by Penny Smith
‘Look, I’m sorry if you were under the impression that you were a shoo-in for the job. But I was told Simon had said there was no point in you applying for the post.’
Siobhan had gritted her teeth. Simon hadn’t told her. And she had been given the impression that she was a shoo-in for the job. And she knew exactly why he hadn’t seen fit to let her know. She had literally been sleeping with the enemy. What a fool. What a waste of her unquestionable talents. She wouldn’t have minded so much except that he was such a very inadequate lover, with an unattractive pouch of fat under his stomach and rather girly pink nipples. She curled her lip derisively. Lover! No love involved on either side. A business arrangement that had worked out well for him.
He would pay. She would make him pay.
A week later, she had gone into his office and told him she was pregnant. If an etiolated man could have been said to blanch, then he did.
‘I don’t know whether you and your wife,’ she imbued the word with venom, ‘would be prepared to bring up the child as your own?’ She let the sentence hover for a moment. ‘No. I thought not. Well, in that case, I suggest you hand me a cheque for the abortion at a private clinic. If you need the bill for your records, I will obviously supply it.’ She raised her eyebrows. She was hoping he wouldn’t demand proof, but if the worst came to the worst, she was fairly sure she could cobble something together.
He had been only too keen to write her a cheque–it seemed a small price to pay for the months of illicit sex he had been enjoying. Sex with attractive women had been in short supply. His wife–a woman of limited intelligence–had married him in haste after a threat of deportation. If he had been single, Simon would have been bragging to all and sundry that he had been bedding Siobhan Stamp…possibly even that she was pregnant with his super-sperm. He handed over the money and watched her departing figure with regret.
She had left the station, and reported from various windy locations up and down the country for smaller and smaller television companies. Her failure to be nice on the way up the presenting ladder had contributed to her descent and, eventually, with hatred in her heart, she had taken a job as a producer for a company called Wolf Days Productions. In the year that she had been there, she had made no friends. Her colleagues–mostly women–were either slightly scared of or loathed her.
They recognized a vulture when they saw one, even one in sheepskin clothing from Joseph.
She had, to her delight, managed to ensnare one man. She had been proud to announce her seduction of Nick Midhurst, one of the bosses. Keeping her claws sheathed, she had managed to charm him into her bed. Not for her the tenet of discretion being the better part of valour. That had been her downfall.
Nick had faced such a barrage of fury from his staff that he’d had a rethink and brought the blossoming romance to a swift end.
‘Very wise,’ said Adam, when informed. ‘Apparently she’s poisonous. Good worker, and very easy on the eye but, according to virtually everyone here, not the most pleasant of people.’
The company was a friendly one, and everyone was encouraged to air grievances to stop the backbiting that was endemic in the industry. There had been a steady stream of people going in to complain about their latest recruit.
She had seemed to accept the end of the affair with equanimity, and continued to work hard. But she had blotted her copybook irretrievably by trying surreptitiously to add Adam’s scalp to her belt. She had sent him a flurry of explicit texts, which he had shared with Nick. And that had sealed her fate. Her contract had not been renewed.
‘She has a circular bed and black satin sheets,’ revealed Nick, darkly, after she had cleared her desk.
‘Urk,’ said Adam, making a face. ‘Or was that pleasant?’
‘No. Very slippy. And you know…she’s not quite as beautiful without all the makeup. To be honest…sort of eel-like. And,’ he added, ‘she makes quite a lot of noise.’
Adam raised an eyebrow.
‘It begins with a miaow, then works up to a full-throated roar,’ he said.
‘Goodness,’ remarked Adam.
‘I have neighbours,’ said Nick. ‘Albeit a field away. I was worried they’d come round to see whether I was setting up a safari park.’
They left their office to find everyone breaking out bottles and biscuit barrels of celebration.
‘I hadn’t realized she was that unpopular,’ murmured Adam, taking a small plastic cup of champagne.
Siobhan, re-entering an hour later to collect a contacts book, had found a full-scale party going on. There had been a hideous silence as she stalked across the office, opened a drawer and extracted her property. She had nodded at the revellers, strode back across the office and slammed the door behind her.
There was an explosion of noise as it shut.
‘Phew,’ said Gemma, one of the young producers. ‘I thought for one awful moment that she was going to put some kind of evil spell on us.’
‘I know,’ said another producer, Rose. ‘She’ll no doubt be casting nasturtiums upon us as we speak.’
‘Aspersions, I think,’ muttered Adam.
‘That too,’ said Rose.
‘And that isn’t the same as casting spells, anyway,’ added Gemma.
‘Whatever,’ said Rose, flicking the ‘what’ and ‘ever’ signs using her middle three fingers.
Siobhan, meanwhile, was walking determinedly out of the building. ‘I will prevail,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I will get back at them. All of them.’
And, earlier than expected, she had found her chance.
At Celebrity X-Treme, she was the producer in charge of following up possible storylines and, boy, was she going to manipulate them. After the names of the contestants had been finalized, and before a frame had been shot, she had taken Paul Martin out to dinner. She had Googled him. Thirty-seven years old. Columnist. Handsome with thick, sandy hair and blue eyes. Single. Rich enough. Obsessed with television and football.
One thing she had discovered during her career was that few men would turn down the offer of free sex from an attractive woman. Within a week, she was manoeuvring him just where she wanted him. ‘Could I call this being in the pole position?’ she asked, as she shimmied into the bedroom where he had been waiting.
She had made one fatal mistake. She had taken off her makeup before emerging from the bathroom. Her deep-set eyes receded, and her translucent skin became blue. Her pale lips looked like a snake’s.
Paul Martin was keen to make his mark on this game show. He wanted to get into television, and that meant staying in the contest as long as was feasibly possible. Preferably, he wanted to win. He knew what Siobhan’s role was, and how useful she could be. And it helped that she was a cracking-looking bird. Until that moment…
Still, if he had to have sex with a woman who, without makeup, looked like a gonk, then so be it. He could have done without the black satin sheets. He hadn’t thought they existed outside the pages of his porn stash. But here they were. It was enough to put you off your stroke. And what was it with the baby-doll nightie and the high-heeled fluffy mules, which were click-clacking on the back of her heels as she sauntered towards him with a sultry smile?
Generally, he went for exotic, dark-haired beauties like Keera Keethley from Hello Britain! who, he felt sure, would never have bought a carpet with flowers etched into it such as the one he was looking at. He took a deep breath. Right, he thought. Here we go. Concentrate. He closed his eyes and threw himself into the breach.
The next-door neighbours looked at each other over their glasses as they sat in bed, reading.
‘The cat’s out again,’ said Mrs Smith, wearily, as the miaowing grew to a crescendo from the other side of the shared wall.
CHAPTER FOUR
Katie blew gently on her fingers as she listened to the morning briefing. Dog-sledding. Excellent. This was what she had worked towards all her life. The very pineapple of her career, as Mrs Malaprop said in The Rivals. Sheridan. Or She
raton? No. That was a hotel chain. Concentrate. Concentrate. Which is a strange word when you come to think of it. Because it can mean undiluted orange juice. Why did the man sit looking at the carton of orange juice? Because it said concentrate. Is undiluted concentration a tautology?
Oh, no, she thought, now I’ve missed more. If I wasn’t so tired…It can’t be that difficult. Stand on the ruddy sled. Unhook snow anchor. Foot off snow brake. Collect items en route in return for treats for your team. Hardly rocket science. If my fingers haven’t dropped off from frostbite, that is. That would be vaguely amusing, handing over a trinket and a dead finger. She wondered if it would come away like a scab…a slight sucking noise, and then a bit of a pop?
‘Sorry?’ she said, as the trainer asked her a question.
‘I asked if you were OK. You appear to be sleeping standing up. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said hurriedly.
‘What was it?’
‘It was…It was…Actually. No. I didn’t hear. Sorry’
‘Right,’ said the trainer. ‘This really is important. I’m not here for my own benefit. I’m trying to make sure that you don’t injure yourselves. Or the dogs. So, to recap for those who have dozed off, make sure you keep your foot on the snow brake when you go downhill so that you don’t catch the dogs’ paws. Keep your feet on the brake when you bend down to release the snow anchor. And always have your snow anchor thus…’ He hooked it over the side of the wooden shopping-trolley-shaped sled ‘…so that you don’t take anybody’s head off if you go careering past them. Not that you should. Because we’ll be docking points for silly, stupid or dangerous riding. In the worst case, we’ll send you home. All the items to be picked up are heavily wrapped with two stiff handles sticking up to make it easier. The enterprise will be timed. But it’s more important that you do this safely. And since it will all be filmed we can even retrospectively ban anyone who has flouted those safety rules. The routes are clearly marked. Team A will follow the blue flags. Team B will follow the red flags. You nominate three members from your team. I’ll give you twenty minutes.’
Katie stamped her feet in her enormous Arctic boots. One of her toes had been dead when it went in and it wasn’t about to kick into life any time soon.
‘One hoof beat for yes, two for no. Good horse,’ said Paul, nodding at her feet as he went past.
‘Are you in my team today?’ she asked. ‘Only I get so confused with this Team A and B stuff. Why can’t we all be on the same team?’
‘They want competition. Frrrriction.’ He rolled the r, and made a suggestive face.
I just want to be voted off and get home so I can read a bit of friction at home in my comfortable bed,’ she replied.
I cannot believe you’re saying that already. It’s two weeks out of your life. Get over yourself. I’m going to nominate you to do the trial. Give you something to think about instead of dreaming of home. Aren’t you enjoying any of it?’
‘My favourite things so far are: the snoring of my female companions every night, the loud guffing coming from your room and the deadly stench coming into ours, the smell of the drop loos and the stalactites of poo in them, the cold, the hat hair–oh, and the pointlessness of most of it.’
‘Well, tell them you’re going home and give them back the money,’ he said caustically.
‘Ay, there’s the rub,’ she said ruefully, tripping over a rock.
‘Mind that rock,’ he said, deadpan.
‘Thanks. It’s because of my dead toe.’
‘Do you want me to give it the kiss of life?’
She barked a laugh. I think it needs more than a kiss.’
I give very good foot.’
‘And that means?’
‘Well, it’s like good head, only with feet.’
‘Saucy,’ she said appreciatively. ‘I hope they’re not tuned into our mikes.’
‘We’ll never know,’ he said, lying.
Siobhan had told him what they’d be looking for, and he knew that he and Katie would be heavily featured.
‘I wonder if they’re watching us at home, or if we’re the final nail in the “celebrity-”–he made quote marks in the air–‘reality-show coffin. Would you watch if you were at home?’
‘I suppose I would if I knew someone in it,’ she said, after thinking for a moment. ‘Or if I saw clips of it somewhere and it looked good. I was hooked on the ice dancing. And the dancing, for that matter. On the other hand, they did go on for ever and ever. I’d grown a beard by the time it was over.’
‘An interesting use of your time. Big beard?’
‘Full Captain Haddock.’
‘Nice.’ He nodded appreciatively as he held open the door to the central hut for her.
She stamped her boots on the doormat to get rid of the snow, and put them neatly to one side. She then removed her enormous snowsuit and hung it on a hook. They opened the interior door to a wall of warmth coming from the newly stoked fire.
‘Why can’t it be this cosy at night?’ She groaned.
‘Because someone would have to keep it going–and make sure we weren’t all burned to a crisp by a stray faggot,’ said Denise Trench.
‘Are you talking about me?’ asked Alex Neil.
Katie shook her head and went to stick her toes on a piece of warm slate. ‘Shall we get this sorted, then?’ she asked. She looked around. ‘I’m only being bossy because…because, as you all know, I am bossy. Does anyone actually want to do this task?’
Four people nodded.
‘Remind me. Whose team are you all on?’
Paul and Crystal were Team A.
Peter and Tanya were Team B.
‘In which case, we need one more of each. Who can we bludgeon into this? Denise? You fancy it?’
‘No. I’ll do the washing-up.’
There was a slight groan. Denise was the kind of washer-upper who merely moved the dirt around. A dog would have licked the plates cleaner.
‘Flynn?’
‘I’ll do dog feeding and dog-poo shovelling afterwards. Those lovely ickle doggies are so bliss,’ said the astrologer to the stars.
‘Dave? You’d be great,’ Katie said sarcastically.
‘Don’t mind if I don’t. I have a cough coming on. A fercough, that is.’
‘Terribly amusing,’ said Katie, who found his idea of comedy deeply unfunny. ‘What will you do instead?’
‘I thought I might tidy my rheum.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ she said, normally the first to appreciate a bad pun. And really?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Bossy Boots. There’s always something needs doing that I can do.’
‘Alex?’
‘I honestly don’t think I’d be very good at it.’
‘Steve. It’s got to be you.’
‘Why? Make one of the others.’
‘This is ridiculous. I’ll have to go myself, even though I don’t want to. If nobody else volunteers, it’s the short-straw solution.’
They all looked at the fire.
Katie sighed and went to get the straws out of the box.
She didn’t see Paul’s foot move slightly, and before she knew where she was, she had cannoned into the table.
‘Whoops. The straw that broke the camel’s back,’ said Dave.
Are you all right?’ asked Paul, solicitously, scrambling to his feet.
‘Mm. Yup. Think so. Just a flesh wound on the leg. And one of my arms has been wrenched off completely. It’s all right, though. No one needs to worry. I’ve got spares on the other side.’ She rubbed her thigh. ‘I’ll be covered with bruises. At this rate I’ll be able to do join the dots.’
‘Maybe you’ll find it looks like a lovely big walrus,’ commented Alex, bitchily.
‘How kind,’ said Katie, sarcastically, smiling gaily at him. If she hadn’t marked him down as a horrid little queen, she would have been upset by his constant references to her weight.
She started picking up the straws, the
n hobbled over to the rest of them to find out who would be the sixth member of the dog-sledding teams. ‘Please let it be Dave,’ she prayed.
But it was Steve.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this, when I’ve got a perfectly good bus pass waiting for me at home,’ he said.
‘You’re here for the same reason as the rest of us,’ said Katie. ‘We need the money. Or the profile. Or both. And the sooner we get on with it, the sooner it’s over.’
‘I’m really looking forward to it, actually,’ said Peter, flexing his biceps and doing a drum roll on his washboard stomach.
Crystal gazed at him admiringly with her big blue eyes. ‘So am I,’ she simpered.
‘I can hardly wait,’ said Tanya, standing up and going to put on her snowsuit.
‘Do you need me to rub that thigh down later?’ asked Paul, as he and Katie made their way to the sleds.
‘As in with a block and a piece of sandpaper? You make it sound like it’s a dodgy bit of pine cupboard.’
‘Nothing wrong with a pine cupboard.’
‘And nothing wrong with my leg that a warm bath won’t sort out.’
‘I’ll be able to check that out for real with our hot-tub action tonight,’ he whispered close to her ear, bringing her out in goose-bumps.
‘Are you flirting with me?’ she asked him, looking directly into his eyes, and accidentally at his mouth while she was at it. Stop it, she thought. You’ve got a man at home. You’re just isolated and you need a hug.
‘I may be,’ he said, giving her a knowing look. Good, he thought. All going according to plan.
The cameras had caught the conversation on a long shot, and although the sound was low, it could be boosted in the edit. Siobhan had been alerted by one of the producers, and she made sure the director had clocked it too. This was like taking candy from a baby, she thought. ‘Let’s make sure the drinks cabinet is stocked high for this afternoon in the hot tub,’ she said. And then, she thought, light the taper and stand back for fireworks. If that wasn’t a hopeless metaphor, considering the damp.