Behind Her Back

by Jane Lythell

  ‘No! I can’t leave the house.’

  ‘OK, well I think you should run some cold water on your head to cool your scalp down.’

  I guided her into the bathroom and got her to kneel down and run cold water from the handheld shower onto her head.

  ‘Keep running the water as long as you can and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’

  Chalk Farm flat, Sunday

  By this morning Flo’s scalp had calmed down a bit. She told me it wasn’t hot any more but was still dry and itchy. It was a beautiful sunny day and I suggested we go to Regent’s Park and eat out, or maybe go on the boating lake which is one of our places. Her response had been emphatic.

  ‘No way am I going out looking like this!’

  She was determined to stay holed up in the flat all day. I got out our two deckchairs from my tiny shed and sat in the sun reading, reconciled to a day at home. Finally Flo emerged and stood on the threshold watching me. The deckchairs were new ones we bought recently as our last pair had fallen apart. Flo had chosen them and she always insisted on sitting on the one with the yellow and white stripes and left the green and white one to me. She sank down sorrowfully with a deep sigh and started a long phone conversation with Rosie in which she made her promise several times not to say a word about her hair to anyone.

  I went inside and made a jug of sparkling water with lime cordial, adding lots of ice cubes, brought the jug out and poured us both a beaker. I deadheaded the flowers and watered the plants in their pots and finally Flo said goodbye to Rosie.

  ‘Darling, were you given a skin test at that salon?’

  ‘A skin test?’

  ‘Yes, sweets, they’re supposed to test the bleach on your skin before they do anything. They’re supposed to do it twenty-four hours before.’

  ‘Nothing like that...’

  ‘What’s the name of the salon?’

  ‘Are you going to complain?’

  ‘Damn right I am. The woman is a menace and I’ll try to get your money back.’

  ‘It had a stupid name, Scissor Sisters,’ she said reluctantly.

  She hates me to make a fuss about anything relating to her. She started in on me then. Her position was that normal life could not resume until I paid a good salon to dye her hair brown again and why was I being so mean as to say no to that.

  ‘Because I’ve read up on it. Every article said you have to wait and let the scalp and hair recover before attempting any more colour changes.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘You’ll have to. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘I look like a freak.’ Her voice was rising which usually meant that tears were on their way.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ I said, privately thinking, Whose fault is that?

  We argued on and off for the next hour.

  ‘I was thinking maybe you’d like me to move your trip to Portsmouth forward?’

  She nodded.

  ‘At least no one knows me down there,’ she said tragically.

  I went inside and called Grace, Ben’s mum, and we agreed Flo would travel down on Tuesday. Pete would meet her at the station and she could stay ten days if she wanted to. I briefed Grace on the great hair drama and she promised me she would be diplomatic about Flo’s appearance and would stop her doing anything else to her hair. I returned to the garden and told Flo about the new arrangements.

  ‘It means I’ll miss Sophie’s party,’ she grumbled.

  ‘But you said you didn’t want to go out.’

  ‘I don’t, but if you’d pay to get my hair done...’

  ‘Once you’re back from Portsmouth I’ll book you into my salon.’

  ‘Why do I have to wait?’

  I’d had enough of her endless whining.

  ‘I’ve told you. That’s enough, Flo!’

  ‘You’re so mean.’

  ‘And you brought this on yourself. No one told you to go to that stupid salon.’

  She stormed off to her room in a fury and I heard her bedroom door slam. I sat down and picked up my book, wanting to escape into it, but I couldn’t settle to read. I went inside and tidied the sitting room and emptied the bins. I flattened our empty water bottles for the recycling box with more force than usual. I was fed up. The weekends are when I recharge my batteries in preparation for the week ahead. I resented Flo’s histrionics which had dominated most of the last two days.

  8

  StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

  Bob, Lori, the director, Ledley and I had assembled for the morning meeting to discuss the show. I was not looking forward to being in a room with Bob. Lori sat next to him, as I’ve noticed that she does every day. He avoided eye contact and said virtually nothing. I wondered if he felt ashamed about his behaviour at the awards ceremony. Ledley was looking smart in a cream linen suit with a pink shirt underneath. He kept pulling at his cuffs and I guessed the suit was new. When Julius had made the wearing of pastel colours a requirement for all presenters last year, I had told him there was no way I could get Ledley into a pink shirt. Times had changed indeed.

  As we rose to leave I heard Lori say to Bob that she’d like to buy him a coffee and they headed off together.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Liz? I wanted to brief you on my lunch with Lori,’ Ledley said.

  ‘Oh yes, how did it go?’

  ‘It was good, thanks. Fast and furious and she’s come up with loads of ideas and they all entail me fronting them.’

  ‘Do you like the ideas?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’d go into more detail but I’m needed at a photoshoot in Bond Street. Can I get my agent to send them through to you? I know you have to clear that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘Angela Hodge has taken me on,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard of her.’

  Angela Hodge had a reputation for being hard as nails. She would fight for the last penny for her clients and squeeze TV companies until the pips squeaked.

  ‘She’s great, a smart cookie. I’ll get her to call you.’

  This is the first time Ledley has wanted to get an agent involved. Our exchange was typical of our altered relationship. He would know of Angela Hodge’s reputation and in the past we might even have joked about it. Now he was calling her a smart cookie and not letting me into his thinking. We were talking in the coded language we so often use in television. I guess it was inevitable that with his higher profile he would see the need for an agent to fight his corner. We parted at the staircase and I joined my team.

  ‘Did you have a good time at the awards?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I had the best time; the company, the food, it was great. And how was the cocktail bar?’

  ‘Good,’ Simon said as Harriet said, ‘Tacky.’

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  ‘I didn’t see you holding back on the tacky cocktails,’ he said.

  ‘The cocktails were good but you’ve got to agree the decor was dead tacky,’ she said.

  ‘Ideas meeting at twelve noon in my office,’ I said, and left them to it.

  Guy Browne had sent through the script for his fashion slot. I always check it because although Harriet is learning fast she still sometimes misses things. His main item was the new focus on geometric prints. But he opened his script with a rundown on the fashion winners and losers from Friday night’s People’s TV Awards and he had included a photo of me among the winners! I was startled to see my picture attached to his script. Harriet must have sent him Ziggy’s photo of me on the Story World staircase. It was a good photo but I felt hot and awkward and got on the phone to him at once.

  ‘Thank you so much for your kind words but I can’t agree to you showing that pic of me.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘It would look like blatant self-promotion.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I chose it because you looked so good. That dress was the perfect choice for you.’

  ‘Thank you again, but I really am a be
hind-the-camera person. In fact, the very thought of you showing that pic makes me cringe.’

  ‘OK, I’ll drop it. Shame though, I loved that dress. They knew how to design beautiful dresses then,’ he said.

  ‘It was gorgeous. Can we have a coffee sometime soon? We have a new head of sales and marketing and she’s done a survey on the brands our viewers wear. It’s a small sample but I did say I’d show it to you.’

  ‘Happy to meet but with the caveat that I have to stay clear of endorsing any particular brands; it’s part of my deal with The Gloss.’

  Guy was the kind of man who could spot a bear trap at ten paces.

  ‘Understood and I told her that already.’

  ‘Shall we get together on Thursday after my slot?’ he said.

  We agreed to meet then. I held back on mentioning my idea about a competition with a fashion college as it needed more work. Lori Kerwell had rejected it but the concept had been growing on me. Harriet had good relationships with several fashion colleges, maybe we could find one local to the station and make it a community tie-in. And Ziggy could help Harriet with it because they worked well together.

  I went down to the Hub and got in the queue. Lori and Bob were sitting at a table, deep in conversation. Had that been going on since the end of the morning meeting? If so it was a long encounter and I wondered what they could be discussing at such length. Lori glanced up and saw that I was looking at them. Our eyes met briefly before I turned to the counter and ordered my coffee. I felt uncomfortable and realised that somehow I needed to reach out to her. She was a new member of staff and I didn’t want to make an enemy of her.

  Back in my office the phone rang and when I heard Douglas Pitlochry’s distinctive voice my spirits soared.

  ‘I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve found you a tracing company that I’m told is reputable,’ he said.

  He had been as good as his word and had followed up. He gave me the details of the company he recommended, which was called Brennan Investigations.

  ‘Thank you so much. I’ll look into them.’

  ‘And would you let me take you out to dinner?’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘I work most nights but I’m off on Thursdays. I wondered how you were fixed this week?’

  It was absurd but I felt breathless. Douglas Pitlochry was asking me out. I managed to say: ‘Thursday would be great.’

  ‘Do you live north or south, Liz?’

  ‘My flat’s in Chalk Farm.’

  ‘Then we’re almost neighbours. I live in Camden.’

  ‘Which bit of Camden?’

  ‘Do you know those new flats by the canal?’

  ‘You mean the metal ones?’

  ‘Yes, my son refers to it as my pod.’

  ‘I’ve seen them, and often wondered about them,’ I said.

  ‘Mine is minimal and easy to keep tidy, which suits me fine. I know somewhere we could go on Thursday. I’ve found this place tucked away behind Camden Road station. It has an odd fifties feel to it with booths to sit in but the chef is young and brilliant.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The Lizard Lounge,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘My dad used to call a man you couldn’t trust a lounge lizard. You don’t hear that phrase any more.’

  ‘I like that. It’s descriptive.’

  We arranged to meet at the Lizard Lounge at seven-thirty on Thursday. As I put the phone down I was as fluttery as a teenager who had got noticed by the classroom heart-throb. I’ve got a date with Douglas Pitlochry! I googled the Lizard Lounge. It was all battered leather booths and red and white lino squares on the floor and the menu looked interesting. Then I googled the flats by the canal in Camden Town. They’ve been written up in architectural journals and they do look like pods with their rounded metal façades. They have balconies over the canal and the windows are shaped like portholes. His comment about living in a flat he could keep tidy pointed to a man living alone. I told myself to stop behaving like an adolescent and called the team in for our ideas meeting, even though I felt like doing a cartwheel.

  Harriet was the first to suggest a story. She said an internet dating site had caused a row by implying that red hair and freckles were imperfections.

  ‘They had all these posters in the Tube showing a woman with red hair and freckles and their slogan was: “Someone will love your imperfections”.’

  Harriet has light red hair, the colour of apricots.

  ‘Oh yes, I saw one of those,’ I said.

  ‘There’s been loads of complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority. They’ve agreed to take the posters down as soon as possible.’

  ‘It’s a good peg for a story. We could do some vox pops on it, send the crew down to London Bridge and ask men and women with red hair whether they think they’re discriminated against,’ I said.

  ‘Actually, I was keen to use the crew to interview the wife of a Saudi blogger. She’s willing to talk about the agony of watching her husband receive a hundred lashes,’ Molly said.

  I had read that story too and it was gut-wrenching. Molly is always drawn to serious stories. I like to have a mix of light and shade on the show but Julius’s criticism was still front of mind. He might be on holiday in Cornwall but I was sure he would be watching the show from his hotel room.

  ‘Harriet can do the vox pops in the morning and you can do the interview in the afternoon. I’ll be holding your story back till September, Moll,’ I said.

  Molly’s face is an open book and she didn’t like this. I have given her oversight of our feature camera crew, which we get for one day a week, but it is not for her sole use. She pushed her dark blonde hair behind her ears and sighed in frustration.

  ‘Do we have to wait for transmission?’

  ‘I think we should. It’s bound to be harrowing and we agreed to aim for light-hearted stories this month,’ I said.

  ‘But everyone does silly season stories in August. Can’t we buck the trend?’

  Harriet looked offended. ‘I don’t think my story is silly season. It’s making a serious point.’

  Molly and Harriet do not see eye to eye and there is much that divides them; their backgrounds, for starters. Molly comes from a liberal Dutch family. She is serious, down to earth and likes doing human interest stories. Harriet’s background is the media establishment; her father is at the pinnacle of that world. She’s interested in fashion and in celebrity lifestyles and loves the party side of television. I’ve never seen them go to lunch together and Molly is convinced that Harriet got the job because her father is a newspaper editor who pulled strings. There was an atmosphere in the room and Simon the peacemaker stepped in.

  ‘We’re doing Beydaan again in a few weeks, aren’t we, Moll? Maybe we could make this part of a mini-series on heroic women who speak out in spite of the risk to themselves,’ he said.

  ‘I like that,’ I said.

  I made the right call when I promoted Simon to be my deputy. He gets on with everyone and has a good instinct on how to give context to our stories.

  ‘Can we get Ziggy in now, please? I want to discuss an idea.’

  Ziggy joined us, sitting down next to Harriet on the sofa and wrapping her arms tightly around her slim frame, which is something she does a lot. I think it’s a desire to protect herself against a hostile world. Ziggy is rarely comfortable in group meetings.

  ‘OK. I want to see if it’s feasible to run a Young Fashion Designer of the Year competition.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love that,’ Harriet said at once.

  ‘The idea appeals to me and I’d like you to lead on it, Harriet, with help from you, Ziggy. We need to find a reason for doing this and I like the community angle, finding a college close to the station. And it will hinge on Guy Browne agreeing to be the judge.’

  ‘I think he’d like it,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Why don’t you creative lot go and brainstorm it,’ I said.

  They left my room a
nd I clicked on the link to the Brennan Investigations website. There was a form where you put in your details and the service you required. I didn’t feel quite ready to start the ball rolling. I would call Ron Osborne tonight and give him one last chance to come good and build me some new French doors.

  Chalk Farm flat, 7.30 p.m.

  Flo was lying in a heap on her bed, stroking Mr Crooks and being listless at the thought of packing for Portsmouth. All she could talk about was her hair and how dreadful it looked.

  ‘Come on, I’ll help you pack.’

  She got up reluctantly and I plonked her case on the bed, scooting Mr Crooks off.

  ‘Can I borrow some of your scarves, Mum?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I need them to cover my hair.’

  ‘Darling, it doesn’t look that bad.’

  ‘Please.’

  We went through my scarves and she took the white one with black polka dots on it. She stood in front of her mirror and spent ages trying to tie it so that her hair was completely covered.

  ‘I’d hate to have to wear a scarf all the time. Granny called,’ she said.

  I was laying out her jeans and skirts on the bed.

  ‘She said we’re going to the Isle of Wight to stay in a hotel for a night or two.’

  ‘Lucky you, that will be a treat.’

  ‘Not looking like this it won’t,’ she said.

  She sighed and packed the jeans and her favourite black miniskirt and fetched her two bikinis.

  ‘There is a pool at the hotel. I’m going to have to wear a swimming cap though cos the chlorine will make my hair even worse.’

  I dug out her school swimming cap from the bottom drawer and her Speedo costume.

  ‘And I WhatsApped Dad about my hair but I didn’t Skype him because I don’t want him to see me looking like this.’

  No amount of comforting words from me was going to shift Flo from her tragic stance and I remembered that at fifteen I had been just as obsessed with my appearance. I zipped up her case.

  ‘All done, and now I’ve got a difficult call to make,’ I said.

  I went to my bedroom and dialled Ron Osborne’s mobile. I don’t know if he recognised my number and is ignoring me but it went to answer machine on the eighth ring.