by Jane Lythell
‘Wowza! Pretty lady! I’d like to whistle but I know that’s not allowed any more,’ he said, grinning at me.
I tipped my head to one side and tried to look vampy.
‘Oh, I don’t object to the odd whistle,’ I said.
‘Mum, you were flirting with him. Gross!’ Flo muttered as we went up the stairs. Flo hates me to show any interest in men. I’m Mum and I’m supposed to be asexual. We approached my office where Molly, Simon and Ziggy were at their desks.
‘You look amazing,’ Simon said.
‘Like you stepped straight out of the nineteen twenties,’ Molly said.
‘Mum’s based her look on Louise Brooks,’ Flo chipped in.
‘Who’s Louise Brooks?’ Ziggy asked.
‘She was a star of the silent screen.’
Flo got up some pics on her phone and was showing these to Ziggy. There was no sign of Harriet.
‘Thank you, all. I’m glad you approve. We’re off in ten minutes so I hope you all have a lovely weekend,’ I said.
‘Harry and I are going to a do tonight too,’ Simon said.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Lori Kerwell gave these invites to Harry; a cocktail bar that’s opening in Covent Garden tonight.’
He showed me a black card with the word Hayworth written in flowing gold letters across the front.
‘It’s in homage to Rita Hayworth and they’ve invented a cocktail called the Gilda.’
‘That sounds fun.’
‘She offered us four invites. Told Harry she doesn’t drink so she wasn’t planning on going,’ Simon said.
So Lori didn’t drink. It was Friday, let your hair down day, and I wondered if she ever allowed herself to unwind.
‘That was kind of her. You don’t fancy it?’ I looked over at Molly and then Ziggy.
‘Not my thing,’ Molly said.
‘I think you have to dress up for those places, don’t you?’ Ziggy said. She was wearing her usual uniform of boyfriend jeans and a grey T-shirt.
Harriet had arrived back.
‘You can still come, Zig. This is an opening and they won’t turn us away,’ she said.
Ziggy looked alarmed at the notion of being turned away.
‘No, ta, I’m all right.’
‘What a stunning dress,’ Harriet said. ‘Are the beads made of glass?’
‘Yes, and it weighs a ton.’
I did a little wiggle and the dress moved sinuously around my hips. Ziggy reached out and touched the beads.
‘So beautiful.’
Harriet was looking at my feet. ‘Those shoes are perfect with it.’
‘We must have a photo,’ Simon declared.
Ziggy is the best photographer in the team so Harriet gave her phone to her. The whole team insisted I walk back to the stairs. There are two staircases in our building, on either side of the atrium. One leads to features on the left and the other to news on the right and they are rather showbiz in the way they sweep up. Harriet positioned me halfway down.
‘Now chin up, right leg slightly in front and left hand on your hip,’ she ordered.
I did as she asked but felt foolish as Ziggy took the shots, especially when I saw Bob approach and walk down the right-hand staircase. He was dressed in black tie and the thought flashed into my head: could he be going to the People’s TV Awards? He shot me a baleful look.
Finally, we were in a taxi heading for the Grosvenor House Hotel. I asked the driver to take the girls on to Rosie’s house and gave Flo some cash. I was spending too much money but had decided that this was going to be a treat evening and I’d be careful for the rest of the month. I waved goodbye and as I started to walk up the red carpet it began to spit rain. A burly steward in evening dress stepped forward, held a large umbrella over my head and accompanied me all the way to the entrance. A couple of photographers took shots of me which was rather thrilling.
The champagne reception was hosted in the legendary Red Bar. It was a crush in there and guests were spilling out into the foyer. I took a glass and hung back by the wall watching the throng of loud and beautiful and needy people who circulated and air-kissed and looked over their shoulders to scan the bar for A-listers. I recognised a few faces and pondered how certain beautiful women from a past era, Louise Brooks and Rita Hayworth, were still being celebrated today. I doubted that our film and TV industry produced actors with the same enduring appeal. I had the feeling that someone was watching me and as I turned I saw Bob leaned up at the bar staring at me. As soon as my eyes met his he looked away, took a glass of champagne from a tray and went out into the foyer. It gave me a jolt seeing him like that because we are colleagues and he hadn’t even acknowledged me. I prayed he wasn’t on the same table as me. That would spoil the evening.
After thirty minutes, when the crush in the bar had started to get uncomfortable, we were asked to move into the ballroom. This was a long stately room that had been themed in silver and white with every table graced by silver candles, already lit, and posies of tiny white rosebuds in glass bowls. It looked pretty and elegant and more understated than I expected. Last year’s People’s TV Awards had been written up as too neon and flashy and this year the organisers had gone to the other extreme.
I was on an excellent table near the stage and my table companions were all well-known folk. Thankfully, Bob was not amongst them. We shook hands and introduced ourselves before we sat down. To my left was a Queen of the Theatre who had recently won accolades for her portrayal of Saint Joan. Next to her was ITV’s political editor with his trademark floppy fringe, and next to him the celebrity editor of Glamour magazine. The seat on my right was empty. I peered at the place name which said ‘Douglas Pitlochry’. He’s the newscaster for a rival TV company, News Nine. They are bigger than us and often in competition for stories. Douglas Pitlochry is described by the tabloids as the housewife’s choice and the newscaster most women would like to sleep with. I was disappointed that he was a no-show. The next chair along was occupied by a former newspaper editor who now fronted an interview show called Celebrity Tribe. He was known for being an attention-seeker and for making provocative comments on Twitter to his four million followers. To his right sat a distinguished-looking woman in her sixties. When she introduced herself as Claudia Buck I realised who she was. She used to head up a secret government department. On her retirement she had written a thriller which one grumpy Conservative MP had objected to, saying it sailed close to breaching the Official Secrets Act. Now, her book had been made into a three-parter for television and she was the only person on our table who was up for an award.
The lights were dimmed and the bright pink and gold logo of the People’s TV Awards was flashed up on the huge screen behind the stage. The logo faded into a slick two minute promo which listed the awards that would be unveiled after the dinner. The lights came up and a phalanx of waiters entered the ballroom carrying the starters on silver trays. And Douglas Pitlochry sat down next to me. There were drops of rain on his fair hair and on the shoulders of his dinner suit. We shook hands briefly and I saw him glance at my place name.
‘Traffic was awful. I got out of the taxi and walked the last three blocks,’ he said to me. He reached for the wine bottle in the ice bucket. ‘Want a refresh?’
‘Yes, please.’
He filled my glass before pouring some for himself. I’ve seen him on screen but this was the first time I had met him. I was struck by how well his suit hung on his broad shoulders, but the most memorable thing about him was his voice. It’s a rich broadcaster’s voice with a trace of his Scottish roots discernible in certain words. I could tell at once that Douglas Pitlochry did not like Mr Celebrity Tribe to his right. He sat so that his body was angled towards me and addressed all his remarks my way.
Our starters were fried green tomatoes sitting on goat’s curd with basil sorbet on the side.
‘Unusual and delicious,’ Douglas Pitlochry said to me.
‘Mmm, yes, this basil sorbet is ama
zing.’
Our starter plates were whipped away and we were presented with wild bass or sirloin steak or Lancashire cheese and prune filo according to our preferences. Douglas Pitlochry and I had both chosen the fish. Mr Celebrity Tribe had gone for the sirloin and he started to complain to the table: ‘This is too well done. A good sirloin should ooze pink and there’s no ooze, no ooze at all.’
I glanced at his plate and thought that his steak looked pretty rare to me.
‘I think the food is nicely done considering they are catering for hundreds,’ the Queen of the Theatre said as she took one tiny mouthful of the filo.
Douglas asked me about Fizzy.
‘Is she coming back soon?’
‘Yes, at the beginning of September.’
I hoped he wouldn’t probe me about the paternity issue. I was enjoying talking to him and didn’t want to close it down.
‘She’s good but I like your Ledley too,’ he said.
I was surprised that he watched our show.
‘Have you ever tried to make any of his recipes?’ I asked in a teasing tone.
‘No, but maybe I should. I’m trying to teach myself to cook these days,’ he said.
After two glasses of wine, on top of the champagne I’d had earlier, I started to tell Douglas about my difficulties with Ron Osborne.
‘I feel such a fool. I should have spotted there was no address and my neighbour hasn’t got it either. I can’t take legal action against him without an address.’
‘There are tracing agents, you know. They could get his address for you,’ he said.
‘Tracing agents?’
‘Yes, private investigators. You’ve got his phone number and email?’
‘Yes, his mobile and email.’
‘They should be able to track down his address from that.’
To my surprise the thought of hiring a private detective appealed to me. I had worked up a lot of resentment against Ron Osborne.
‘How do you find them?’
‘The usual way: an internet search.’
‘Sounds expensive and maybe it’s shady?’ I said.
He smiled at me and I decided that he had a rather lovely mouth.
‘Not shady and not too expensive either. He’s the one who’s being shady. I can check it out for you. What’s your email?’
‘Really?’
‘It will be my pleasure.’
I wrote my work email on the back of the menu card.
‘Give me your number too,’ he said.
Our pudding arrived and it was café gourmand: a cup of espresso accompanied by tiny portions of crème brûlée, île flottante, chocolate soufflé and fresh strawberries all arranged artistically on the plate. The pudding divided the table along gender lines. All the women loved it and we cooed over the tiny diamond-shaped dish that the île flottante was resting in. The men looked bewildered at the diminutive portions and asked why not have a decent-sized serving of one thing instead?
The lighting in the room changed and the award ceremony began with a well-known comedian doing the compèring. Claudia Buck did not win for the dramatisation of her novel. Douglas and I commiserated with her and she was robust in her protestations that it wasn’t a problem at all. I was thinking about inviting her on to our show and decided I’d call her on Monday from the office.
There was a brief interlude before the technical awards were due to start and the compère referred to this as a comfort break. I’ve always found that phrase ridiculously euphemistic. As I headed for the Ladies I saw Bob. His table was much further back in the room and it was all men. I guessed it was a gathering of news editors. Bob’s face was flushed and he had loosened his bow tie. There were a lot of empty wine bottles on their table. I joined the queue at the Ladies and had the inevitable conversation with the woman in front of me that even at the Grosvenor House Hotel there was not enough provision for women. I was moving back through the tables when Bob walked into my path – he had deliberately sought me out. He is a man who always gives the impression of barely containing the anger within him and I could see that he was on the edge of drunk.
‘So you’re sitting on the boss’s table with all the luvvies,’ he sneered.
‘And good evening to you too, Bob,’ I said.
‘You seem to be his blue-eyed girl at the moment. What have you got on him then?’
I don’t know why I even tried to answer him. To placate him, I suppose. I felt hot and embarrassed seeing him like this, hardly an ambassador for StoryWorld.
‘Julius gave me his ticket because he’s on holiday.’
‘But that’s how you work, isn’t it? Digging up secrets; you like to get things on people, don’t you? Gives you a sense of power.’
His look was openly hostile and I quailed inside. He has been aggressive towards me before and though I didn’t think he would strike me I wanted to get away from him.
‘You’ve drunk too much,’ I said, trying to move past him.
He leaned in closer to me and his expression was venomous.
‘If you say anything, anything at all about me and Fizzy, I’ll make you pay, I really will.’
‘Bob, hello!’
It was Douglas and he was standing by my side. He had made his greeting loudly and I felt so grateful to have him there. Bob took a small unsteady step back from me.
‘Douglas.’ He nodded his head at him and walked away.
‘Are you OK? He looked really angry.’
I was trembling and Douglas noticed it. He put his hand gently on my lower back and steered me to our table. By the time I sat down I had thought how to explain away what Douglas had just witnessed.
‘That was so stupid. He’s drunk far too much and you see there’s a lot of rivalry between news and features at StoryWorld. Bob is very put out that I got to sit in Julius’s place tonight,’ I said.
‘Was that all it was? He seemed positively threatening.’
Douglas gave me a searching look as if he was assessing the truth of what I had said. He couldn’t have missed how aggressive Bob was and I needed to deflect him from probing any further.
‘How do you know him?’ I asked.
‘He freelanced with us a few years back. He’s a solid news man but he has a short fuse.’
‘He certainly does,’ I said with feeling as the lights dimmed and the technical awards started.
Ten minutes later Douglas leaned over and whispered in my ear: ‘My boy’s been away and he’s back tonight so I’m bailing out. I’ll be in touch.’
He picked up the menu card on which I’d written my details and left. I thought about the way he’d looked at me when I gave my lame reason for Bob’s blatant aggression. It was the look of a journalist not believing a story he was being told. But what could I do? He works for a rival TV station and there was no way I could have told him the truth. The question was whether he had overheard what Bob said to me and caught that mention of Fizzy. With his leaving it felt to me like the evening was over.
7
Chalk Farm flat, Saturday, 4 p.m.
The beaded dress, the dress of transformation, had to be back at the hire shop by ten a.m. on Monday or I would incur an additional charge. I had taken the Tube to Sloane Square and handed it over to the saleswoman with a pang of regret. It had cost a lot to hire but I had loved how it made me feel and meeting Douglas Pitlochry had been exciting. The only thing that had spoiled the evening was Bob’s aggression. He was clearly under a lot of pressure and had drunk too much but what a stupid place to confront me. I had no intention of sharing his secret but hadn’t been able to tell him that. And anyway, would he believe me? He was determined to think the worst of me.
*
As I let myself into the flat I could hear Flo crying in her bedroom. I hurried in and she was lying on her bed sobbing as if her world had come to an end. The shutters were closed and the room was in near darkness.
‘What’s happened, sweetheart?’
She sat up and I saw that
her beautiful brown hair was now a nasty brassy blonde! I rushed over to her and put my arm around her and the story came out between great hiccoughy sobs. She had decided to use the money Ben had put into her account to get her hair bleached. She thought that going blonde would be edgy so she and Rosie had set off after breakfast to look for a salon she could afford. The high street ones had been too expensive so they found some cheap backstreet hairdresser who must have applied a gallon of peroxide to Flo’s tender scalp. Honestly, I think the bloody woman had used toilet bleach! When she saw the result Flo knew it had been a terrible mistake. Rosie had tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable and had run all the way home. I was shocked when I touched her hair, not just at the colour but that her normally healthy hair felt dry and brittle.
‘My scalp is burning,’ she said.
That worried me.
‘Will I go bald?’ she wailed.
‘Of course not,’ I said firmly, while thinking that it was not impossible. ‘I’m going to look up some advice now,’ I added, as calmly as I could manage.
I went into the kitchen and furiously googled how to deal with a bad job of bleached hair. I found a terrifying article which said you should inspect the burn area. Redness and irritation could be treated at home but if there were open wounds, blistering or tissue damage you had to go to hospital. Vomiting and feeling faint was also a symptom of chemical burn. Flo had joined me in the kitchen and I shut down the article quickly.
‘I need to look at your scalp, darling.’
She let me inspect her head. Her scalp was red but there was no sign of blisters.
‘You’re not feeling sick or anything like that?’
‘No, not sick; all hot and itchy.’
‘OK. We need to get hold of some aloe vera lotion. That should soothe your scalp. I’m going to the pharmacy now. Do you want to come with me?’