The Foster Husband

by Pippa Wright

He looks up as he helps his granny up the step into her house. His smile is distracted; his thoughts already inside the house. ‘Good to see you, too, Kate. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me.’

  He shuts the door, but I can still hear their voices; hers high and questioning, his calm. He always was the kind of boy you could rely on, even back when we were at school. The boy who’d stay sober to drive everyone else home from a night out in Exeter; the boy who talked down Kim Dearborn when she’d started spinning out on acid at a party on the beach. It didn’t seem like much, back then, being reliable – it’s not a quality highly rated by teenagers. It’s something you learn to appreciate only when unreliable men have stamped all over your heart.

  I hadn’t forgotten Eddy Curtis. Of course I hadn’t. I’d tried, of course. I’d tried to forget about Lyme altogether.

  But now I’ve come here to forget everything else.

  4

  Lagos, Nigeria

  In my time at Hitz Music Television, I had arranged for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to play a set under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris during an electrical storm that threatened to electrocute everyone on stage. I’d battled German bureaucracy to shut down the centre of Berlin so that U2 could perform at the Brandenburg Gate with a fireworks display that cost over a million euros, conducted by a lunatic pyromaniac who spoke only in an obscure Sichuanese dialect that had to be relayed to us through two interpreters. I’d had to clear Bondi Beach of twenty-thousand pilled-up ravers after an Australian dance festival got out of hand. In short, I was used to dealing with a certain amount of drama. It was my job. But I’d never run an event like the African Music Awards before.

  After two weeks in Lagos I’d begun to get used to Nigerian time, which made the Spanish idea of mañana seem like a model of ruthless punctuality. Nothing ever happened when it was supposed to, and not just because the traffic in Lagos was little short of diabolical, making it impossible to know how long it would take to get anywhere. A phone call from someone promising they were on their way meant they could be expected any time in the next six hours. ‘They’ll be out of the venue this morning,’ meant ‘Prepare to be able to unload your equipment no earlier than midnight’. ‘We will provide a VIP backstage area for the artists’ meant ‘You will arrive to find the artists’ dressing rooms only half built, with exposed wires hanging from the ceiling over a large pool of water in the middle of the floor.’

  My team and I had worked twenty-hour days to whip the venue into some sort of shape, handing out bribes in thick wads of multicoloured notes, keeping the peace between our surly South African security team and the local crew, falling into bed at two in the morning after downing medicinal bottles of Star beer in the hotel bar.

  And now, of course, the Hitz management had arrived, like the cavalry at the eleventh hour, here to take all of the glory without any of the graft.

  ‘I put a spoon in that brown slop, and all these fucking googly eyes were looking at me,’ whined Dean, our Head of Talent, as he lowered himself into a chair in the meeting room.

  ‘Trippy,’ said his assistant, Leila, encouragingly.

  ‘Fucking fish head curry, they said,’ Dean continued, glad of an audience. ‘Fish heads! Not just eyes – teeth! I felt like Indiana Jones in the Temple of Fucking Doom or something.’

  I didn’t dare look at anyone across the table in case I burst out laughing. The idea of portly Dean, his stomach straining against his shirt buttons, vast continents of sweat blooming under his armpits, comparing himself to Harrison Ford would have to be savoured later in the bar.

  ‘Yeah, man, I think the Temple of Doom was actually in India,’ suggested dimwit Leila, known to us all as the Tangent, partly, as demonstrated, for her uncanny ability to hone in on the least important detail of any discussion, and partly because she insisted on dyeing her skin a ferocious shade of orange. ‘This is, like, Africa?’

  Her starey blue eyes wavered for a moment, as if she was suddenly unsure of herself – maybe this wasn’t Africa after all. Rumour had it she was only kept on by Dean because of her unfailing ability to score drugs anywhere in the world. And then to take most of them herself. I nodded at her in affirmation – yes, you’re in Africa – and she looked relieved.

  ‘I know that thanks, Leila,’ snapped Dean, pulling his shirt down over his belly. If you asked me he could afford to miss a meal or two without too much suffering.

  ‘Kate,’ barked our boss Richard, entering the room and slamming his clipboard down on the table so that we all leapt to attention in our seats. ‘Fish heads. Sort it.’

  I nodded, mentally adding it to my ever growing list of things to sort before the show kicked off tomorrow. I would have sorted it earlier if I’d known, but I had lived exclusively on crisps and hotel sandwiches since I’d arrived, so the local delicacies had passed me by.

  Richard held up his clipboard to the light and squinted at it. ‘Perimeter road closed?’ he barked.

  ‘Yup,’ I promised. ‘Job done. I saw the governor this morning.’

  ‘Good.’ Richard wasn’t one for effusive praise. ‘Damage?’

  ‘Ten VIP passes, personal intro for his daughter to Slender Dee. And we foot the bill for refitting backstage.’

  ‘Yeah, Slender Dee won’t do meet and greets,’ said Dean with unpleasant satisfaction. If ever there was a spanner to be thrown in the works, you could bet that spanner would have Dean’s fingerprints all over it. The man lived to annoy.

  Richard glared at him. ‘Who the fuck is Slender Dee anyway?’

  Leila looked up, ‘Oh he’s huge here. Huge. He’s, like, a DJ and singer, yeah? Blind. Cancer.’

  ‘He has cancer?’ my assistant producer Sarah asked anxiously. We’d already had to re-do the risk assessment to take on board the fact that he was blind, and I knew she was worried the insurance wouldn’t cover him for a pre-existing condition.

  ‘No, dude, Cancer, the crab,’ said Leila. ‘It’s, like, his astrological sign? You know, hides in his shell, yeah? Reserved. Doesn’t like the limelight.’

  Dean held up his hands helplessly. ‘I can’t force him, Richard.’

  ‘He is one blind fucking singer,’ snapped Richard. ‘He won’t have a fucking clue where he is anyway – just tell him you’re putting him in a taxi, point him at the governor for five minutes and then send him on his way.’

  Leila and Dean exchanged pained glances, their standard response when requested to do anything other than gush over celebrities and submit enormous bills to expenses for ‘fruit and flowers’, which was accepted code for payments made to Leila’s dodgy chemical associates.

  ‘Do it,’ warned Richard, in a voice that silenced all argument. ‘Next.’

  The meeting bored on, and my to-do list grew like a tropical fungus, spreading into the margins of my notepad.

  The new head of marketing had missed his flight and was now stuck in traffic somewhere on the way from the airport. I was fairly relieved by this, as I’d been ignoring his emails for days. I’d had his predecessor perfectly trained up in how to deal with Production (a combination of bribes, flattery and outright begging), but this new guy was full of unrealistic expectations and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  However, as he wasn’t present, it was easy enough to overrule Caroline, his young and inexperienced deputy. Even Leila managed to put her foot down about a meet and greet with the sponsors. I felt quite sorry for Caroline in the end, but if Matt Martell didn’t know how to get what he wanted out of his colleagues without sending a junior to ask for it, there was really no hope for him.

  If you ask directly for what you want, you allow the possibility that someone will say no. You have to be smarter than that, surely?

  To absolutely no one’s surprise, the show was running two hours late. The only saving grace was that we weren’t broadcasting live. I was checking the running order backstage, and wondering how long it would take to get everyone out of there – the de-rig would start minutes after the last artist stepped off s
tage – when the mysterious head of marketing made his first appearance. I didn’t notice him at first, but there was some whispering at the door and it was distracting me from my time-keeping, so I looked up to ask whoever it was to be quiet.

  A tall man stood at the door, looking furious, as one of the South African security guys tried to stop him coming into the room. He was wearing a suit, which was enough to make him look out of place amongst the backstage crew in our jeans and T-shirts, but the lanyard around his neck told me he had to be part of the team. He had brows as dark as the hair that flopped down over his forehead, and they were pulled together in an expression of harassment and bewilderment that was painfully familiar to me after two weeks of dealing with the craziness of Lagos. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Until he opened his mouth.

  ‘Kate Bailey?’ He wrenched his arm away from the security man, and I nodded to let Dirk know it was okay to let him go.

  I raised my eyebrows in expectation as he strode across the room towards me.

  ‘Are you Kate Bailey?’ As he got closer he looked uncertain.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, looking back down at my figures to let him see I was busy.

  ‘Oh right. You’re younger than I expected.’

  ‘Really?’ I sighed, looking up. I got this all the time; it was both a blessing and a curse to look younger than I was. Usually I made it work in my favour: either people underestimated me completely, or the fact that I’m small and blonde and young made a certain kind of man soften towards me – and I have no compunction in taking full advantage of that.

  ‘Well, you don’t look like . . . I mean, Ball-Basher Bailey; I just expected . . . sorry.’

  He quickly held out his hands in supplication, as if I didn’t already know that was my nickname at Hitz. To be honest I encouraged it: I found that having a reputation as a ball-breaker got half my job done by intimidating people in advance. Pre-warned to find me scary, people backed down without me even having to raise my voice.

  ‘Now’s not a great time,’ I said, pointing at the paperwork that lay in front of me. ‘I’m just trying to work out what time we’re going to finish so I can brief the de-rig.’

  ‘Then it is a great time,’ said Matt, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me uninvited. ‘Because that’s what I need to know. I’ve got ice sculptures melting all over the room and a load of angry sponsors.’

  ‘And you are?’ I said meanly. Of course I knew who he was, but it annoyed me that he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself, and had just launched in with complaints.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ he said, slapping his palm to his forehead. He looked much younger when he laughed. The furrows on his forehead relaxed, and his eyes creased into a smile. ‘Matt Martell, head of marketing. Sender of multiple emails. Bane of your life.’

  I couldn’t help smiling back, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

  ‘Purchaser of ice sculptures in the subtropics,’ I said. ‘I know you’re new in the job, Matt Martell, but who in their right mind orders ice sculptures for a party with a start time that can best be described as flexible?’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ he insisted. ‘It’s the sponsor who’s paid for them, and by the time their guests get there, the sculptures are going to look like Slush Puppies.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not as dumb as you look,’ I said. Although he didn’t look dumb at all, he looked pretty gorgeous, if you want to know the truth. He had that sort of blue-black hair that makes you think of Elvis, and eyes so dark I couldn’t even see what colour they were. Isn’t that always the way, though? The stupid ones are always the prettiest.

  ‘Oh right?’ said Matt, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. He gave a short, abrupt laugh. ‘I thought you just had a bit of a brutal email manner, but now I’m thinking it might be more of a borderline personality disorder.’

  ‘What, like efficient-and-good-at-my-job disorder? Effective diagnosis, doctor.’

  ‘I was thinking more like unhelpful-and-obstructive disorder.’

  ‘Also known as not-willing-to-waste-time-on-stupid-questions disease. Pity it’s not contagious.’

  Matt smirked. ‘Look. Enough of the insults, Basher Bailey. I need to get people into my party before it’s a complete disaster. Half the guests are there, but the staff say you’ve told them not to open the bar until the show’s over.’

  ‘Yup,’ I said. ‘And?’

  ‘And if they don’t get a drink soon they’re all going to leave before the rest of the guests arrive. When’s this show going to end, anyway?’

  ‘I haven’t worked it out exactly,’ I said, ‘because I keep being interrupted, but I reckon we’ve got at least an hour till we’re done. More if we get any encores.’

  ‘An hour? But the party was meant to start an hour and a half ago.’

  I shrugged. ‘Yup, the show was meant to start three hours ago. I was meant to be drinking my way through your free bar by now. Lots of things were meant to happen. But this is where we are; nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘But Airtel are going to be furious, they’ve spent a fortune on this party.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Matt. Sounds like a nightmare. But I’m not sure what I can do – the audience is going to go crazy if I pull any of the acts. The show must go on, right?’

  ‘You don’t have to pull any of the acts,’ said Matt, leaning forwards intently. ‘All you need to do’ – I bristled instantly at his presumption – ‘is open the bar and allow the sponsors out of the audience so they can come backstage early.’

  ‘But, Matt,’ I sighed, and spoke as slowly and clearly as I could to get the words through his thick head. ‘The sponsors and their competition winners are taking up the whole six front rows of the audience. We’re filming this – I can’t have half the audience walking out of the room while the show’s still on. And the artists will go mental if they have to perform to a load of empty seats.’

  ‘Can’t you just get the cameramen to film different parts of the audience?’ said Matt.

  ‘No, Matt, I can’t, actually. We’ve all had to work with these delays for weeks – now it’s your turn. Deal with it.’

  ‘But all the artists are leaving already,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve seen them getting into their cars as soon as they get off stage. There won’t be anyone left to come to the party if it doesn’t start soon.’

  That got my attention. ‘Which artists are leaving? Not Slender Dee?’

  ‘Who?’ Matt looked bemused, as well he might, not being as familiar with the cream of African musical talent as I’d become over the last two weeks.

  ‘Shit, what are those useless idiots from Talent doing? They’re meant to be making sure Slender Dee comes to the party.’

  Matt grimaced. ‘I’ll tell you where Talent are – sitting at my party watching the ice sculptures melt and bitching about not being able to get a proper drink. They’re the ones who told me where to find you.’

  ‘Right,’ I snapped. I threw down my pen and stood up. ‘Follow me.’

  Matt bit back a smile, but I wasn’t laughing. Before I met the governor, I wouldn’t have cared if all the acts had flown to Timbuktu as soon as they’d finished performing, but I’d promised his daughter would meet Slender Dee and I’m a girl of my word. Most of the time.

  Matt hadn’t been joking about the party; it looked like your worst kind of social disaster. The few people who hadn’t left already were standing around in angry clusters, sober and irritable. Leila sat at the bar, her slack black-pupilled gaze suggesting that, for her, the party had already started, and possibly nearly finished, too. The waiters were nowhere to be seen; I suspected they were having a smoke out the back as usual. The ice sculptures were so far gone it was impossible to tell what they had once been – their misshapen remains dripped into spreading puddles on the concrete floor.

  The only person who looked like he was having any fun at all was Dean, who was sat on his fat arse on a c
heap white leather sofa, with a local woman on his right hand side and another sat on his lap, teasing his hair with her fingers. Rather her than me, I’d always thought he used far too much gel for a man of his age. I got my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture before he realized I was there.

  ‘Hi, Dean,’ I said loudly.

  Hearing my voice, he hastily pushed his friend off his lap and stood up, distancing himself from both women as fast as he could. Classy.

  ‘Kate, babe, how you doing? Great show, great show.’ I knew he hadn’t seen a minute of it, though that wouldn’t stop him telling the artists – if any of them showed up afterwards – that they were amaaaaaaazing.

  ‘Thanks. Now, look, we’ve got a bit of a problem. Matt tells me the talent are all fucking off back to their hotels when we need them to come to the party to meet the sponsors and the governor’s daughter.’

  ‘Oooh, the governor’s daughter, you don’t say!’ Dean minced obnoxiously.

  I stared at him, not blinking.

  ‘Oh God, you’re serious? Look, I’ve done my best, but what can I do? They don’t want to hang about in that crappy backstage area for another hour and I don’t blame them. It’s a shithole. And Matt says you won’t open the bar here until the show’s done.’ He shrugged. ‘I know I’m pretty great at my job, but I’m not a miracle worker.’

  I flicked my phone on and opened up the picture of Dean with the two women.

  ‘See this, Dean? In one second I can text this to Marie.’

  His eyes opened so wide I thought his eyeballs might plop out into the ice-sculpture puddle beside him.

  ‘When did she give you her final warning, Dean? After Glastonbury, wasn’t it? How long did you have to stay at Richard’s before she let you come home?’

  ‘Kate, seriously, you wouldn’t. Nothing was going on, I swear.’ Beads of sweat formed on his temples and he tugged at his collar.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it in this picture though, does it?’ I said, waving the phone at him.

  ‘I’ll go backstage now. You’ll have all the artists here for the party, I promise you.’