Behind Her Back

by Jane Lythell

I didn’t want to do this. Simon was perfectly capable of helping Betty choose which letters she would discuss on air tomorrow. There was something more pressing I needed to do.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll go down in a while.’

  I went into my office and closed the door. The pressing matter related to Ziggy. She joined us last August on the intern scheme I had set up with the child protection team at Southwark Council. Every year we offered a one-year paid internship to a young person who had been in care. Ziggy’s time was nearly up but I didn’t want her to go. Two months ago I had asked the council if we could delay choosing the next new recruit until January. I was sure that by then I could get Ziggy placed in a permanent role at the station. The council had been sniffy about it for weeks and had left a message for me that morning. I called Fiona, my contact person at the council.

  ‘The point of the scheme was to help as many young people as possible and we would prefer to stick to a summer or at least an autumn handover,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but the point was also to help our interns build a career path in television. You told me that Ziggy had a record of running away from things.’

  ‘Running away from her foster homes,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Yes, I remember. As you know, Ziggy is training to be a digital technician and she’s showing enormous promise and staying power. I have an agreement with the director of programmes that the next junior post that becomes vacant goes to her. Now that would be a tremendous result for the scheme. And we’d be happy to welcome a new intern next year.’

  ‘And what if a post doesn’t come vacant by then?’

  ‘I’m ready to commit to a new intern in January. You have my guarantee on that,’ I said, feeling my irritation rise.

  ‘We feel that Ziggy is getting special treatment,’ she said.

  I nearly snapped at Fiona because I did have a special feeling for Ziggy. Somehow, I kept my voice level.

  ‘If so, it will be the first time in her life that has happened. Please reschedule the scheme for January.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Fiona said.

  We said goodbye to each other coldly. I looked out of my office and could see Ziggy at her desk tapping away on her keyboard. Both her parents were dead, from heroin. She was bright and hard-working and I was determined to keep her at StoryWorld.

  By the time I got down to the Hub, our staff café, Betty and Simon had selected the letters.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t join you earlier. What have you gone with?’

  ‘We had two good letters on cosmetic surgery; one that’s gone horribly wrong and one from a woman who wouldn’t get married unless her fiancé paid for her to have a facelift before the wedding,’ Betty said.

  ‘How romantic!’ I said.

  ‘She’s sent us some before and after pics and honestly she looked better before the surgery,’ Simon said.

  ‘She’s in her forties and this is her second marriage. Clearly she wanted to look younger but she does look very Stepford Wives now,’ Betty said.

  They showed me the two photos and Simon was right. The woman had looked more interesting and attractive before her face had been stretched and her nose made smaller. Cosmetic surgery often gives faces that wind tunnel look and nothing makes a person look older than striving to stay looking young. We wouldn’t use the photos, though, as we always change the names and locations of the letters we use.

  ‘You know, ten per cent of brides now have surgery or botox injections before their weddings. So I’ll discuss the pressure to look perfect and, at the more serious end, body dysmorphic disorder,’ Betty said.

  ‘Good topic,’ I said.

  I accompanied Betty to the exit. She gets irritated if I don’t show her these small attentions.

  ‘Your ratings for last month were excellent,’ I said.

  ‘That’s good to hear. You know, I thought Ledley might find the more intimate letters difficult to discuss but he’s a delight to work with,’ she said.

  Chalk Farm flat, 7.30 p.m.

  I tapped on Flo’s door. She was lying on her stomach with her earphones in. She took these out.

  ‘All good, sweets?’

  She rolled into a sitting position and crossed her legs, beaming at me.

  ‘Dad’s sent me some money. I told him I was broke last night and he’s put money into my account.’

  Ben was back in funds and was being generous again. I was curious to know how much he had transferred to her account but didn’t ask. It was Ben who had set it up, saying it would be good for her to have independent access to funds. It would teach her how to use money. Certainly it made her feel grown-up.

  ‘And it’s forty degrees Celsius there.’

  ‘God that’s hot!’

  ‘He swims in the pool in his block and it’s Olympic size,’ she said proudly.

  In December Ben had started a new job and a new life in Dubai as an aerial photographer on a land development project. He had bags of money but the life there sounded awful, living in an air-conditioned compound for the privileged. Flo, however, was enthusiastic about Dubai and had visited him in the Easter holidays. I sat down on her bed.

  ‘I was wondering if you could organise to do a sleepover on Friday, maybe at Rosie’s?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a ticket to the People’s TV Awards and I’d like to go.’

  Now she looked interested.

  ‘What are you going to wear?’

  ‘I was thinking my little black dress?’

  ‘No way, Mum! You have to really dress up for that. Haven’t you watched it? It’s ball gowns.’

  ‘I’m not going to wear a ball gown.’

  ‘You need to buy yourself a new dress.’

  ‘Not for one night, darling. Maybe I could hire a dress.’

  ‘Can I come and help you choose?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that. I’ll check out some places.’

  An hour later, fortified by a glass of wine, I called Ron Osborne. He’s a crook of a builder. I need a new pair of French doors because the ones that open onto our garden are warped and difficult to open in the winter. I had asked around and the guy who lives in the flat upstairs said this Osborne had put in his new kitchen and was a proficient carpenter. I met with Ron Osborne in February. I remember he was deeply tanned which I found off-putting.

  ‘Been in Gran Canaria for a month. Always take my holidays in the winter as jobs get stacked up once the weather improves,’ he said.

  He measured the doors and sent me a detailed estimate that a pair of new doors made from hard wood would cost one thousand seven hundred pounds. Friends said that was the kind of figure I’d have to pay. We scheduled the work for March and he asked for a deposit of a thousand pounds at the end of February. I thought this was a large deposit but I paid it. In March he had a minor accident to his left leg and said he needed to put the job back to April. In April he said he needed surgery on his leg. In May he said he was unable to drive after the operation so wouldn’t be able to get over to Chalk Farm. In June he said he had a major job he had committed to which would take two months and he would slot my doors in during August. With each postponement my anxiety had grown. I took a deep breath and called him.

  ‘We really need to get the date in August nailed down, Ron.’

  ‘I’ll do the job as soon as I can, Liz, but I can’t commit to a date at the moment.’

  ‘Why not? You said August.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s been some slippage, you see?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m going to have to fit it in around some other jobs that are pressing.’

  ‘My job is pressing. It’s been postponed since March.’

  ‘You know the reasons for that,’ he said in a wounded voice, a voice I was growing to hate.

  I found that I was holding the phone tightly and could feel sweat in my palm.

  ‘I’ve been very patient but I can’t wait any longer. I need the new doors before the summer is out. I think it
best that we cancel the job and you return my deposit,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve bought the materials, see. I said I’d slot the job in and I will. I just can’t give you an exact date.’

  I know what is going on here. Ron Osborne has had my thousand pounds since March. He has spent it and there is little incentive to put himself out for the remaining seven hundred pounds. He thinks I’m a lone woman and a pushover. But I’m not going to let him get away with it. I poured myself another glass of wine and took out the papers that related to the job. I’m going to take legal action against him even though I know it will be a chore. His company is called Ron Osborne Maintenance UK Ltd but what I hadn’t noticed before was that he had only put his email and mobile on the estimate. There was no postal address. I’ll need his address if I’m going to serve papers on him.

  I wished I could call my best friend Fenton and talk about it. She is so grounded and is brilliant with conflicts like these. She would never allow a builder to get the better of her. She’s been like a sister to me since we met at university and I rely on her for emotional support more than anyone else. She’s away for a week, in Barcelona with Bill, her sexy detective. I googled Ron Osborne. Surely there would be something online about him: a club membership or a trade directory, that ChekaTrade thing? I could find nothing. I emailed my neighbour upstairs asking if he had Ron Osborne’s postal address. Only two days back from Italy and my holiday afterglow was fading fast.

  4

  StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

  Mid-morning, Gerry Melrose, our astrologer, dropped by my office to show me his script. Every week, as well as his forecasts, Gerry chooses a hot news story and does an astrological take on it.

  ‘You look fabulous, Liz,’ he said as he sank onto my sofa.

  ‘Thanks. I switched off completely.’

  ‘Simon did a good job in your absence.’

  ‘He’s wonderful. Anything happen here I should know about?’

  ‘Well, there’s been even more speculation about who Zachary’s father is. Poor Fizzy, it’s been intense. I don’t think the press will let it go.’

  ‘How very tiresome of them.’

  ‘But inevitable. When you’re in the public eye people will probe, and she did say it was a married man. Her vowing never to reveal his identity was like throwing down the gauntlet. Anyway, apparently a journo from one of the tabloids knows one of the news reporters here and he got hold of Geoff’s name.’

  Gerry raised his eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look. The widespread assumption at the station was that Fizzy had got pregnant by Geoff. He was a married consultant who Fizzy had had an affair with for several years. But I knew that he was not the father.

  ‘Did they run with it?’

  ‘Not yet. Maybe they’ll wait till she’s back on the sofa,’ Gerry said.

  It was common knowledge that after Zachary was born Fizzy had pulled up the drawbridge and no visits were allowed. But Julius had seen her on Sunday and I wondered if the recent thaw had extended to Gerry.

  ‘Have you seen the baby yet?’

  ‘I have; this weekend. Zachary is a gorgeous little Gemini, like you and your Flo. I cast his chart and went through the reading with Fizzy. That little boy has some interesting transits.’

  One of the ways that Gerry shows his affection for you is by preparing a personal astrological chart, and his readings can run to several pages; he did one for me last year. People pay a lot for this service. He believes absolutely in the truth of astrology and that it should guide your decisions in life.

  ‘I’m going to see her later. How did she seem with him?’

  ‘Thrilled to have a son but overwhelmed by it all. Quite honestly, she couldn’t cope without Loida. Loida was making the bottles and doing the nappies.’

  ‘I hope she’s not trying to come back too soon,’ I said.

  I had his script and read it through. His topic was a celebrity’s right to privacy. There had been a row running for weeks about an injunction which a celebrity couple had taken out to prevent disclosure of the infidelity of one of them. Their whole public persona relied on the idea that they were a happy and wholesome couple and a number of their sponsorship deals hinged on this image. But according to the tabloids, one of them had indulged in three-in-a-bed romps. Everyone in the media knew who the couple were, of course, but their names could not be published. In his script Gerry had analysed how different star signs need different levels of privacy. Apparently Sagittarians let it all hang out whereas Scorpio was the most secretive of signs. Gerry had taken some celebrities as examples of these traits, not the two in the news, and it was well-written enjoyable nonsense.

  ‘Excellent script. We’re trying to keep the mood light-hearted this month,’ I said.

  Gerry was looking thoughtful now.

  ‘I’ve just this minute had a thought. This issue of privacy relates to Fizzy too, doesn’t it? Is that going to be a bear trap?’ he said.

  I often spoke to my team and the presenters about the need to avoid bear traps and banana skins. A bear trap was when a story came back and bit us and a banana skin was a foolish mistake that sometimes got through. I read his script again more carefully.

  ‘This will be OK. Everyone will be thinking about the injunction couple in this context, not Fizzy,’ I said.

  He stood up. ‘Good. I’ve got to dash but shall we do lunch or dinner soon?’

  ‘Definitely; I’ll check the calendar.’

  After he had gone I looked up Ron Osborne Maintenance UK Ltd. It is not registered with Companies House which came as no surprise. I googled how to make a small claim and it is quite straightforward but I will need his address.

  In my lunch break I headed for an upmarket gift shop by the river walk as I wanted to buy something for Zachary. There was a mountain of soft toys on display in the window. Since the end of May sackfuls of baby toys have arrived at the station, sent in by our viewers. It is Ziggy’s job to write thank-you letters to every one of them on behalf of Fizzy and we’ve donated the gifts to a community hospital in Bermondsey. The toys in the shop were enchanting, though, and I made myself resist the softest blue bunny for Zachary. Instead, I bought a Peter Rabbit bowl with a matching mug which came in nice boxes.

  *

  Fizzy lives in Pimlico in an exclusive cobbled mews. Her home comprises two mews houses which have been knocked together with a central entrance between two garages which occupy the ground floor. They are not greasy-rag garages though, far from it; both offer services for high-end cars. It’s exactly the kind of pretty and tucked-away house you would expect a TV star to live in. Loida opened the door and I followed her up the steep stairs to the sitting room which runs the length of the two houses. A child-proof gate had already been installed at the top of the stairs, though Zachary can’t be crawling yet. Fizzy looked pretty in a loose pink dress. She is slightly plumper and less perfectly coiffed and made-up than when she’s on air. I liked that she looked softer. She got up off the sofa and we exchanged kisses. Zachary was fast asleep in a Moses basket next to her.

  ‘Thanks for coming over. I look a fright,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking how pretty you looked.’ I handed her the Peter Rabbit boxes.

  I peeked in the Moses basket. Zachary was lying on his back with a cream blanket with a thick satin hem tucked loosely around him.

  ‘He looks blissfully asleep and extremely kissable,’ I said.

  I joined her on the sofa as she undid the boxes and took out the mug and the bowl.

  ‘Thank you for these. I like old-fashioned things.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘The breastfeeding was ghastly. I stuck it out for a month to give Zac’s immune system a boost but I couldn’t go on with it.’

  Loida brought in a tray with tea things and a plate of those little French biscuits, cat’s tongues they’re called.

  ‘Has he been asleep lon
g?’ I asked.

  Fizzy looked over at Loida.

  ‘About forty minutes. He’ll wake soon. I’ll be in my room if you need me,’ Loida said.

  Fizzy poured tea from the pot and handed me a bone china cup and saucer.

  ‘Is Loida staying here now?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. She’s fantastic with Zac.’

  She passed me the milk jug and offered the plate of biscuits and I took one.

  ‘I’ve got a month to lose half a stone,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t put pressure on yourself. You look lovely.’

  ‘I have to. The cameras add a stone, you know.’

  ‘You’ve had a baby. The viewers will love it if that shows a bit.’

  ‘Mmm, I’m not sure about that. Julius and Gerry have both been over but I’ve not had a peep out of Ledley.’ She sounded resentful.

  ‘I think most of us got the impression you wanted a period of complete rest and privacy. I’m sure he’d love to see you.’

  She pulled a face and I thought I shouldn’t have defended Ledley.

  ‘Well, please don’t say anything to him. I’m sure he’s far too busy being the anchor,’ she said.

  Ledley was a sore point between us and I decided to confront it directly.

  ‘Fizz, you need to know that I have never championed Ledley to replace you. I suggested him as the temporary stand-in rather than bringing in another woman presenter. I’m so looking forward to you coming back and to Ledley returning to being our chef.’

  She had stiffened at my comment.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s become too polished recently, almost slick. I preferred the scruffier Ledley who made mistakes and made us laugh.’

  She put her cup down on the tray.

  ‘Maybe I was overreacting, Liz, but I’ve seen it too often; presenters demoted or replaced after a break. Remember what happened to Yvette?’

  Yvette had been a high-profile presenter on a rival channel who had taken six months off to front a charity project to combat malaria in the Ivory Coast. On her return to London the younger woman who had stood in for her kept the job. Yvette had spoken to the press about ageism and won the moral argument but she had lost her TV slot.