Never Greener

by Ruth Jones

  ‘And what about him? What d’you think he was feeling at the time?’ The therapist was softly spoken, kind.

  Kate took a deep breath. ‘Well, to be honest, most of the time I think he was feeling …’ she hesitated and the therapist nodded, willing her to speak, ‘… my arse.’ And she burst out laughing, covering her face in her hands.

  The director and the TV crew were used to this from Kate. The actor playing the therapist looked bemused. The camera guys shared a smile.

  ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t resist. It’s this script! The lines are just so – y’know, crap sometimes …’

  ‘Yes, thanks, really helpful that.’ The director wasn’t impressed. They were already running over time.

  Kate rolled her eyes. Christ, what was wrong with people? It was only a bit of a laugh. ‘For God’s sake, I said I was sorry!’

  ‘OK everyone, we’ll pick this up again on Friday. Hopefully by then Ms Andrews will have pulled herself together. That’s a wrap.’

  Like a scolded child, Kate headed off to her trailer, shouting goodnight to various crew members. Betsy, her make-up artist, called out to her, ‘You wanna get your slap off, sweetheart?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it at home.’

  ‘Your loss,’ Betsy joked. ‘I’d’ve done you a lovely head massage!’

  ‘Next time, babe! Love you!’

  And she climbed up the metal steps of the Winnebago, her smile dropping as she shut the door behind her. She started changing out of her character’s clothes into her Armani jeans.

  The wall lights were on and the electric fire. Something she held dear about being in her trailer when it was dark and cold outside. Her own little sanctuary. She loved night shoots when there were hours of hanging around. She’d climb into her little trailer bed and pretend she was eight again, all cosied up and safe. She pulled on her cashmere V-neck and caught her reflection staring back from the mirror on the laminated wall. She looked her age today. The dark circles were pushing their way through the matt concealer under her eyes. She needed another vitamin B shot from that doctor in Harley Street. Couldn’t afford to get run down with another eight weeks’ filming to do. And she really must give up smoking. She picked up her packet of Marlboro Lights, lit one and inhaled defiantly at the sign by the fridge – Strictly no smoking inside this trailer. They all knew she smoked in there, but no one dared say a word.

  A timid knock on the trailer door.

  ‘Don’t come in!’

  ‘Sorry, Kate, just to say your car’s ready when you are.’ It was Becky, one of the runners, a sweet and lovely girl whose kindness never ceased to amaze.

  ‘OK, thanks, Becs. Be there now.’

  Kate took four more rapid puffs on her cigarette, squeezing out every last drop of nicotine, before running the stub under the tap and throwing it in the bin.

  She shut her eyes for a few seconds and sighed. The blackness was heading her way. That godawful, disempowering gloom that crept up from time to time and engulfed her. She could feel it, deep in the pit of her stomach – an anxiety, a fear of the unknown, an irrational sense of impending sorrow. She had to banish it before it sank its claws into her again.

  She looked at her reflection, determined, gritted her teeth and said, ‘Come on. Get. A. Grip.’ Then she painted on the well-known Kate Andrews smile and opened the trailer door.

  Dougie, her driver, was waiting by his black Mercedes, drinking coffee from his ubiquitous Thermos mug. He shouted across to her, ‘Got anything you want carrying, sweetcheeks?’

  ‘Only my sorry ass!’

  ‘Can be arranged.’

  ‘Oh you old smoothie, Doug.’

  And Dougie laughed, slightly too loudly. Sometimes the film-set banter was exhausting. Always having to keep up this pretence of ‘all mates together’, having to be constantly upbeat, constantly cracking jokes, constantly being a ‘really good sport’. She imagined Dougie telling his wife, or the other drivers, She’s a little diamond, that Kate Andrews. Won’t hear a word said against her. Down-to-earth, heart of gold, wicked sense of humour … Kate knew how important it was to stay in Dougie’s good books. She never knew when she’d need to call in a favour.

  Kate dug deep and went into overtly jolly mode. ‘Come along then, Douglas! Take me home and don’t spare the horses!’

  Forty minutes later, Kate was fast asleep in the back of the car. She always slept on her way home. Dougie knew the routine: ten minutes before arriving at her house, he would wake her so she could have a sneaky ciggie out the window.

  ‘Kate …’ he whispered. He didn’t want to alarm her. ‘Not far now.’

  ‘Hmmmnn.’

  She stretched and yawned, waiting for Dougie to say the inevitable, ‘Careful – you’ll start catching flies you stay like that too long!’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter past, treacle.’

  She reached into her bag for her fags, took one out and lit it, rapidly winding down the window to blow out the smoke and relishing the comforting blast of cool air on her face. The Chiswick traffic was slow. She adored this time of evening, passing houses when it was dark: people with their curtains open and their lights on unwittingly presenting private shows for passers-by who peeked anonymously into their lives.

  ‘I’m sorry for smoking in your car, Doug, it’s really selfish of me.’

  He was thrown by her uncharacteristic humility. ‘That’s alright, darlin’. What the eye don’t see, eh?’

  The traffic drew to a halt again. Kate looked inside the front room of a ground-floor flat. A woman sat on her own, an empty dinner plate in front of her, flicking channels on her remote. She gave up, threw the remote across the room and buried her head in her hands. In the house next door a couple were rowing – the woman raised her arms, gesturing in defiance, the man just kept shaking his head. He appeared to be trying to speak, but she was talking over him. The car moved slowly on. Three houses down, two women were laughing at something one of them was reading from a letter, wiping their eyes with joy. The joy turned to a hug. The hug turned to a kiss.

  ‘Are you happy, Doug?’

  ‘Oh y’know me, Miss! Can’t complain!’

  Can’t complain, mustn’t grumble, could be worse – all the trite expressions people relentlessly churn out, making light of all that pain, giving away not the slightest hint that they’re feeling demolished inside. Unless of course they weren’t. Maybe she was alone in knowing this hollowness of spirit, this bankruptcy of the soul that caught her out when she least expected it.

  What must it be like to be normal, she wondered? The world’s idea of normal anyway. She thought about Dougie’s wife. Dougie’s wife would be normal. Hairdresser’s on a Tuesday, Aerobics on a Wednesday, girls’ night on a Thursday (Dougie’s wife would call them ‘girls’, even though their average age was sixty-two), curry night with Doug on a Friday, Unless he’s workin’ – these television shows, he’s out all hours ferryin’ the stars back an’ forth, bless him. Then Dougie’s wife’d have the grandchildren on a Saturday or go shopping with her daughter-in-law, and do a nice roast on the Sunday. Every Sunday. Dougie’s wife probably had a little part-time job in a gift shop or a cafe and did her Christmas shopping by October the first every year. Kate longed to be normal. To never have to overthink or listen to the running commentary whirring in her head, telling her she was never good enough or real enough, calling her useless and ugly and fat.

  ‘What plans you got for your day off then?’ Dougie interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Sod all, thank God.’ She reached into her bag for her diary. ‘Long lie-in, nice brunch at Carlo’s, maybe a little massage in the … Oh fuck.’ She’d found tomorrow’s date and there it was, staring back at her. She grabbed her mobile from her bag, scrolling through her contacts for her agent’s number.

  ‘You been booked?’ said Doug.

  ‘Looks like it.’ The call had connected. ‘Cynthia, it’s me. Sorry to ring out of hours but I’ve got no d
etails for this thing tomorrow – it just says “school visit”.’

  ‘Yes, love, your old school.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘’Fraid not. You’re on the seven ten from Euston. They booked you a good six months ago and they’re very excited about it.’

  ‘How come I don’t remember agreeing to this? Edinburgh!! For fuck’s sake, Cynth!’

  Cynthia Kane had been Kate’s agent for over fifteen years. She was used to Kate’s volatile temperament and her habit of not listening to information then claiming later not to have been told. Cynthia never took offence. ‘You want me to cancel?’

  Kate sighed. Yes, she did. But in all conscience she knew it’d be too harsh. ‘No, it’s fine. Sorry. Could’ve just done with a day off, that’s all.’

  Cynthia hung up, promising to have a word with the producer to see if they could find a few days’ grace in the filming schedule so that Kate could get some R & R.

  ‘Thanks, Cynthia.’ Kate sighed and looked out of the window. She knew what Dougie would say next and predictably he did. ‘No peace for the wicked, eh?’

  ‘Oh, can’t complain, mustn’t grumble, could be worse …’ Dougie was oblivious to her sarcasm and she took a deep draw on her fag before throwing it out the window, just as they pulled into her road.

  2

  Inside Number 29, Matt Fenton was adding red wine to a big pan of chilli. Despite the frilly pinny he was wearing, he still looked remarkably masculine, his white-blond hair and Scandinavian features adding to the image of a thirty-seven-year-old dad in touch with his feminine side. His daughter Tallulah watched him as she drank her bedtime milk, her stuffed panda, known as Panda, on her lap.

  ‘Why doesn’t Mummy ever make the supper?’

  Tallulah was five. Tallulah was a Daddy’s girl.

  ‘Because Mummy is too busy earning money to keep you in Coco Pops and ice-cream.’ He leant down and picked her up. ‘Now young lady, time for your bed! And you, Panda.’

  ‘Panda didn’t like what you gave him for tea.’

  ‘Complaints in writing to the management, please.’

  They’d just got to the top of the stairs when the front door opened.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mummy!’

  Kate threw down her bag and her coat.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous!’ called Matt.

  ‘My favourite two people in the whole wide world! Let me just get a drink.’

  And as she went off to the kitchen, Matt tried to ignore the slight irritation he felt. Kate had a habit of putting her glass of red before anything else, even kissing her five-year-old daughter goodnight.

  ‘I want to see Mummy!’

  ‘Tell you what, let’s tuck you in first, then I’ll get her to come and read you a story.’

  ‘OK.’ Tallulah preferred Mummy’s stories because she always put on silly voices.

  In the kitchen, Kate drained her glass of Rioja in one before pouring another, which she would pretend to Matt was her first. When he came in, she was tasting the chilli. ‘Mm, this is good.’

  ‘She wants you to read her a story.’

  ‘Yeah, I will in a sec.’

  They kissed. And Kate snuggled into his neck and shut her eyes for a moment. He put his arm around her and inhaled the smell of her hair, the familiar mix of hairspray, cigarette smoke and very expensive perfume. He could tell her mind was elsewhere.

  ‘We sold the Berlotti prints today. Restaurant in Hackney.’

  ‘Nice.’ She drank more of her wine, her eyes still shut.

  ‘And then I spent a good two hours designing your cake with Lula. But sssshh. It’s a secret.’

  Kate smiled and pulled away from him. ‘She loves other people’s birthdays more than her own, I think.’

  ‘I know, and she’s particularly excited about yours, even though I’ve told her ladies of a certain age prefer to forget!’

  ‘Christ, is that what I am now – a “lady of a certain age”?’

  ‘You’re still a top bit of totty in my book.’ And he kissed her left ear. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She wasn’t. He knew the signs.

  ‘I’ll go see Lula.’

  He followed her as she made her way upstairs, glass of wine in hand.

  Tallulah was already out for the count, her tiny arms holding on tight to Panda as she dreamt. Kate stood in the doorway watching her little girl sleep as Matt came up quietly behind her.

  ‘She’s such a precious baby.’ Kate was barely audible.

  Matt held her hand and they stood there in silence. Watching. Loving. ‘What d’you want to do for your birthday?’ he whispered. ‘She keeps asking.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. I’ll be filming, won’t I?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Wish we could run away. Just the three of us.’

  Matt looked at her. ‘Not getting sad again, are you, babe?’

  She didn’t return his gaze. ‘No, course not.’

  ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. Just hate the idea of being another year older, that’s all. It’s alright for you. You’re still technically mid thirties.’ And before Matt could pursue it, Kate changed the subject. ‘I’ve got that school thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. It was on the calendar. I’ll take you to the station if you like.’

  Kate hesitated. ‘Come with me.’ It was more of a plea than a request.

  ‘It’s Lula’s little concert, remember? One of us has to be there.’

  ‘You having a dig?’

  ‘What? No, don’t be daft! Look, you’ll be in Edinburgh by twelve, back home by eight. I’ll book us a table at Porto’s tomorrow night, shall I?’

  ‘Fucking school. They’ve only asked me back ’cos I’m famous.’

  ‘Er, well yes, I think that’s the whole point. They want to show you off. Look how successful the pupils of North Park Primary have turned out to be.’

  ‘Don’t tell my mother I’m going. She’ll be furious at me for not visiting.’

  ‘You can’t do everything, sweetheart.’ Matt stroked her cheek. ‘Come on. Bit of my lovely chilli and an early night. That’s what you need.’

  It wasn’t. But then Kate didn’t really know what she needed. She let Matt take her hand and lead her downstairs, pushing away the suffocating gloom that was doing press-ups in the corner, biding its time, getting ready to pounce …

  In bed that night Matt dreamt he was trying to fix a leaking roof. He was standing next to a cement mixer – churn, swish, churn, swish – but every time he reached in for more cement to fill a hole, another one would open up. And all the time the cement mixer kept turning – churn, swish, churn, swish.

  He woke up, breathless and shaking, desperately trying to make sense of where he was. The bedroom. Good. That’s good. But he could still hear the noise – churn, swish, churn, swish. He looked at Kate’s side of the bed. She wasn’t there. And then he realized where the sound was coming from …

  They’d lived in their home for six years. Moved in when Kate was pregnant with Tallulah. It should have been way beyond their budget, but Kate had just finished working on a lucrative drama series in the States so money was far from tight. A gorgeous Georgian detached house in Chiswick: they’d fallen deeply in love at first viewing.

  There was nothing to do to it. Even the nursery was ready and waiting. Just one thing was missing: Kate wanted a gym. It was non-negotiable. And the room that Matt had hoped would be his study was clearly the only candidate for conversion. ‘It’s essential to my well-being and how I look for work.’ He’d been thrown by her unfamiliar tone – so much so that he didn’t argue back. ‘My looks are my assets, Matt.’ Then she’d laughed and kissed him and the subject was closed. This was the first time he’d had any insight into Kate’s determination to get what she wanted. But the more he got to know her, the more he saw this side of Kate’s personality – and he grew to understand that despite her vulnerability, her insecurities and t
his craving to be loved, she also had a ruthless ambition and an inner drive that could obliterate any obstacle in her way. He found himself respecting his wife for this.

  And there he stood now, in the doorway of Kate’s gym, watching as she pounded away at the treadmill – churn, swish, churn, swish – sweat flying off her, headphones on, the muscles in her perfectly toned arms and legs rippling with every gruelling step. She was oblivious, muttering to herself through gritted teeth, ‘Come on, come ON!’ He felt that to disturb her would be akin to waking a sleepwalker, but what he was watching was insane. It was three thirty in the morning, for God’s sake. She had her back to him, the music in her headphones so loud he could hear the lyrics to the high-energy dance track even over the noise of the treadmill.

  Then, out of nowhere, Kate slammed her hand down on the stop button and stood there panting. She ripped off her headphones and put her head onto the console. The tinny music carried on as the treadmill shut down. Matt didn’t want to frighten her but he knew whatever sound he made would make her jump. ‘Kate?’ he whispered.

  ‘Jesus! How long’ve you been there for?’

  ‘Few minutes.’

  She grabbed her gym towel and wiped the sweat from her forehead as she sat at the end of the machine.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep. I was trying to wear myself out.’

  ‘Kill yourself, more like.’ He was sat now on the weights bench by the treadmill. She was within arm’s reach of him, and he could see how drawn she looked despite the flush of her cheeks and the perspiration glistening on her skin. He held out his hand to her.

  ‘Don’t. I’m all sweaty and disgusting.’

  He hid his rejection as she got up and headed to the door. ‘Gonna jump in the shower. Won’t be long. Go back to bed.’ And she left him there.

  The tinny dance track came to an end and in the silence Matt felt very alone.

  3

  Eight hours later, sitting in a first-class seat on the InterCity 125, Kate stared out of the window at the drenched and muddy fields, bordered with bracken and withering autumn trees. Electricity pylons stood proud like miniature Eiffel Towers, and empty training pitches cried out for players to come stamping across their sodden turf. Occasionally there’d be a group of sheep all facing the same way, munching grass like it was going out of fashion and showing no signs of feeling the cold, nestled inside their thick woolly fleeces.