just a bad patch. That he’ll come out of it. But he hasn’t.”
“If you’d like my advice…?”
“Of course.” Terry wasn’t sure that she did want Wallace’s advice—his condescending, pompous attitude had always annoyed her—but it would have been rude to refuse.
“I believe you’re a single parent.”
“Yes.” Terry sounded wary. “And?”
“Well, Paul’s behavior is typical of a teenager without a man in the house. Boys of fifteen do need their fathers round.”
“That’s cra…not true.”
“Mrs. McKellar, it’s one thing when they’re children, maybe just a mother can be adequate then, but once they reach puberty, they need someone of their own gender to show them the ropes, so to speak. To help them understand what is happening to them. Be a role model. An inspiration.”
“An inspiration?” Terry couldn’t help a small smile ghosting over her face. The idea of Finn as a role model. Although having sex in the boiler room at school was certainly the kind of thing he would’ve done.
“Yes. If not the boy’s father, a family member. An uncle. A grandfather.”
“There’s no one like that.”
“Then a man of the cloth, perhaps.”
“No way,” Terry snapped. She’d never liked authority figures at the best of times. Particularly “men of the cloth.”
“If I may say so, I do have more experience with adolescent boys, and they invariably run wild without the proper influences.”
Terry supposed Wallace was trying his best, but did he have to be so self-righteous? She knew she should listen to him, but when he started talking about the benefits of joining the Boy Scouts, she decided she’d had enough.
“The Boy Scouts. That’s very interesting. I’ll certainly think about it,” she said as soon as the headmaster paused for breath. She stood up and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wallace.”
Wallace looked at her disapprovingly. His well-chosen, wise words had fallen on stony soil. “Paul is suspended until the end of the week. Please take him home with you now. Good day, Mrs. McKellar.”