Behind Her Back

by Jane Lythell

  ‘Now that is something I would be interested in getting involved with.’

  I was delighted. Guy would make an excellent mentor to young fashion students and it would be thrilling for them to get guidance from such a respected expert.

  I hurried back to the station and called in Harriet and Ziggy.

  ‘Guy is up for being a judge so the competition is a goer,’ I said.

  Harriet, who doesn’t usually show much enthusiasm for things, actually clapped her hands and Ziggy grinned at her.

  ‘And you two take the credit for doing the legwork on this. Thank you both very much. The next step is for me to work this up into a sponsorship document and share it with Julius.’

  ‘When can we launch it?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘It will take at least two months to get this off the ground, maybe longer,’ I said.

  After they’d gone I opened my home email account and there was a message from Brennan Investigations. They had attached a photo and a simple query:

  Is this the subject?

  I downloaded the photo. It showed Ron Osborne in what looked like a holiday snap. He was standing on a sunny terrace with bougainvillea trailing on the white wall behind him and a bright blue sky above. He was wearing shorts and a shirt that was undone halfway down his chest. I was ridiculously pleased to see it. Gotcha, I thought, and emailed straight back:

  Yes, that is Ron Osborne.

  They emailed me his address in Bedfordshire. It might have cost me a hundred and twenty-five pounds to get hold of it but I am cock-a-hoop. And it’s all thanks to Douglas.

  Later, I changed into my date dress, reapplied mascara and lipstick and squirted perfume onto my hair. At the top of the staircase I met Julius and we walked down to the exit together.

  ‘You weren’t wearing that dress this morning,’ he said.

  ‘I changed because I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘Going anywhere exciting?’

  He was the last person I would tell that I had a date with Douglas Pitlochry. For a man who valued his own privacy, Julius could be probing at times.

  ‘Supper with a friend in Camden.’

  ‘Nice dress,’ he said as he walked out of the building.

  The Lizard Lounge, King’s Cross, 7.35 p.m.

  When I entered the Lizard Lounge my stomach was all a-flutter. I scanned the room and saw Douglas sitting in a booth. Even in that dim lighting I could see that he didn’t look well. He stood up awkwardly as I slid into the seat opposite him.

  ‘Liz, I’m so sorry, we’re going to have to pass on dinner. I’ve been throwing up all afternoon.’

  ‘Oh no! You should have cancelled.’

  ‘I didn’t want to cancel. I took something for it but, well, it’s not helping.’

  He sat down again as the bartender came over and asked us what we wanted. Douglas was wearing a white linen shirt open at the neck and his face was almost as white as his shirt.

  ‘Umm, I’ll have a tonic water and what would you like, Liz?’

  ‘A gin and tonic would be nice but...’

  Douglas ordered our drinks.

  ‘But... I think you need to go home. You’re awfully pale,’ I said.

  I felt a crushing disappointment that our evening would be over before it had started but he looked in a bad way.

  ‘Excuse me one minute, please,’ he said.

  He hurried to the gents’ toilet and I noticed that he walked as if his back was hurting him. I imagined him throwing up in the toilet bowl. He had chosen not to cancel our date, which was gallant of him, but he must have been regretting it now. The bartender returned with our drinks and a bowl of pretzels. Mine was a double gin and I added a splash of tonic and took a large gulp to steady my nerves. Douglas came back and sat down gingerly.

  ‘Sorry about that. I think it’s best I go in a minute but tell me, is there any news about the crook builder?’

  He took a sip of tonic while I filled him in on the developments as fast as I could.

  ‘When they sent the photo through it was so exciting and now I’ve got his address. Brennan Investigations were great, so thank you so much.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  ‘Now I think you should go home.’

  ‘I feel awful leaving you to finish your drink.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘I’m away this weekend but can we do a rerun next Thursday? Let me make it up to you.’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure. Now please go.’

  He paid the bartender and left the Lounge. I drank my gin and tonic and ate all the pretzels and considered ordering a second drink. The first few times I went into a bar on my own I felt self-conscious, but I don’t any more. As first dates go it ranked as a bit of a disaster and I was disappointed at how it had turned out, but he had seemed keen to meet again and I hugged that feeling to myself as I left the Lizard Lounge and headed for home.

  12

  StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

  Julius opened the morning meeting by praising Bob’s lead story. The news team had done an in-depth piece on the collapse of a high street chain. Not only had thousands of shop workers lost their jobs but their once robust pension scheme had been raided by the men running the chain. It now carried a huge deficit and their pensions were in jeopardy. Bob’s report had been scathing about the conduct of the bosses but had stayed on the right side of libel.

  ‘I liked your use of the term “vampire capitalism”. I’ve not heard that before,’ Julius said.

  ‘They’ve been complete bastards. If they were normal folk they’d be behind bars by now,’ Bob said.

  ‘It made my blood boil. How do they sleep at night?’ Ledley said.

  Lori turned to Bob.

  ‘Have you ever thought about running a dedicated business slot?’

  Bob shook his head.

  ‘Wouldn’t work. There’s too many out there already. We can’t compete with Wake Up To Money or the Bloombergs.’

  ‘Fair point, but I was thinking of a softer business slot, one that profiled UK success stories, good news rather than bad news,’ she said.

  ‘We do those stories as and when they come up. There’s not enough to justify a regular slot,’ he said.

  I thought Bob had got that right. Good news stories were few and far between. Ledley pitched in:

  ‘What about running some stories on UK food companies, you know small businesses that are doing well and changing what we eat? I’m thinking here of UK vineyards; English cheeses, artisan breads, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That could work as a feature series,’ I said.

  ‘I’m more interested in us profiling bigger companies, FTSE 100 companies,’ Lori said.

  There was a pause in our discussions. I’m sure Bob felt what Julius and I felt, that profiling FTSE 100 companies were not, nor ever would be, box office. Lori was no programme maker. Julius pulled his papers together.

  ‘That’s a wrap,’ he said.

  Lori looked put out that her idea had been snubbed. She pressed her lips together so that they went pale, then clutched her lever arch file to her chest like a shield.

  *

  We are holding Fizzy’s party at four o’clock today and after the meeting Martine and I went through her list to check we had thought of everything.

  ‘I got Fizzy’s dressing room cleaned in case little Zachary needs a nap. And Loida is coming with them,’ she said.

  ‘Good call.’

  ‘I think we need some orange juice. Some people like it with their prosecco.’

  ‘Ziggy can get a couple of cartons from the Hub.’

  I had ordered a lot of prosecco from a wine warehouse on a sale-and-return basis; because it was a Friday I had a feeling the party might run on.

  Mid-morning I received an email from Ledley’s agent Angela Hodge. She had attached a list of marketing ideas, mainly related to food but not exclusively, which Lori Kerwell was keen for Ledley to front. As he is a features presenter an
d is paid out of my budget it was up to me to clear them. Angela Hodge made the point that Ledley was keen to do all the events listed and she had added notes under every idea.

  Some of the suggestions were outlandish. One required him to judge a best pie competition for League One football clubs. This would entail him travelling to far-flung stadia to sample the pies on offer on match days. His agent had written under this: As you know, Ledley is renowned for his Jamaican patties and we think this is a good match with his brand. Then there was a request for him to be part of a panel of judges for an ice-sculpture contest. This was being run in the Midlands to launch a dancing on ice show at a major venue in Birmingham. Angela’s comment here was: Ledley thinks this will be a lot of fun and they are paying well.

  I guessed that he was being paid well for all these appearances. I decided I would agree to the full list of ideas, however outlandish. Ledley only had two weeks left of being the main anchor at StoryWorld and if he wanted to make the most of it and earn some cash who was I to stand in his way? None of these ideas required a tie-in with our programme content, only the presence of Ledley to give the events some star appeal. I thought I should keep Julius in the loop and rang Martine.

  ‘Pop down now, he’s going out in ten,’ she said.

  I hurried to his office and presented the list to Julius.

  ‘These all came from Lori. She wants Ledley to front them and I’m minded to say yes but I wanted you to see the list,’ I said.

  He took the sheet from me. As I’d walked in he was putting the phone down and he looked tense.

  ‘Ice Extravaganza? Hell’s teeth! You sure you want him to go so downmarket?’ he said.

  ‘He wants to make the most of his last two weeks on the sofa and who can blame him? If you don’t mind I don’t mind. It won’t impact on our programming.’

  Julius was looking uncomfortable and he ran his left hand round the back of his jacket as if he was easing the collar. Usually he is the one who favours the more populist end of the spectrum and I couldn’t understand his discomfort.

  ‘And meat pies... really?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a good meat pie, as Bob would say.’

  Like Fizzy, Bob came from Burnley, but unlike her he had clung to his northern identity and frequently derided the effete taste in food and drink which we southern softies favoured. Julius handed the sheet back to me.

  ‘OK, they sound ghastly but you can approve them,’ he said.

  ‘And Julius...?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please let Saul Relph know that I am being cooperative with Lori.’

  *

  Martine and I did a last check of the meeting room. It looked festive with Martine’s embroidered tablecloth covering the prosaic meeting table. Platters of cakes and sausage rolls were arranged around a central posy of flowers in a jug and we had laid out the champagne flutes and the tea things on a side table. Fizzy, Loida and Zachary arrived at ten to four in a taxi and Martine and I met them in reception. Loida was carrying a load of baby equipment and we helped her carry this to Fizzy’s dressing room. There were fresh flowers in there too and I guessed that Martine had done that. Fizzy stood in front of her full-length mirror and surveyed her reflection.

  ‘God, it’s good to be here again.’

  ‘We’ve missed you so much,’ Martine said.

  Fizzy hugged Martine while Loida unpacked the changing mat and baby wipes and disposable nappies.

  ‘Best I change him before you take him upstairs,’ she said.

  Zachary was dressed in a sailor suit and looked adorable.

  ‘Could Ellen take a quick look at my make-up?’ Fizzy asked.

  I went to get Ellen and then headed upstairs and tapped on Julius’s door.

  ‘Fizzy’s in her dressing room and it would be a nice gesture if you brought her up,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said.

  I went into the meeting room and told everyone that Fizzy was in the building and she would be with us soon. The room was filling fast. Friday was the day of Gerry’s slot so I had expected him to be there. He was standing by the window talking to Harriet. Betty had made a special journey in and was chatting to Ledley. Henry the floor manager and two of the directors were sitting at the end of the room. A crowd of the news team had come along and were clustered by the table where the food and drink was laid out. There was no sign of Bob. I asked my team to hand out glasses and pour the prosecco so that we could toast Fizzy when she made her entrance.

  Julius came in with Fizzy carrying Zachary and there was a spontaneous outburst of applause. We had kept a seat for Fizzy at the top of the table and Martine directed her there with Ellen in attendance. Once Fizzy was seated with Zachary on her lap and a glass in her hand, Julius made a toast.

  ‘To our queen of StoryWorld and her little prince; to Fizzy and Zachary,’ he said.

  ‘To Fizzy and Zachary,’ we all repeated enthusiastically as Bob walked into the room. Even though he and I are now foes I felt for him at that moment. He must have been under intense pressure, desperate to catch his first sight of his son but also feeling exposed. Simon offered him a glass of prosecco but he shook his head and moved around the table so he could get nearer to Zachary. I went over to join Henry and the directors.

  ‘Nice idea to do this, I heard it was yours,’ Henry said.

  ‘Well, a baby and cake, what’s not to like?’ I said.

  People were queuing up to get close and to compliment Fizzy on her baby son. I saw Betty chatting with her for a while, no doubt giving her lots of advice. My team had graduated to handing out slices of cake and sausage rolls and Martine was allowed to hold Zachary while Fizzy accepted a small sliver of lemon drizzle cake which she ate daintily with a fork. Bob was working his way towards her with Ledley behind him. Finally, he was standing in front of her.

  ‘He looks a great little lad,’ I heard him say in a strangled voice.

  ‘Thank you, I’m told he’s big for his age,’ Fizzy replied.

  His eyes had locked on Zachary and there was such a hunger there. I was struck by the sadness of the moment. Here was a father seeing his son for the first time and it should have been an intimate moment, not a moment shared with a crowd of colleagues. He was probably longing to hold Zachary but of course he could not. He could not give himself away as the secret father. I thought then that my reaction had been wrong. Perhaps I should have laid my grudge aside, however justified it was, and allowed a private meeting to take place at my flat. I tried to push the feeling down but a knot of guilt had lodged itself. It made me feel ill at ease as the prosecco continued to be poured and the party continued well past our usual leaving time.

  Scissor Sisters, Chalk Farm, Saturday morning

  The salon was in a miserable parade of shops with a betting shop on one side and a doner kebab bar on the other. The white plastic sign above the window had a pair of scissors between the two words. I spent a moment looking at the price list which was stuck in the window. Flo was such an innocent to have gone into this place. One glance had told me it was a no-go area. On my walk to the salon I had been formulating what I would say to the hairstylist. Seeing the shop now I knew any chance of getting a refund was remote. I pushed open the door. One woman was painting the nails of a client and there was that acrid smell of varnish remover in the salon. Another client, who looked like a pensioner, was sitting under one of those old-fashioned hair-dryers, like a beehive. A tall blonde woman came over to the desk and the appointment book. She must have been six feet tall and her hair was pulled back tightly into a high ponytail.

  ‘You need an appointment?’

  She had a strong Russian accent.

  ‘I need to speak to the manager,’ I said.

  ‘I am the manager.’

  ‘Then I have to tell you that you caused major discomfort to my daughter. You dyed her hair blonde last Saturday and you did not do a skin test. Her scalp was on fire.’

  Her chin had flown up at my accusa
tion.

  ‘You are wrong,’ she said.

  ‘I am not. Her name is Florence Lyon. She’ll be in your book.’

  She slapped the appointment book shut and placed her hand on it.

  ‘You are wrong,’ she repeated.

  ‘You didn’t do a skin test. Her hair is ruined and I would like a full refund.’

  Her face was like a mask but two spots of pink had formed on her cheekbones.

  ‘You leave my salon now. You are a very rude woman,’ she said loudly.

  The woman having her nails painted and the other stylist had turned their heads to look at us. The old lady under the hair dryer was oblivious to the drama. I wasn’t going to get Flo’s money back but I was going to make my point.

  ‘You make a habit of it, do you? Taking money from young girls and ruining their hair?’ I said it loudly too.

  ‘You go now or I call my brother.’

  She picked up the white phone on the desk and was punching in numbers. I could imagine a burly Russian brother pitching up. It was time to go.

  ‘I’ll be reporting you,’ I said as I pulled the door open. I had sounded confident but I hurried away expecting the arrival of Russian mafia-types at any moment. I was glad when I reached the familiar shops of my high street.

  Chalk Farm flat, Saturday evening

  The flat was so quiet without Flo’s chatter, even if her chatter was not usually with me but to her friends on FaceTime. She was on the Isle of Wight with Grace and Pete and there had been no word from her. This was a good sign as it meant that she was content but I was missing the sense of purpose that I get from her being around and needing me. I would do something useful; a major sort-out of my clothes was required. A friend had told me about doing that declutter thing where you hold up an item of clothing and ask yourself ‘does this bring joy into my life?’ If the answer isn’t a yes then it goes straight into a bin bag for the charity shop. I opened my wardrobe which was overfull and tried the formula on several pieces. The joy question just wasn’t working for me. Instead I made a pile of the clothes I hadn’t worn for the last five years and bagged them up. I then spent an age colour-coding my remaining clothes and shoes and getting a sense of satisfaction from this task. I thought about Douglas Pitlochry a few times, wondering where he was spending the weekend and whether his son lived with him or with his wife.