After the Break

by Penny Smith

  After the Break

  PENNY SMITH

  To my brothers and sister

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Also by Penny Smith

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  It is a well-known fact that celebrity game shows are only for those who crave fame, more fame or fortune. The producers of Celebrity X-Treme had trawled the usual suspects for their new show, set in Norway. They were trying to get the last two people to sign up, but had already decided on a number of possible storylines. They wouldn’t be so much manipulating (an accusation they vehemently denied) as helping things along.

  A meeting of executive producers, producers and directors had been convened at the headquarters of the production company before many of them flew out. Siobhan Stamp, the striking woman who would oversee the entire thing, stood at the front of the room. She was slim, with translucent skin and deep-set blue eyes, which were always lined with kohl pencil. Today her strawberry blonde hair was tied back loosely, and a few tendrils had been teased in front of her ears. I know we’ve been through the list over and over again, whittling it down and discussing it ad infinitum, but I thought I’d just make sure we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet. So, let’s go…Denise Trench.’

  A picture of her appeared on the screen behind.

  ‘Lead singer in Label. Two hits. Won the Eurovision Song Contest. Twice in rehab–alcohol and drugs. Single. Ageing woman-about-town.’

  The picture changed to that of a page-three model who had been allegedly ‘comforting’ a Premier League footballer after his marriage split. ‘Crystal Blake,’ said Siobhan. ‘Tony Belt, of Arsenal, says he’s categorically not dating her, and never has. Which seems likely, considering she’s willing to do Celebrity X-Treme. Young, but not as dim as you might think.’

  She turned to look at the next photo, of a woman who bore a striking similarity to Naomi Campbell. ‘Tanya Wilton. Has had a two-year relationship with Howard Elph, the shadow environment minister, who has since ended his marriage. But they are no longer an item. Seems to have no visible means of support.’

  One of the male producers sniggered. Tanya Wilton was a natural G cup.

  Siobhan smiled at him. Little did he know it, but she had plans for him. She paused. Looked back to the screen. ‘Flynn O’Mara. Astrologer to the stars. Married to her manager. Two children. Columns in the Mail and various glossy magazines.’

  The handsome face of a soap star filled the screen. ‘Peter Philbin. His contract hasn’t been renewed. He says it’s his choice. He wants to go travelling, possibly trace his real parents in Jamaica and Ireland.’ She had imbued that sentence with a degree of cynicism.

  ‘Dave Beal,’ she went on. ‘Comedian of the old school. Fifty.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath–he looked at least fifteen years older.

  ‘Hasn’t worked on television for years. Mostly lives abroad. Did very well out of the property boom. Unlike Steve Flyte…’ The face of the man who had been in all the papers talking about his divorce from a renowned cocaine-snorting actress appeared behind her. ‘DJ. Confirmed heterosexual’ She left it there. Everyone knew that he batted for both sides. ‘Helping out when they’re busy’, as one member of staff had put it.

  ‘Paul Martin. Columnist/rent-a-quote, getting a higher profile by the week. Says he’s doing this to have an insight into the world of the celebrity. Often to be seen at premières, parties, nightclubs, et cetera. And…’

  She turned to check.

  ‘Alex Neil. Clothes designer. Gay. Single. No long relationships. Finally, Katie Fisher,’ she said, trying not to sound venomous. ‘Katie used to be one of the main anchors on Hello Britain!. She got sacked. Did a late-night series called Start the Weekend. Currently dating Adam Williams, one of the owners of Wolf Days Productions.’

  She looked down at her notes. ‘Now, as you know, Katie Fisher and Flynn O’Mara are not confirmed as yet, and a couple of others are waiting in the wings. In terms of stories coming out of the show, we do anticipate at least one relationship. And when I say relationship, I don’t necessarily mean one resulting in marriage. But if we can all keep our eyes peeled–you know the sort of thing we want. I don’t need to tell you that the success of this will rest on what keeps viewers on the edge of their seats. Will he, won’t he? Will she, won’t she? They’ve all got massive egos. That’s why they’re in this show. We want flirting, we want fights. We want confrontations, conflagrations. We want a soap opera. Let’s give the audience the best reality TV show they’ve seen in the last decade.’

  Katie Fisher had not set out to be a television presenter. She had wanted to be a journalist ever since she could remember, and had been ecstatic when she had got a job as a cub reporter on a local newspaper. She had worked her way up from there to the job she had loved as co-host on the number-one breakfast show.

  When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman in her forties with clear skin, wavy auburn hair and green eyes. On a good day, she felt passable. On a bad day, she felt almost too dreadful to approach the front door, let alone walk through it.

  What the men who fell in love with her saw was a woman in her prime with sparkling eyes and a body made for the bedroom.

  Katie had made enough money during her years on the prestigious sofa at Hello Britain! to have a flat in Chelsea overlooking the river, and a pretty cottage in Dorset, which she had bought after she’d done a chat show in a nearby village. It had seen a lot of use during her relationship, now ended, with landscape gardener Bob Hewlett. He lived in a beautiful house near her parents and was one of her brother’s best friends. He looked like a blue-eyed Richard Gere, had the most attractive forearms and a cat called Caligula.

  Months of bliss had been brought to an abrupt halt by a stray remark from a friend, who revealed that Bob’s protestations of faithfulness during a temporary split had been overstated. He had apparently indulged in a fling with a marine biologist called Clare McMurray, who continued to keep in touch.

  Katie discovered her jealous gene, which she had previously thought missing.

  One of her great friends, Dee–the weather presenter at Hello Britain!–wasn’t convinced that this was the end of Katie and Bob. She had never seen Katie as happy, funny, silly and full of the joys of life as she had been with Mr Hewlett.

  Katie and she met up at the gym they had joined in a drunken pact at New Year. They were now familiar with the café’s offerings, rather less so with the inside of the adjoining gym. They sat drinking herbal tea in their tracksuits, having done no more than change into them. Dee had (as usual) claimed fatigue from the early mornings. Katie had (as usual) pleaded idleness. The window was open, allowing an occasional waft of vaguely fresh air to blow through.

  ‘Yes, I know I did the dirty on Bob first,’ said Katie, taking an accidentally noisy slurp of her tea. ‘He lied to me, though, for months. And that is unforgivable.’

  ‘To be fair,’ said Dee, ‘you probably wouldn’t have told him about that bloke, Krishnan Casey, if it h
adn’t been in the papers.’

  ‘How on earth can you remember his name?’ asked Katie, impressed.

  ‘He was very good-looking and I always remember very good-looking men.’

  ‘Well. Anyway,’ said Katie, ‘the point is, I only kissed him. And kissing someone is not the same as going to bed with them. Not in my book.’

  ‘But you’d split up. Bob was a single man to all intents and purposes. He thought he could go at it with impunity.’

  ‘Her name was Clare.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said he was at it with Impunity’

  ‘If you don’t want to discuss it, then tell me to shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with your crap punning today.’

  ‘Oooh,’ sang Katie, lips pursed.

  ‘No. Really. I’m knackered. Simon’s being a total tit and keeps hunting me down in corridors to tell me I’m shit and that he doesn’t know why I bother. Why can’t they get a different editor? I don’t believe the entire success of Hello Britain! rests on his skinny arse.’

  Simon had been one of those responsible for Katie leaving the show. He was a vindictive man with sparse hair and a penchant for weak tea with sugar.

  ‘Try not to worry too much,’ said Katie, immediately solicitous. ‘He can’t get rid of you, you’re too popular.’

  ‘You know that’s only as true as my last press cutting,’ Dee responded. ‘The only reason he wouldn’t sack me is because he sacked you. If he got rid of another presenter, it would look bad.’

  ‘To lose one presenter is unfortunate. To lose two is careless.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Dee smiled, reaching back to untie her dark hair from the elastic band she had shoved it into for the alleged workout. ‘It’s exhausting. I say something on air, then wait for him to come and tell me how rubbish it was. It’s doing my head in. It’s got to the stage where I start a sentence and then, because I’m worried, I don’t finish it. So it actually is shit. As he says it is.’

  They sipped their infusions, contemplating the man they both disliked.

  ‘Which flavour is this?’ asked Katie.

  ‘Passionfruit and vanilla, I think. Why?’

  ‘They all taste the same. Like tangy hot water. They always smell nicer than they are. What’s yours?’

  ‘Mandarin and grapefruit.’ Dee offered it, and Katie took a sip.

  ‘Yup. Tastes like mine.’ She put down her own cup, pondering the infidelity question. ‘It’s about honesty. At any stage, Bob could have told me he’d shagged that woman. But he didn’t.’

  ‘He only lied by omission.’

  ‘No. He lied. I asked him what he’d got up to while we were in limbo–’

  ‘Separated,’ corrected Dee.

  ‘Whatever. And he said he’d missed me–and that’s mostly what he did. Pined. Or some such tosh.’

  ‘You can miss someone and sleep with someone else, can’t you? To get over it, perhaps?’ asked Dee, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘In that case, he should have told me,’ said Katie, emphatically.

  ‘Maybe he thought you wouldn’t understand. You can be a bit, erm…’

  Katie smiled at her friend as she searched for the right word. ‘Yes, I know I can be stroppy. But he should have tried. It was much worse the way he did it. Anyway. It’s all over. For ever,’ she said, standing up and draining her cup.

  Dee reached for her bag and sighed. ‘Well, I think it’s a crying shame. You two were brilliant together.’

  Katie looked arch. ‘I’ve got a date tonight.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ asked Dee, her eyes alight with enquiry.

  ‘With Matt Damon.’

  ‘No. Really?’ Dee demanded disbelievingly.

  ‘No. Not really,’ Katie agreed. ‘The next best thing, though. Adam Williams.’

  ‘Oh, God, he’s gorgeous,’ said Dee, elongating the word, and trying to zip up her overflowing gym bag.

  Adam Williams and Nick Midhurst were co-owners of Wolf Days Productions, the company that had produced Start the Weekend in Dorset.

  They were both extraordinarily handsome. If Adam looked like Matt Damon, then Nick bore more than a passing resemblance to Ben Affleck.

  ‘He’s not only gorgeous, he’s also very nice,’ said Katie, running both hands through her long hair, bringing it forwards over her face and peeping seductively through the strands. ‘And he isn’t a lying toe-rag,’ she added provocatively.

  ‘Bob isn’t a toe-rag,’ Dee asserted, rising to the bait. And this is all a bit quick, isn’t it? You finish with one, and another pops up before you’ve put the lid on the pen, or whatever the expression is.’

  ‘Bonnet on the pig?’

  ‘Whatever. So how did that happen?’

  ‘He phoned me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And asked if I was free tonight.’

  ‘And this was?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘And you’ve waited until now to tell me?’

  ‘I was building up to it.’

  ‘You were toying with me, is what you were.’

  ‘I admit to a certain amount of toyness,’ said Katie, with a laugh. ‘And now I’m going to spend the rest of the day getting ready. Should I have my legs waxed and my bikini line done?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Dee, horrified. ‘Go out with your legs like a plucked chicken and walking in a funny way?’

  ‘I don’t walk in a funny way after my bikini wax.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t doing it right, then.’

  ‘How can they do it in the wrong way?’

  ‘Not taking enough off.’

  ‘This is not,’ said Katie, ‘a top-trumps to see how much of a trim one gets. I refuse to have it bald, like some pre-pubescent schoolgirl. I’m an adult, with body hair. One doesn’t have to have an entire bush under which to shelter when it’s raining but one does need a little tidy-round from time to time.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dee. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Talking of which, do you have to wear awfully big pants to cover up the, er, hedgerow?’

  Katie smiled. ‘Enough already. If I can’t wax, I’ll have to go out as a scary hairy Mary. Which means trousers or a skirt and boots.’

  ‘Well, while you spend many happy hours pondering your outfit, I’m going home to kip. Oliver and I are off to the cinema tonight.’

  Oliver was a proctologist, and a great friend of Katie’s doctor brother Ben, who was now a consultant anaesthetist at a large London hospital.

  ‘Well, wish me luck, then,’ said Katie, putting on her coat and pushing the chair in towards the table.

  ‘Good luck–as if you need it.’

  Katie was glowing. Her hair was shining, her green eyes glittering with anticipation.

  ‘How the bloody hell do you look so good, considering your vast age?’ asked Dee.

  ‘Oi. I’ll have you know that early forties is the new early thirties. And, in all seriousness, not getting up at sparrow’s fart every morning is one of the greatest aids to youth. I’m finally getting my beauty sleep. In fact, the only fly in my ointment is the lack of a job, and therefore a certain restriction on my spending.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ said Dee, with exaggeratedly weary acceptance. ‘I’ll stump up for the tea.’ She made a slow move towards the till, shoulders slumped.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Katie, picking up her sports bag. She caught up with Dee, gave her a kiss on the cheek and left her. As she got to the door, she turned. ‘Give my love to Oliver,’ she called. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow and give you a blow-by-blow account.’ She made a suggestive face.

  ‘You are disgusting,’ said Dee, without looking up from her purse.

  Katie’s evening was everything she had hoped it would be–and more.

  Adam was charming, witty, and very, very flirty. He and Nick had both fallen for the presenter of their show the first time they had seen her. But Nick was away supervising filming in France, and Adam had stolen a march on his rival. He
had absolutely no intention of letting his business partner know that he was seeing Katie for dinner–or that she was single.

  As soon as he had heard on the grapevine that Katie and Bob had split up, he had begun his campaign. He was enough of a hunter to let her think he knew nothing of the separation and was merely after a discussion of future projects in a ‘more comfortable environment than the glass box that is my office’.

  It had been an unnecessary subterfuge.

  Katie considered dinner with any man to be a prelude to intimacy. ‘They may say it’s about work,’ she bragged to her friend Kirsty, whom she’d phoned from the back of a cab on the way home from the gym, ‘but if it was, they’d do it where I couldn’t pounce on them.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to let him do the pouncing?’ asked Kirsty, who was pregnant with her second child and couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to pounce anywhere.

  ‘We may do a double pounce,’ Katie pronounced.

  ‘With a triple salchow?’

  ‘Absolutely. Followed by a…erm…’

  ‘Ha. Stumped, my little fat friend,’ said Kirsty, triumphantly.

  ‘I think you’ll find that you are going to be my little fat friend before too long,’ said Katie, sliding to the other side of the cab as the driver swung round a bend too fast. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Vomiting a lot, which isn’t great. Actually, I wouldn’t mind so much if I thought I could eat more without putting on too much weight. But I’m eating dry biscuits to keep it down, and I’m going through two packets a day. And then I’ve got this awful craving for pickled beetroot. I get up, throw up, eat biscuits, throw up, eat pickled beetroot, get heartburn, go to bed and start the cycle all over again. And I have the midwife saying I’ve got to hold off on the biscuits and not eat so much beetroot. At the moment I’ve got spots round my mouth from being sick, got red pee, red poo and Fred has left a deposit of something on one shoulder.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Katie, solicitously. ‘Nothing I can do, I assume?’

  ‘Take Fred off my hands occasionally?’

  ‘If you’re desperate enough to ask me to take him, you must be in a bad way. Of course I will. But you know I’m not that good when they’re little. In a couple of years’ time I’ll be taking him out and about all over the shop. Tea at the Ritz. A tour of the National Gallery. Whatever.’