Behind Her Back

by Jane Lythell

  Fizzy loves to dramatise things and the notion of a safe house made me think of spies and John le Carré novels, which I read avidly. I wanted to ask her where the safe house was, whose place it was, but Fizzy had wanted my flat to be a safe house for her and those two words hung in the air between us. I didn’t enquire further.

  *

  I went upstairs and called my team together and Ziggy joined us. I was veering between lowness about the show and excitement about my date with Douglas tonight. I asked them what they thought about the programme. Molly was the first to speak and the most blunt, as she usually is.

  ‘I much preferred it when Fizzy was solo. I mean, what’s with this always having to be a male–female pairing? It’s so conventional,’ she said.

  ‘It could work because Ledley can be funny and good to watch, but he looked the junior one today, didn’t he?’ Harriet ventured.

  ‘They were trying to look like they were the best of friends but if felt forced, and forced is not good. The show works when the presenters are being genuine, well, as genuine as TV presenters can be,’ Simon said.

  ‘What did you make of it, Ziggy?’ I asked her gently. Ziggy is bright and comes at most subjects from a different angle from the rest of the team, but she is shy and rarely volunteers an opinion. She wasn’t looking well and had dark circles under her eyes. When Ziggy is upset her face takes on a pinched look and becomes the face of a much older woman on her young body.

  ‘I liked the item about the different breads,’ she said.

  ‘Good, we should build up Ledley’s role around food. He’s on strong ground there. Can we please think up interesting food stories and make this a regular feature,’ I said.

  ‘Is Fizzy going to interview all the celebrity guests?’ It was Harriet.

  ‘Most of them, and she’ll do Guy and Gerry, but I thought Ledley could interview Betty. Would that work, Simon?’

  Betty adored Simon and he always produced her item and shortlisted the letters she discussed on air. She had even invited him out to her house in Windsor for a Sunday lunch once.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Betty gets on with Ledley, better than with Fizzy, actually. They could be prickly with each other sometimes,’ he said.

  It was true that there had been an occasional coolness between Fizzy and Betty. Betty was a middle-aged, comfortable and deeply conventional woman. After Fizzy had announced her pregnancy on air and said she would be bringing up her child as a lone parent, this coolness between them had grown. Betty thought children should be reared by two parents and she and I had crossed swords on this issue.

  ‘We’re going to have to find some really strong, hard-hitting issues for Betty to discuss with him. Ledley needs some items of real substance or he will look like a spare part,’ I said.

  We had to make it work but it was clear that my team shared my reservations about the new set-up. They left me and I went back to scrolling through our viewers’ comments about that day’s show.

  *

  Around five-thirty I started to get ready for my date with Douglas. He had asked me to get to his place as near to seven as I could. He wanted to show me his pod, he said, and he’d booked us a table for eight. Flo was staying over at Rosie’s and I could stay at his if I wanted to. I had prepared for that by bringing a change of clothes into the office. And I was wearing my prettiest bra under my shirt. I wondered if tonight would be the night Douglas and I took things to the next level. As I freshened my make-up and squirted perfume on my hair I brought his face to mind. I was attracted to him, but I still hardly knew him. The thought of staying with him was both exciting and agitating. Molly burst into my room.

  ‘Have you seen Lou Gibson’s piece?’ she said.

  She looked alarmed.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘She’s just posted it up. You need to read it. She mentions you.’

  I was straight to my desk and googled the news site and there was her piece with the headline: Sofa Wars at StoryWorld! I speed-read the article and my stomach plummeted three floors. Lou had painted a picture of open hostilities at StoryWorld over the imposition of Ledley as Fizzy’s co-host. She had made much of Fizzy going off to have her baby, only to return to find her role seriously diminished. She said viewers were disgusted at this treatment of Fizzy Wentworth who was a much loved presenter and who had managed to present the show very successfully on her own for years. Lou laid on her feminist outrage with a trowel. But the killer bit came near the end:

  It is believed that head of features, Liz Lyon, who has herself come up against the macho and bullying culture at the TV station, is horrified at the change in presentation arrangements. One source said that Liz Lyon is working tirelessly behind the scenes to get Fizzy returned to the solo spot.

  This appalled me and made me feel quite sick. Simon came into the room. He had seen the piece too and he looked as worried as Molly.

  ‘She made it all up. I said nothing like that. How could she do that?’

  Simon closed the door.

  ‘Did she speak to you?’

  ‘Yes. She called me here. She was insistent but I held the line. Last night she was waiting outside the building. That’s when she tried to put words into my mouth, but I said nothing, nothing at all, only the line we’d agreed. She’s invented all this.’

  ‘She’s written it carefully, she said “it is believed” rather than saying it’s a direct quote from you,’ Simon said.

  I read the article again and I felt even more shaky. The article was like a rock hurled into a pool and its ripples would spread and spread.

  ‘This will play badly with Julius and with Saul Relph. Very badly indeed. They’ll think I’m stirring things up.’

  ‘Go and speak to Julius now. Tell him what happened,’ Simon said.

  ‘I think you should call Lou Gibson and tell her she’s lying and that you want an immediate retraction or you’ll report her,’ Molly said.

  I looked from Molly to Simon, trying to get my thoughts in order. I was on the edge of panic.

  ‘I need to speak to Julius.’

  I got up and hurried to the door. Simon opened it for me and he patted my arm as I walked past him.

  ‘It will be OK. Tell him what happened,’ he said.

  When I reached Martine’s desk I saw his office was empty and when I tried his door it was locked. She was nowhere to be seen but had not gone for the day as her shopping bag was by her desk. I sat and waited for her, trying to control the fearful feelings that were building in me. I needed to speak to Julius before he saw the article. At last Martine walked back from the Ladies.

  ‘Are you OK, Liz? You look pale.’

  ‘I need to contact Julius at once. A bloody journalist has written a really inflammatory piece.’

  ‘About Fizzy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t get him now. He’s meeting a major sponsor and he told me no calls. You could try him after eight.’

  ‘Damn. I won’t be able to ring him then.’

  ‘Leave a message?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to him, to explain.’

  We were closer these days and I could confide in her.

  ‘Can I show it to you?’

  I sat down next to her and tapped in the name of the site. She saw the headline and read the article.

  ‘It’s a complete fabrication. She accosted me outside the station but I did not say one word of that to her.’

  ‘I hate journalists, they’ve got no morals at all,’ Martine said.

  She stood up and unlocked the door to his office.

  ‘Call him in here.’

  I dialled his mobile. Martine stayed in the room with me and closed the door. She knew this was serious as I stammered out to his answer machine what had happened.

  Thursday evening, Camden Town

  It was six-forty when I took the Tube to Camden Town. From the Tube I walked quickly to Douglas’s flat, my heart still beating too fast from the stress. I was clutching my mo
bile in case Julius called me back but I would have to turn it off before I met Douglas. He couldn’t overhear any conversation Julius and I might have. Douglas’s block of flats overlooked the Grand Union Canal and were approached by a flight of steps at the side of the bridge. I went down the steps and checked my phone for one last time before I turned it off. I was late. I took a deep breath to steady myself and punched in the number of his flat on the electronic keypad. His voice, slightly distorted, came through the grille.

  ‘Hi, Liz. Take the lift to the first floor.’

  He met me at the lift.

  ‘Sorry, I’m later than I intended.’ I was breathless.

  He led me into his flat.

  ‘Welcome to my pod,’ he said, spreading his arms wide.

  ‘Do show me around.’

  I tried to focus and sound normal. It was a three-bedroomed flat, two doubles and one single. One double room looked like it was his son’s, judging by the sports equipment lying on the floor and the posters on the wall. The other double, the master bedroom, had a good view of the canal but it was strangely impersonal, as if he hadn’t the time, or the inclination, to add his touches. He was using the single bedroom as his office and this was messy with books and papers piled on the desk and the floor. The flat had two bathrooms and there was a nice smell of his aftershave in one but otherwise these too felt impersonal, like hotel bathrooms. His kitchen was modern with state-of-the-art equipment. There was a shortage of utensils and I noticed a single recipe book, the Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course, on the shelf. It was rather touching that he didn’t have more stuff. It was the kitchen of a single man starting out again.

  The sitting room was the nicest room and looked more lived in. It was a good size and had three large porthole windows looking out over the canal. The floor was black and white ceramic tiles. There was a red leather chesterfield with a footstool in front of it. A chaise longue upholstered in pale yellow taffeta was placed by the windows. Both pieces of furniture looked broken in and I guessed that they had come from the family home, as had the table lamps placed around the room, probably. I remembered the whole process of dividing our furniture, our music and our books when Ben and I split up, and how for a while our furniture, bought hopefully as a couple, felt tainted by the failure of the marriage. I wondered if Douglas felt that way. I stood at the middle window and looked out. On the other side of the canal stood a terrace of elegant townhouses with long windows and high ceilings and I thought that I would prefer to live in those more traditional spaces. Then I blushed. Why was I even thinking like that?

  Douglas brought out a bottle of wine from the kitchen.

  ‘White OK?’

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  I sat down on the chesterfield and he joined me there, placing a cushion at the base of his spine. He poured us each a glass of pale-straw coloured wine.

  ‘I like the way you’ve put the red and yellow together,’ I said.

  ‘Me too, though I’m sure I’m breaking all interior design rules. These pieces used to be in different rooms, properly colour coordinated rooms,’ he said, handing me a glass.

  I recalled that his wife ran an interior design company. We clinked glasses and I took a large mouthful of the wine which was cold and delicious. I was still feeling stressed and thought I must be sounding strained. I took another mouthful.

  ‘Are you making any progress with the crook builder?’

  ‘Oh, him! I wrote this legalistic letter giving him seven days to return my deposit or I’d take action. I sent it special delivery and I know he got it. He ignored it, of course. So I’ve made my claim with the small claims court.’

  ‘Good for you. He sounds an arsehole.’

  We drank our way through the wine far too fast but it helped me to relax. Douglas wriggled up the sofa closer to me and we started to kiss, shyly and awkwardly to begin with, then getting more passionate until we were both half reclining on the Chesterfield and my shirt was unbuttoned. I could have had sex with him at that moment. Eventually, he pulled away from me and his face was flushed. I was sure mine was bright pink too.

  ‘I’d better tell the restaurant we’re running late,’ he said.

  He called them and I adjusted my clothing and we both left the flat reluctantly.

  La Bougie Bistro, Camden Town

  We held hands as we walked to the bistro which was on a side road near the Camden Road railway bridge. A train thundered over our heads as we crossed underneath. Douglas had his back cushion tucked under his arm. The bistro had a discreet brown exterior with the words La Bougie written in faded gold letters above the door.

  ‘Another place I didn’t know about,’ I said.

  ‘It gets its custom through word of mouth.’

  Douglas pushed the door open and we were met by a wonderful smell of roasting meats and herbs. He had reserved us a table away from the window and he put his cushion in place as he sat down. A thought flashed through my head: did Douglas have problems with sex because of his bad back? I found myself blushing again like a schoolgirl. The waiter presented us with handwritten menus. There was a select list of dishes and I saw that steak tartare was on offer.

  ‘I’m sure I’m unsophisticated but the idea of eating raw meat with a raw egg on top revolts me,’ I said.

  He laughed.

  ‘It doesn’t revolt me, but it’s not my first choice, for sure.’

  We both chose the French onion soup which came in brown tureens and was rich, dark and sweet with a lovely cheesy crouton floating in its centre. It was a meal in itself and I needed it after all the wine I had drunk. Our main courses arrived, both beautifully presented on our plates. I had chosen sea bass with crab bisque and Douglas had ordered grilled calf’s liver. We were on another bottle of wine which was slipping down beautifully. I was enjoying being with him and had almost buried my anxiety about work. It was Douglas who raised the issue of our exes. He said one of the things he and Claire had always clashed about was how their home looked.

  ‘She drove me mad with her obsession about having the perfect home. Interior design is her thing, you see, and she could never relax until the house looked immaculate. We could never relax either, or leave anything lying around!’

  ‘And now you can be as untidy as you want but your place looked pretty neat to me,’ I said.

  ‘Except for my office... and I tidied up before you came. How long ago did you split up with your ex?’

  ‘Eight years ago. My little Flo was seven and she took it hard.’

  I was waiting for him to ask me why we had broken up, but he didn’t go there and I was grateful for that. I would not have wanted to talk about Ben’s gambling addiction; it would have felt disloyal.

  ‘How do you manage it now? Are you civil with each other?’ he asked.

  ‘Civil, yes; you have to be when there’s a child involved. The first two years were horrible. He was furious with me because I had initiated the break-up and we didn’t talk to each other, we snarled. It settled down eventually. Ben lives in Dubai now. It means he sees less of Flo than he used to. I regret that but I have to say it does make things easier.’

  I was burning to know more about his separation which was far more recent. The article I’d read implied that his wife had left him. I took a sip of my wine.

  ‘Has your separation been civil?’

  There was something in his face as he answered me. Was it pain or contempt? I didn’t know him well enough and couldn’t read his expression.

  ‘There’s still a lot of anger and blame, so much blame. We are barely civil but, like you, we have to keep communicating because of Stewart.’

  ‘The whole blame thing is miserable, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Miserable and petty,’ he said.

  He wasn’t over it. I could see that he was still in the thick of separating from her, untangling the ties that had bound them. It takes years to get over the break-up of a marriage and his had lasted far longer than mine. Go carefully here,
I told myself as he leaned forward and poured more wine into my glass.

  ‘Where does your son live?’

  ‘Some of the time with me and some of the time with Claire. At weekends Stew and I go down to my mum’s in Norfolk when Norwich are playing. We’re both die-hard Norwich fans.’

  He grinned at me and I fancied him so much at that moment and wished we were back at his flat on the sofa kissing even if he was still on the rebound. I didn’t really need this meal of rich food, delicious though it was.

  ‘I’ve stayed on good terms with Ben’s parents. That’s helped and Flo sees a lot of them,’ I said.

  ‘You’re lucky there. Claire’s mum detests me. Always has. She probably popped a bottle of champagne when we split up!’

  I wanted to know more. I would have thought that Douglas as a successful news journalist would be seen as the model son-in-law.

  ‘Why didn’t you get on?’

  ‘Because Natalie Cooper is convinced I’m a pinko. She’s a true blue Tory from the Shires, the sort of woman who has a loud voice and is rude to waiters and cab drivers.’

  I didn’t have Douglas down as a leftie but then, like most news journalists, he was careful to appear neutral when covering politics on television.

  ‘And are you a pinko?’ I smiled at him.

  I knew from my researches on Wikipedia that his father had been a small farmer who had had to sell up and become a farm manager; Douglas had implied on an earlier date that money had been short when he was a boy.

  ‘I hate the whole privileged entitled thing, you know. But enough of our exes. Tell me, how has Fizzy taken the change in her role?’ he said.

  I did not want to talk about work at all. I had just about got my anxiety under control. Was it possible that Douglas had seen the Lou Gibson piece? I had to remember that he worked for the opposition and I couldn’t allow myself to open up to him.

  ‘You noticed? Do you watch our show every day?’

  ‘No, I read about in the trades. Maybe they were making too much of it but they implied that Fizzy was taking it hard?’

  I felt myself clamming up. This change of direction in the conversation was a definite passion cooler.