by Penny Smith
She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a few hours. Enough to do at least six or nine units, I’d have thought. Where are the children?’
‘Oooh! Are these chocolate gingers, you naughty young lady?’ he asked, picking a piece of sticky tape from the side of the container. ‘They’re out with Louise. We have a very small window of opportunity before we have to escape to the shed to continue drinking in peace and quiet.’
‘How are they?’
‘Oh, you know, a chippy thirteen-year-old, a clingy ten-year-old, and a noisy three-year-old, whose new lorry you almost sat on. Sometimes I wish I’d had the snip.’
‘You love ’em.’ She laughed and poured the wine. ‘Cheers.’ They chinked glasses and there was a companionable silence as the liquid eased its way to the right places.
Richard and Louise had met as producers on Look West–and, in the throes of new love, he had swiftly given in to her demand for impregnation. Then she had quite reasonably said she didn’t want to leave it too long for another. He really couldn’t remember the third occasion, which had resulted in Brett. He claimed she had got him drunk on his birthday and the next thing he knew she was handing him the white plastic stick with a line through the middle of the window.
‘I do love them,’ Richard confirmed ruefully, getting up to go and get a board and a knife for the cheese, ‘but they’re knackering. It would help if we didn’t both work. What with me doing mostly nights, and Louise doing mostly days, we should have it all covered. Instead we’re always trying to sort out the gaps. God knows how single parents do it. I’d have to build some sort of cage to stop the children getting out. I thought it was bad enough when they were little and keeping us up all the time or getting into trouble. Now, we’re just a glorified taxi service. Daisy and Andrew have a bigger sporting and social life than we ever did. Even Brett gets out more than I do. Does life have to be this hard?’
‘You could try being sacked as the anchor of Britain’s foremost breakfast-television station and finding another job that paid as well’
He smiled. ‘Can’t Adam give you a job?’
‘He’s got me in to do voiceovers here and there. But all the things he’s been working on since we’ve been together have needed a different presenter from me. Or he puts my name down and the commissioning editor says they want someone else. I could do with losing about fifteen years and eight stone.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Television companies demand young flesh. Or less flesh, more youth.’
‘Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the National Debt,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Very funny’
‘I think a comedian said it.’
‘It’s so annoying when they say it first. I like the one that George Burns said about how when he was young the Dead Sea was only sick.’ She picked out one of the larger olives.
‘Anything at all in the pipeline?’
She sighed and puffed out her cheeks. ‘The usual. I get by on articles for newspapers and magazines and hosting corporate events.’
‘At least you haven’t got a thirteen-year-old stomping round the house, telling you she hates you and shutting herself up in her bedroom and picking her spots, or whatever she does.’
‘Aaah. Bless her little cotton socks. I remember Daisy when she was a sweet girl who adored her daddy. I still use her expression when I’m blow-drying my hair and it goes static’
He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘This hairbrush is making my hair ecstatic,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll come out the other side,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s puberty, not a life choice. It’s predictably tedious, though.’
‘Andrew hasn’t started it yet, has he?’
‘No. Something to look forward to. And Brett, when he’s not banging his head on the walls and developing his lunge technique, is adorable.’
‘Takes after you. Oh dear. I think my glass has got a hole in it.’
‘It’s a trick one. It always does that. I think mine’s got a slow leak, too.’ He leaned over and topped up the glasses. ‘There’s also the smell. Did you have a bedroom that needed a public-health warning slapped on it when you were a teenager?’
She looked horrified. ‘Do you know to whom you’re talking? Little Miss Tidy! My mother used to ask me to give a room a lick and a polish and she’d come in to find me behind the sofa trying to get the pile up on the carpet where the feet had been.’
‘Daisy goes berserk if you so much as suggest she wouldn’t get so many spots if she washed more often, put her clothes in the laundry basket and didn’t live in a pit.’
‘I hate to break confidences, but Dee’s still like that. I once found a cheese sandwich welded to the underneath of a fake Tiffany lamp.’
He laughed.
‘Talking of which, how are things at the funny farm?’ she asked.
‘Rod Fallon’s the dullest man on earth. He’s so dull, that I almost long for Mike to be brought back.’
Katie made a face.
‘I know,’ he said. I kept telling you he wasn’t what he seemed.’
‘I still can’t quite believe it, though. I didn’t think he had much of a sex drive.’
‘Hey, that’s a good one. A new version of kerb crawling. Get it?’
‘Yes, I get it. Doesn’t take a genius to get it,’ she said, in a quelling tone.
‘Yes, but I got it first.’
‘I wasn’t aware it was a competition,’ she said stiffly, and took a big slurp of wine. Then she smiled. ‘But ’oo would’ve thought, eh?’
‘Do you remember where you were when you heard he’d been arrested for kerb crawling?’
‘I was doing my first programme in Dorset for Wolf Days Productions, if you recall’
‘Of course. Do you keep in touch with him?’
‘You are joking? He was the one who wanted Keera in and me out, if you remember!’
‘Oops. Sorry. I plead breakfast-television lag.’
‘Talking of jet lag…did you know that it’s worse if you travel west to east because it’s easier to stay up late than get up earlier? And that in hamsters Viagra improved recovery by fifty per cent?’
‘Where do you get all this bollocks from?’
‘Wikipedia. Amazing what you find to do with your time when there’s lots of it. Strange thing, time. When you’re young birthdays take for ever and ever to come round. And now I’m…erm…thirty-six,’ she said carefully, both of them nodding at the lie, I feel like I’m on a time-travelling escalator. It’s like being at Yo Sushi! with them rushing towards you on the conveyor belt before you’re even done with the first one. My mum used to tell me I’d get to the point where I wouldn’t celebrate birthdays. I thought she was absolutely bonkers. Mad as a box of frogs. Off her chuff.’
‘Oh, those simple days, when all you had to worry about was whether you were going to get picked for the football team. And whether you were going to have sex with Jackie Fenter.’
‘Attractive, was she?’
‘No. Available.’ He cut another slice of cheese.
‘Whoops. My glass appears to be empty again. It requires more units,’ she observed.
‘Help yourself. My arm’s getting repetitive strain injury.’
She reached for the bottle. ‘You were telling me about Rod Fallón. The man with the charisma of plankton.’
‘Dull. Dull. Duller than any dishcloth. As dull as a smudge. I know they wanted to make sure we didn’t get another Mike, but he’s like a wet blanket, extinguishing any spark. Manages to render an exciting story dreary within a minute. And, as I predicted, Keera walks all over him. She’s become a monster.’
Katie loved hearing Keera bad-mouthed. ‘What’s she been doing?’ she said, eyes sparkling. She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward for the full gory details.
Richard smiled at her obvious relish. ‘You are so bad,’ he admonished her. ‘However. You know I told you she’
d insisted it was written into her contract that she was the main presenter?’
Katie nodded.
‘So she nabs whichever interview she wants. Talks all over him. And she’s taken to wilfully mishearing him because she thinks it’s funny Today she talked about a potato clock when he said he’d got up at eight o’clock. And she wouldn’t shut up. One interview had to be slashed to a minute and a half because she overran so much. Oh, and–you’re not going to believe this–Rod was taken out a fortnight ago by Derek in Wardrobe, to brighten him up.’
‘Fantastic. I wondered why he was beginning to look like a fruit salad.’
‘And then they waste all this money by dragging him to Savile Row. I ask you.’
‘Must have cost them a fortune.’
‘And he’s not happy.’
‘Bless.’
‘And neither is Keera. She says it makes her look like she’s a backing singer.’
‘Bless.’
‘Exactly We’ve stopped it now, because it’s boring, but we started having a verbal sweepstake on what fruit he’d resemble next.’
She looked at the big clock on the wall. ‘How long have we got before we get swamped by children?’
‘I’ll give Louise a ring,’ he said, and stood up to get his mobile phone out of his pocket. He had a short conversation/Half an hour,’ he announced.
‘So drink up. And tell me more.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re an addict. OK. Another Keera story, then. She was telling us she’d gone to see Swan Lake. She’s been trying to up her cultural quotient. So she said to Heather, “And then the owl died at the end.’”
Katie laughed. ‘She did not!’
‘She did. And Heather said, “Are you sure you don’t mean the black swan?” Keera looked at her in that way that you know the penny’s suddenly dropped, and said, “Whatever.” I tell you, it was one of the funniest things. It’s a shame she didn’t say it on air.’
‘Talking of daft things to say,’ said Katie, ‘did I tell you about my appearance on Saturday Morning Kitchen, or whatever it’s called? Afterwards, they asked me if I could do a few random statements, like what’s my favourite ring tone or whatever. So I said yes. And they asked me about my favourite snack to have in front of the telly. I said, “Are you rolling?” They said yes. So I said, “My favourite snack to eat in front of the television is cock porn. Sorry. Did I just say cock porn? Can I do that again?” So they said yes and I started again. “My favourite snack to eat in front of the television is cock porn. Did I say cock porn again? I did? I mean popcorn. Obviously.” And I had to do it three times. Three times. I hadn’t even got the excuse that I was knackered from the early mornings.’
As Katie and Richard broached their second bottle–and the children arrived back to find them giggling uncontrollably at the kitchen table–Dee, the weather presenter, was getting ready to have a bath…and was about to make a splash both literally and figuratively. Later, she blamed it on the tiredness that afflicts all breakfast-television presenters.
She had taken the tube to Highbury and Islington, then hoofed it to Oliver’s house. Feeling hot and sweaty, she had given him a big kiss and belted upstairs to go and wash her feet. With hindsight, she should have had a shower. But at the time it had seemed eminently sensible to stick them in the bath. After all, it was only her feet that needed a freshen-up after running about in thick nylon tights. She couldn’t explain how it had happened. She had washed one foot in the high, clawed-foot bath, then lifted the other and fallen backwards. Scrabbling to keep her balance, one foot had gone into the loo, beside the bath, and then there was a funny sound as it went round the Liberia. Boy, did it hurt! She yelped, tears came into her eyes and she collapsed onto the floor.
Oliver, while trying to be comforting, couldn’t help laughing. ‘What an idiot,’ he said, gently cradling the ankle in his hands. ‘You know what? I think you’ve broken it.’
And she had.
He had driven her to A and E, where she had been put in plaster and sent home with painkillers. She phoned the television station from the car to warn them that she was going to be on crutches for a bit.
The next morning in the makeup department, Dee was explaining what had happened. ‘I can’t believe how stupid it all was. You couldn’t make it up. One minute I’m washing my feet, the next I’m upside-down with one of them stuck in the toilet. I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so painful. What a thoroughly thick thing to do. Thicker than an Aran sweater.’
‘Ah. They’re lovely and warm, though,’ said Vanda, the makeup artist. ‘Just like you,’ she said, cloyingly.
‘Creep,’ laughed Heather, who had come in to tell Dee that there was a problem with her weather graphics.
‘Whereas you,’ said Vanda, with a sidelong look at Heather, whom she liked, ‘are like a sweater from a pound shop. Not very warm at all’
‘And an odd shape,’ added Heather. ‘Or maybe a jumper made out of different yarns. Mixed up, confused and liable to fall apart on a cold wash!’
They all laughed as Keera floated in. It was her new way of walking. She had been watching an Audrey Hepburn film and decided that languid was the new black.
‘Something funny?’
‘No,’ said Dee, her grin still lingering.
‘Well, you’re all laughing.’
‘Just deciding what kind of jumpers we are. I’m a thick Aran sweater,’ she began.
‘Well, I’ll be a superfine cashmere with a hint of silk, then,’ said Keera.
There was a small silence.
‘Yes. Good. Excellent choice,’ said Dee.
Keera sashayed out of the room to check her outfit.
‘“Excellent choice,” mimicked Vanda. ‘What are you like?’ She shook her head.
‘Well, I hadn’t explained why I was thick, had I?’
‘She didn’t give you a chance. And she’d never have got it, anyway’
‘No. If anything, she’s a double-ply thick jumper with moths.’
‘Or maybe a big hairy sweater!’ said Vanda.
They giggled.
Keera swayed back in. ‘Oh, my God! What’s happened to your leg?’ she shrieked, as she suddenly noticed the plaster on Dee’s ankle. Her voice was much higher than she’d meant it to be, so she added another sentence in a lower range. ‘Are you going to be out of action for long?’
‘Broke my ankle washing my feet.’
‘I assume you’re kidding?’
‘Nope. One foot in the bath, one foot out of the bath. Staggered about, foot went in the lavvy, broke my ankle in the U-bend.’
‘You’re making that up,’ said Keera, aghast.
‘God’s honest,’ said Dee.
‘Well. How, erm…’
‘Idiotic?’ smiled Dee.
‘Um. Yes,’ said Keera. If she had put what she thought into words, she would have said, ‘How weird. And how incredibly annoying, because that is so going to make it into the papers.’
It wasn’t that Keera was short of column inches, but she absolutely hated it when anyone else got them. She’d have to phone her publicist and see if there wasn’t something he could do.
CHAPTER THREE
In a minimalist flat in Chelsea, the radio alarm clicked. Ten o’clock. It was the most beautiful crisp, wintry morning. The sun was shining in a pale blue sky, there was a light wind, and a bird was chirping somewhere nearby.
There was no reason for Katie to put an alarm on, but she felt that grown-ups ought to have some sort of structure or things would start to go wrong. Not that she had always believed that. In the weeks and months following her sacking from Hello Britain!, she had relished the shapelessness of her days. Afternoons running into evenings, late evenings running into two days later…the strangeness of looking at her watch and not having a clue whether it was five in the morning or five in the afternoon. But that had become boring in itself. Boring and, much worse than that, it had made her fatter and spottier. Eating outside normal hours
resulted in endless snacking from nearby fast-food outlets–and organic chocolate was still chocolate.
She stretched and eventually pulled herself away from Woman’s Hour on Radio 4 to make herself a pot of tea. She clicked her computer on, and as it hummed into life, she pulled a couple of eyelashes out as she contemplated the day. For some reason, gently pulling on eyelashes until one gave itself up made her feel happy. She examined them closely. Good thick bulbous roots.
‘I feel heppy,’ she said out loud, in an upper-crust accent. ‘Oi feel ’appy,’ she said again, using a really bad East End accent. ‘Eye feel haffy,’ she said, stretching her lips really thinly, and keeping her teeth together.
She spooned loose leaves into the teapot and put a mug, a strainer and a nice milk jug onto a tray. Even at her most slovenly (and slovenly, for Katie, meant socks worn two days in a row), she liked a proper tea tray. She went back to bed, pulled the duvet up and grabbed her laptop as her tea mashed. ‘Je suis heureuse,’ she said huskily, with her head on one side as she clicked on her emails. ‘Ich bin happy,’ she reiterated, with her chin jutting forward.
A number of little boxes popped up, and Katie (happily) went through them. ‘Hmm,’ she said, as one opened with a job offer, passed on from her agent’s office. She read it thoroughly, then went back to the beginning to read it again.
On Woman’s Hour, they were discussing wages. ‘Because of the difference in wages for men and women, basically for one month of the year, women don’t get paid,’ someone was saying.
‘Oh, yes, they jolly well might,’ Katie said to the radio, getting out of bed to find her phone.
She called her agent.
‘Jim Break.’
‘Katie Fisher,’ she announced.
‘Well, hello, Ms Fisher. I can only assume you’re calling about the offer from Celebrity X-Treme that I sent you on email last night.’
‘That I am,’ she said.
‘And what are your thoughts?’
‘Well, my first thought is what a lot of money. My second is…what is everyone else being offered? My third is…who is everyone else? My fourth is…has it bloody well come to this? Because we both know that unless I get an offer of a job pretty damn smartish, I’m going to run out of savings. There’s a limit to how many articles I can write about being a woman in her forties on television. Or a woman in her forties off television, to be more accurate. And guesting on shows where they’ve run out of guests.’