Devon couldn’t help giggling back. ‘Shut up, Gary,’ she said, slapping him. ‘I’ve lost seven pounds on this diet.’
‘Oooh, I know! Good for you,’ he said. ‘Close your eyes.’ He gave her hair – pulled off her face and tonged into artless-seeming ringlets which hung down her back – a last misting of Elnette. ‘Right, off you go.’
Devon turned to him for a moment, the colour draining from her face; not that anyone could have noticed, as her skin was so thoroughly plastered with foundation and gel blusher.
‘Gary . . .’ she started nervously. ‘I’m – I’m going to be OK, aren’t I?’
‘Of course you are!’ Gary said instantly. ‘You started on live TV, didn’t you? Just do what you always do, silly girl. Wiggle your tits around and have a good old flirt with the cameraman. Works every time.’
Devon giggled again; she didn’t just keep Gary around for his excellent make-up skills. He could always cheer her up. His brand of tart-tongued honesty was as good as a tonic. She walked out of the dressing-room – or, rather, wiggled, as Gary put it, because her slimming slip was so tight she could only take small steps – and followed the runner along the corridor to the set. Gary was hard on her heels, carrying a small bag of make-up for emergency touch-ups: powder, lip stain, lip gloss. If Devon had glanced back at him, her confidence boost might have faded fast; because as soon as she’d turned her back, his bright, encouraging smile had disappeared, replaced by a grimace of concern.
The runner led Devon into the backstage area of the TV studio, which was like every other one in the world: black floors, black flats, heavily scuffed white tape marking out seemingly random sections of the floor, thick cables running across them, full of bustling, overweight tech guys in baggy black clothes.
‘Watch your step,’ the runner muttered automatically, as he guided her across the floor to where Barry, the presenter of 1-2-3 Cook, was standing by a monitor, talking to the director and the producer.
‘Devon! You look fantastic, darling! Ready to rumble?’ said Barry, spotting Devon and coming towards her with a big welcoming smile. ‘We’re all so excited to have you on the show! You know Stan, of course?’
He indicated the chef with whom Devon would be competing, a veteran of this kind of programme. Stan had his own restaurant, his own pasta sauces and his own cookbooks, but, unlike Devon, he didn’t have his own series. Tall, thin, white as a peeled onion, Stan wasn’t prepossessing enough to be considered prime-time TV material, and he resented it; he’d made various snarky comments about Devon’s cooking abilities over the years, all of which Devon’s publicist had firmly told her to ignore.
‘Hi, Devon,’ Stan said, stepping over a coil of trailing electrical wires to shake her hand with extreme formality. His palm was sweaty, his bald head already a little shiny. ‘May the best man – or woman . . .’ he added, rolling his eyes sarcastically, ‘win!’
‘Oh, I’m not really seeing this as a competition,’ Devon said quickly, withdrawing her hand. ‘I mean, we’re just here to have fun and be entertaining, right?’
Stan smirked down his long pointed nose at her and did not deign to reply.
‘Absolutely!’ Barry said, jumping into the awkward silence, beaming at Devon. ‘Your job is to have fun out there! Now, we’ve just got a couple of minutes – let’s get you miked up and introduced to your teammates, shall we?’
As a tech fixed Devon’s microphone pack in place and handed her the little mike to clip invisibly onto her bra, the runner reappeared, chivvying two people in front of him. It was immediately apparent, from the hesitance with which they gingerly picked their way over the trailing cables and the comparative lack of make-up on their faces, that they were the members of the audience who had been chosen to participate in the cook-off.
‘Here we go,’ the runner mumbled. ‘We’ve got, uh, Jim and Shirley. OK?’ Without waiting for an answer, he dashed off again, consulting his clipboard.
‘Fantastic!’ Barry said with unabated cheerfulness. ‘Do we know who you’re with, Jim and Shirley?’ He looked over at the producer. ‘Thoughts?’
Swiftly, Devon assessed the two contestants. Jim was thirty-something, slight and unprepossessing, but with an alert glint in his eyes that indicated intelligence; he was staring at her appreciatively, too. Shirley was in her sixties, with an old-fashioned perm, a novelty sweater with a duck knitted into it, and an apprehensive expression.
Please let me get Jim! Devon thought, crossing her fingers. I can do my flirting thing with him – it worked really well on Wake up UK. Plus, he looks like he’s got some brains . . .
‘Oh, Shirley’s with Devon, and Jim’s with Stan,’ the producer said brightly. ‘Girls against boys! It’ll be a good laugh!’
Oh shit. Shirley turned to look at Devon, taking her in from head to toe: the patent-leather boots, the snug skirt, the partly-transparent yoke of her blouse, the red lip-stain, the richly-coiffed hair. Shirley’s lips tightened into a thin, judgemental line, and she shook her head fractionally from side to side.
Slut, her expression now said, as clearly as if she’d spoken the word out loud. No better than she should be. Dressed up like a dog’s dinner.
‘Hi, Shirley,’ Devon said, smiling at her, doing her best to turn on her legendary charm.
‘Can’t I be with Stan?’ Shirley asked, in a tone that, if she had been a teenager, would most definitely have been described as petulant. ‘I see him on the show all the time. I was hoping I’d get Stan.’
‘Whoops, no, sorry!’ the producer said, looking not at all apologetic; in fact, she was practically rubbing her hands together in glee at this reaction. Conflict always made better television. ‘You’ll have a lovely time with Devon, I’m sure! Now, everyone, we’re on in just a couple of minutes. You all know how this works. Barry welcomes Stan and Devon, then we bring on you two . . .’ she smiled patronizingly at Jim and Shirley in lieu of remembering their names, ‘we get the two mystery ingredients you have to use in your dish, and we start the clock. OK? Brilliant!’
She nodded at Barry, which was his cue to chivvy Devon and Stan onto the set. The warm-up man had done a great job: the studio audience broke into riotous applause at the sight of Barry and the celebrity chefs. Barry had been beaming and jovial backstage; now, under the bright TV lights, feeding on the roar of the crowd, he seemed to swell up like a puffing toad, his smile almost as big as his face, his teeth gleaming white.
‘Hellooooo Manchester!’ he yelled, throwing his arms wide. ‘Glad you could make it! Are you having fun yet?’
The whoops and cheers that answered him went on for almost a minute; Barry stood there, arms still open, lapping up the appreciation. Then, just as it was ebbing, he jerked his arms down, giving the impression that the applause might have gone on forever if he hadn’t brought it to an end.
‘We’re live in ten,’ the floor manager said.
‘You heard that, Manchester!’ Barry said. ‘Get ready to make some noise!’
Devon was suddenly unable to breathe. She stared out at the blinding bright lights, at the faces beyond, twenty rows of them in tiered seating; she could hardly see any details, just a mass of people, all watching her. Looking right at her. The camera nearest to her swung round, ready for a close-up on her. Flirt with the cameraman, Gary had reminded her, and Devon automatically tilted her head to him and winked. Cameras she was used to, lived with for large parts of her life; cameras she could manage. And live TV she could manage, too; she’d done this before.
It was the live studio audience that was terrifying her. Their reactions, their approval or disapproval. They’re totally Barry’s , she realized. They’ll do anything Barry tells them to: laugh, clap, anything. They’re like a mob that he controls.
Her hands clenched on the bright red countertop in front of her. The set was done up in primary colours: daffodil-yellow walls, a shiny white central podium, where Barry stood, and then a red kitchen and a blue one, each with its own sink, oven and hobs. The
y’d been shown round the set before, to make sure they knew where all their ingredients and pots and pans were; Devon had done her best to remember everything, while Stan had made a point of chatting to the floor manager the entire time, to indicate that he already knew the TV kitchen as well as his own.
Stan was standing in the centre of the blue kitchen, parallel with her; as she glanced over at him, he stared back at her, blank-faced, for a moment, before his mouth twisted into a derisive smile. Lifting his hand, he raised it to hip level, where only she could see it; the work counter in front of them was at waist height. He stuck out his thumb and turned it downwards like a Roman emperor pronouncing judgement on a defeated gladiator, his smile positively malicious now.
Devon stared at his thumbs-down, feeling nausea rise in her throat. I’m totally out of my depth here. And Stan’s clearly going to do everything he can to make me look like an idiot.
Oh God, what have I done?
The red light above the studio doors flashed on, and stayed on. They were live. There was no going back now.
‘Welcome to 1-2-3 Cook!’ Barry bellowed over the renewed applause. ‘Settle down, you lot! We’ve only just begun!’ He flapped his hands at the audience, pretending that he was annoyed by the noise they were making. ‘Blimey, you’re loud, aren’t you? Well, we’ve got a real treat for you today! Not only do we have the dashing and handsome Stan The Man in the house today . . .’ he gestured to Stan, who flourished a long and elaborate bow, instantly becoming a showman as the camera panned to him, ‘but we have a really special guest! Back on live TV for the first time in donkey’s years . . .’
Which makes me sound as old as the hills! Devon thought crossly.
‘The lovely Devon McKenna! You’ve bought her books, you’ve watched her shows – well, now you can watch her cook!’
And that makes it sound as if I haven’t cooked before, Devon realized. Her head jerked back in shock. Am I being set up?
Three cameras were on her. Adrenaline shot through her, powerful as a taser to her chest. She put back her shoulders, tilted her head to the side, and flashed her best smile. As many whoops of appreciation came from the crowd as cheers, for which she was very grateful. But her heart was drumming so hard against her ribcage that it hurt.
‘Right, let’s bring in our dauntless contestants!’ Barry continued, turning to face the left side of the set. ‘Battling it out for the chance to win their own incredible 1-2-3 Cook apron . . .’ he turned to wink at the crowd, who, obligingly, laughed, ‘and five hundred pounds for the charity of their choice!’
Jim and Shirley were herded onto the set, blinking slightly as the sheer wattage of the lights hit them in the face. They were now dressed in the show’s aprons – Jim in blue, Shirley in red – and carrying an extra one each. Barry walked over to meet them, putting his arms around their shoulders, and guided them over to the central podium.
‘Jim and Shirley, two brave souls who are going to cook with us today! So, Jim, you’re with Stan!’ he announced. ‘Hand him his apron, will you?’
Stan took the blue apron from Jim and donned it as Barry asked, ‘How do you feel about being with Stan, Jim?’
‘Well, I’d rather be with Devon!’ Jim said, which drew loud appreciative laughter from Barry and the crowd. Stan pulled a comical face, which made people laugh even harder.
‘I think we’d all rather be with Devon, Jim,’ Barry said, milking it happily. ‘But hey, Shirley’s the lucky one today. Eh, Shirley? Will you give Devon her apron, please?’
Resentfully, Shirley walked over to Devon and gave her the apron.
‘Now, Shirley, I’ve been told you’re a regular watcher of our show – is that right?’ Barry said, grinning at her.
‘Yes,’ Shirley said over-loudly. ‘I watch it every afternoon. And I like him.’ She pointed at Stan. ‘He’s a good cook, he is. Not some jumped-up dolly bird in a tight skirt.’
A brief, awkward silence hung in the air for a moment. Devon, easing the red apron over her head, froze with it halfway on.
Barry clearly made a lightning-fast calculation, decided to leave this well alone, smiled so widely that the audience could practically see his molars, and said, ‘Right! Let’s get on with the meal! Who wants to know what the mystery ingredients are?’
Devon finished pulling on the apron. Automatically, she reached behind her and tied it round her waist, moving as if she were in a trance.
It’s only a half-hour show, she told herself. Just half an hour. I’ll bosh something out, get through this and then I’ll never have to see any of these people again.
‘Eggs!’ Barry boomed, as a screen behind the set flashed a huge image of eggs in a basket. ‘And . . . aubergine!’
Ah, dammit! Devon thought. I hate aubergine.
‘Red team, blue team, you have a minute to confer and plan your dish, starting . . . now!’ Barry said.
Devon stared rather hopelessly at Shirley. ‘Um, do you have a favourite dish featuring aubergine?’ she said as cheerfully as she could.
‘Never eaten it in my life,’ Shirley said, folding her arms in satisfaction, her eyes beady with dislike.
‘Right! Well, we’ll do, um, a brunch dish! Because of the eggs!’ Devon’s voice was going higher and higher. ‘Something Mexican!’ They’d already been shown the store cupboard and fridge, which gave the contestants plenty of basics for their recipes. ‘Why don’t I get you to cube up the aubergine, and we’ll flash fry it?’
‘And . . . time to start cooking, everyone!’ Barry swivelled to Devon and Shirley. ‘So, red team, what are you two cooking up for us today?’
‘Mexican brunch eggs!’ Devon announced, smiling at him.
‘Ooh!’ he said, the audience chorusing an echo of ‘Ooohs!’ behind him. ‘Sounds great! And blue team, what about you?’
‘We’re going to be making Imam Bayildi, Barry,’ Stan drawled, giving Devon a challenging look over Barry’s shoulder. ‘That’s a fantastic Turkish dish which means “The Imam Fainted”. We’re roasting the aubergines and making nests to bake the eggs inside. Very ambitious, but we’re up to the task!’
‘Wow! Can’t wait to try that!’ Barry said, as Devon scrabbled for a knife and chopping board for Shirley, who seemed to have embarked on a tactic of passive resistance.
‘Can you chop it into small cubes, Shirley?’ she asked nervously. ‘The tinier the better. It’s going to be sort of aubergine caviar. They do that a lot in the Middle East.’
‘I thought you said we were doing Mexican,’ Shirley said loudly. ‘Changed your mind, have you? Copying him now?’
She jerked her head towards Stan and Jim’s side of the kitchen. Devon stared at her, horrified.
‘No!’ she said quickly, though that wasn’t exactly the truth: as soon as she had heard Stan’s words, she’d realized that actually, aubergine was much more Middle Eastern than Mexican. It was just so hard to make up stuff on live TV, with no time to correct yourself. Devon had a sudden rush of sympathy for the contestants on game shows who blanked on completely obvious answers.
Stan was much better at this than she was; he’d given a really good answer to Barry, whereas Devon had just blurted out the first thing that came into her head. And he and Jim were already chopping and slicing away, while she and Shirley just stood there, facing off.
‘Right, Shirley! Off you go!’ Devon said, grabbing the aubergines and slapping them down in front of Shirley. ‘I’m just going to sauté some onion . . .’
She had got the onion sliced and into a pan by the time Barry strolled over, two cameras tracking him, to see what they were doing.
‘I’m just browning some onion,’ she announced, ‘while Shirley chops the aubergine . . .’
‘And how’s it going, Shirley?’ Barry said, his face now pantomiming seriousness.
Shirley sniffed. ‘It’s Mexican one moment, Middle Eastern the next – I don’t know what we’re doing!’ she said snappishly. ‘Madam can’t make her mind up!’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh dear! Having some issues?’ Barry said delightedly, turning to Devon, who had dashed across the red kitchen and was rummaging in the spice rack for anything that remotely resembled a Mexican spice.
‘No!’ she corrected him, her voice rising to a squeak. ‘We’re fine! How’s that aubergine coming, Shirley!’ Grabbing some chilli powder and cumin, Devon nipped back to the hobs, only to see in horror that her onions had burned round the edges. She whipped the pan off and dumped a tin of tomatoes into it to stop the onions burning any further, and then realized that she’d meant to fry the spices up with the onions . . . and aubergine.
‘Right, I need another pan . . .’ she muttered, grabbing one at random from under the counter. ‘And some more oil . . .’
‘Weren’t you going to put these in with the onions?’ Shirley asked, hefting the board of chopped aubergine aloft. ‘Did you forget?’
‘No! No, I meant to do that!’ Devon said, much too quickly, realizing that she still needed to cook down the tomato sauce. She dragged the pan back onto the heat again. ‘Shirley, why don’t you stir that while I do the aubergine?’
‘Looks burned to me,’ Shirley said, picking up a wooden spoon.
I’m going to kill her, Devon thought, trickling cumin and chilli into the second pan and setting it onto the hob next to the one Shirley was using. She smiled brilliantly at Shirley, tossing back her hair.
‘Careful that doesn’t get in the food,’ Shirley said dourly, drawing a laugh from the audience.
I’m going to pick up this pan and smash it across her face, Devon fantasized.
‘God, she’s a right old bag, isn’t she?’ Gary, watching, muttered to the runner standing next to him. ‘Where did they dig her up from?’
‘Oh, mate . . .’ The runner, who was making a roll-up on the top of a speaker, paused for a second as he tipped out the Golden Virginia into the Rizla paper. ‘She’s a fucking nightmare is what she is. Every time she comes she volunteers to be on. She’s never been let do it before, because she’s a grumpy old cow.’
Gary stared at him in horror. ‘You’re kidding,’ he breathed. ‘So why’d she make it on today?’
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