After the Break

by Penny Smith

  The phone rang. She glanced at caller ID. Oliver. She swallowed quickly. ‘Hi, handsome. Is it important? I’m watching Katie on X-Treme.’

  ‘Shall I come round? I’m about five hundred yards from your door as we speak.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ She threw down the phone, turned the TV volume to ear-splitting and, with one eye on the screen, hurriedly tidied up. Or as much as she could with her ankle in plaster. Dee claimed that only boring people had immaculate flats. She liked to misquote Erma Bombeck: ‘My second favourite household chore is tidying. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.’

  She stuffed three more biscuits into her mouth as she went past the bed to the laundry basket, and almost choked on the dry crumbs. She cleaned her teeth, spitting soggy biscuit and toothpaste all over the wash-basin, then lobbed everything in the bathroom into a carrier-bag lying on the floor, which already contained disposable razors she hadn’t disposed of. In the absence of air-freshener, she sprayed perfume round the flat. As she cleared five mugs in various stages of fermentation from the coffee-table, the doorbell rang.

  Dee did a final check in the bedroom and, after poking a pair of grubby knickers under the bed, let Oliver in. She had met him at a comedy club where he had been hoping to make his mark with tales from the world of doctoring. Specifically, the bottom end of doctoring. His material had been good, but he had been overcome with a rare attack of nerves. He had made such a hash of it and had confessed afterwards that the insertion of a small pine tree up his rectum without lubricant would have been marginally more pleasant.

  ‘Have you ever done that, then?’ Dee had asked, with interest.

  ‘Not without lubrication,’ he had replied.

  They had agreed later–much, much later and with far fewer clothes on–that their relationship had essentially started from that moment.

  Oliver gave her a massive, warm, wraparound kiss as he came into the flat, wearing his rumpled doctoring clothes and smelling of hospital. ‘Going deaf, are we?’ he asked, as they shuffled, glued together at the hips, into the bedroom.

  ‘Just listening out for Katie,’ she mumbled into his mouth, before reaching for the volume control and turning it down.

  They crunched heavily onto the bed.

  ‘I think you may have large bed-bugs, which we’ve squashed,’ he said.

  ‘I think you may find it’s a packet of biscuits,’ she replied, pulling back the duvet to reveal a crumbly mess.

  ‘Was a packet of biscuits,’ he corrected.

  ‘Sssh–Katie.’ She gestured at the screen. ‘Oh. She won’t like that–I wouldn’t like it,’ she commented, as Katie’s hips and thighs were shown in unforgiving close-up.

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Oliver said. ‘Much worse. And, anyway, it’s the insides that count.’

  They cuddled together for the last twenty minutes of the show, and as the credits rolled, they began the serious part of the evening, emerging from the duvet half an hour later, comprehensively covered with beige biscuit crumbs and looking like scampi.

  ‘You smell much better now,’ she muttered into his neck.

  ‘I can’t smell a thing. There’s an overriding scent of perfume in here. But you are very edible.’ He picked a large piece of biscuit off her hair. ‘Just out of interest, why is Katie doing this?’

  ‘Money. And because it sounded fun. Apparently.’

  ‘Doesn’t this devalue the product?’

  ‘It would have done years ago, maybe. Nowadays, it’s almost de rigueur.’

  ‘But this is a woman who would have been doing stories about…oh, I don’t know…famines in Africa, floods in Bangladesh, bank meltdowns, sleaze in politics, and there she is falling backwards into a Jacuzzi with her swimming costume riding up and a man who’s not her boyfriend making eyes at her.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dee, slowly, ‘but she’s not, or rather she wasn’t, that kind of serious. We’re not talking John Humphrys here. Katie would be the last person to say she was a serious journalist. More a journalist who could tackle serious issues. Can I use the word “serious” any more, do we think?’

  ‘Seriously…’

  ‘It’s about integrity. If you have it, you retain it. And I’m almost sure…’ She trailed off. ‘I’m almost sure that Katie will therefore…although…on the other hand…’

  ‘On the other hand?’

  ‘Yes. Anyhow, it’s pointless talking about it. She’s doing it. And she’s got another week or so to go. The newspapers have done very little about her so far. You must have seen all the Crystal-Peter Philbin stuff, though. Gives them an excuse to feature a lot of pictures of them both without their vests on, despite the chill in the air. Oh, and about that alleged comedian Dave Beal and his awful jokes. Nasty piece of work. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t turn out to be a wife-batterer.’

  ‘Do you need me to go so you can get some sleep?’ asked Oliver, suddenly noticing the time.

  ‘Probably. Although I’m not doing much tomorrow apart from Hello Britain!. I could always have a nap when I get home mid-morning.’

  He drew her to him again. ‘In that case, the doctor may start practising his bedside manner again.’

  ‘Oooh, Matron,’ said Dee, sinking down on the bed.

  At Hello Britain! they were all watching Celebrity X-Treme with varying degrees of delight.

  Richard, who was putting the show out the next day, was considering sending a round-robin email reminding people to vote. Or would that put Keera’s nose out of joint? He couldn’t see the harm in it. No one from Hello Britain! was in it, so it wasn’t as though there was a conflict of interest. But Keera was a tricksy character, and there was no point in getting on the wrong side of her.

  He looked at his watch.

  Where was Heather? His producer wasn’t normally late. He asked the runner to give her a ring at home.

  ‘There’s no answer. And I’ve rung her mobile and it goes straight to voicemail,’ said the runner.

  ‘Shit,’ Richard said. ‘Can you just do a double-check to make sure she’s on shift? I may have got it wrong.’

  He hadn’t.

  He left a message on her home phone in case she had overslept, then phoned again and left a louder one. He took her address from the computer and gave it to the runner. ‘She normally drives herself in, but get the cab company to go round and ring on the doorbell. Tell them not to leave until they’ve knocked her up.’

  The runner smirked.

  ‘Don’t be smutty,’ Richard said. ‘And get them to ring us as soon as she’s in the car.’ He turned back to the screen, and smiled. Katie was making very good television. He did wonder whether Adam would be happy with the flirting going on between her and the columnist. The two were sitting in the hot tub telling jokes.

  ‘What does it mean when a man’s in your bed, gasping for breath and calling your name?’ asked Katie.

  ‘That I was obviously unavailable that night,’ responded Paul, with a smile.

  ‘Nope. It means you didn’t hold the pillow down long enough.’

  ‘Mine was a better answer.’

  Tanya Wilton raised the subject of affairs. ‘I always say that if it has tyres or testicles, it’ll cause problems,’ she said.

  ‘Hear hear,’ said one of the watching researchers, whose car had recently given up the ghost.

  Richard started flicking through the first editions of the newspapers to see if there were any stories they should be covering that hadn’t been picked up. There was a photo of Dee with a specially made Wellington boot that a company had made for her for outside broadcasts. She looked very pretty. He sighed. That would put Keera in a bad mood.

  It didn’t look like they’d missed anything. An item about old-fashioned sweets might be useful for what they called pres-play, where the presenters could ad-lib about the sort of thing that usually got the emails and texts coming in. Proper gobstoppers with tiny aniseeds in the centre, he thought. They were good. Your jaw ached for
the whole day. And as they got smaller, you could lightly knock them against your back teeth.

  ‘Do you remember the joy of a wobbly tooth?’ he asked a researcher who had come up to ask him how long he needed for a VT.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘Are we doing something about milk teeth?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘Reminiscing, that’s all. I used to love it when you wiggled your tooth and there was that pleasurable pain. And then you pulled it out and got a taste of blood and a hole in your gum you could stick your tongue into.’

  ‘And when it was one of your molars, your tongue would ache from having to curl up to feel it.’

  ‘Um. Great, though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Too right. How long for the war piece, by the way?’

  ‘One minute twenty. We’re stuffed for time in the news bulletins today.’

  His attention was drawn back to the screen–Katie and Paul doing more flirting. He knew it was how it had been edited–but, really, she must know what she’s doing, he thought, as she came out with yet another of her dreadful puns.

  ‘You see, the difference between a stoat and a weasel is that a stoat is stoatally different and a weasel is weasily distinguishable,’ she was saying, as she zipped up her snowsuit.

  ‘And that,’ said Paul, his face quite close to hers, ‘is why we love you. It’s stoatally crap, but the fact that you find it hysterical is funny.’

  And they laughed together as they walked out into the snow.

  Richard shivered. He shouted to the runner, Any luck with Heather?’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Forgot to say that they rang the bell, but couldn’t get any answer, and they’ve had to get the car to somewhere else now.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I needed to know that,’ he said, annoyed. He tapped his fingers on the desk. She was an hour late. ‘Can you ring the police and see if there’ve been any accidents between here and Twickenham?’

  The runner picked up the phone.

  On Celebrity X-Treme, Flynn O’Mara was telling a rapt audience about the different star signs. ‘It’s about the other influences as much as the sun sign. If you’re a Virgo, for example, with Cancer rising, then you’re more likely to go into the caring professions than, say, a Virgo with Gemini rising when you’d be more suited to the media because of Geminis’ natural fear of boredom.’

  Richard thought astrology was a lot of bollocks, but he did know he was a Gemini. Weird how you knew that sort of thing even if you had no interest. Like he knew that Jimmy Choo made shoes and that newspapers could be used to clean the windows. Mind you, at least that was useful. Knowing someone was a Taurean was hardly going to influence your decision as to whether they were suitable to build an extension to your house.

  The runner came over. ‘No accidents.’

  Richard closed his eyes and stroked the top of his head. Where else could she be? He looked over at a researcher who was monitoring the bank of television screens to see what they were covering news wise. ‘Rav, you drove in today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you go over to Heather’s and keep your eyes peeled along the way in case something’s happened to her? Maybe her mobile’s conked out. She drives a battered orange Volvo.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Rav, standing up and stretching.

  He was relieved to get out of the building–and get a sneaky fag in. As he walked past The Boss’s office, he saw one of the producers stretched out on the sofa, sleeping. He cast a quick glance behind him, then went to the door and shut it. Everyone on breakfast television operated below par–it was the nature of the beast. Let sleeping producers lie, he thought. He took the lift to the basement car park and lit a cigarette. He had a drag and spotted an orange Volvo. Shielding the cigarette, in case Security was watching on CCTV, he approached the vehicle. There was Heather, slumbering over the steering-wheel, oddly bruised beneath both eyes.

  In Norway, Siobhan was working out her strategy. She knew for certain that Katie and Paul were not going to get voted off, but she wanted to make sure the editing backed up her plan. Everyone was watching the programme go out. The bosses seemed happy. She caught Mark’s eye. He winked at her. She smiled back–a moment of collusion. He had made it clear that he was attracted to her.

  She needed a possible fall-guy if things went wrong. She put her fingers to her lips. He would be perfect.

  Mark sidled over. ‘Worried?’ he asked solicitously, his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘No.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Working something out.’

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Although…’ She put her head on one side, considering.

  ‘Shoot,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Come on. You can trust me. What’s up?’

  Trust him? Like hell. A friend had recently sent her a card with a female praying mantis saying to a male, After we have sex, but before I kill you, I’m going to need your help with some shelves.’ That was what men were there for. Sex and odd jobs. ‘I was wondering if you knew any computer whiz-kids for a project I’m trying to set up away from here,’ she said slowly.

  ‘What sort of project?’ he asked.

  ‘A website. I can’t tell you more than that. It’s in the early stages, and I don’t want to jinx it. It may come to nothing.’

  ‘I see. Mum’s the word,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose in the age-old gesture of secrecy.

  She hated things like that. Clichés. Space fillers. People saying, ‘I have to say,’ when they absolutely didn’t. ‘At the end of the day’. ‘Basically’. He could have simply said, ‘I see,’ and left it at that. Her face did not reveal her irritation. ‘Of course,’ she said sweetly. As you say, mum’s the word. So, do you know anyone who could help?’

  ‘Well, you need a web builder. And I know someone who specializes in that sort of thing.’

  ‘It may involve phone links.’

  He thought for a second. ‘I’ll give him a ring and find out. How soon do you need it?’

  ‘As soon as…’

  ‘I’ll text him, then. Shall I give him your mobile number so you can discuss it?’

  ‘I’ll probably need to meet up with him, talk it over face to face,’ she said. ‘If it all works out I’ll treat you to dinner. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds very fine, thank you,’ he said, and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  I bet he thinks that’s a subtle come-on, she thought. Poor fool. Men are so bloody easy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was a sparkling morning in northern Norway. The Sami were making sure their reindeer had survived the night–it had been a blisteringly cold one, down to minus thirty with a strong wind. Outside the hut, those who hadn’t been in the dog-sledding the day before were drilling through the thick ice of the lake to get water.

  ‘If I’d known it was going to be like the Girl Guides, I’d’ve told them to stuff it when they asked me to do this bloody show,’ wheezed Denise Trench, her nicotine-laden lungs gasping in the frosty air.

  ‘Why don’t you go and tell them you want out, then?’ asked Alex, his piglet-like ears tinged with pink, his breath spouting in spumes against the blue sky.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ she replied, bending down to pick up her bucket of water and slopping most of it back into the hole.

  ‘Oi,’ said Dave. ‘Careful what you’re about. It’ll take us twice as long if you’re going to keep throwing half of it away.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, moron,’ she responded, deliberately pouring a little dribble of water by his feet as she made off across the frozen lake.

  The cameramen, filming the incident for inclusion in that night’s viewing, made sure there was a close-up of Dave’s expression, and his muttered ‘Slapper.’

  By the time Denise stomped into the hut, her bucket contained barely a cupful of water.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Crystal, as it was poured into the barrel. ‘Is it difficult today?’

  ‘Like pulling teeth.’

  ‘Funny expr
ession that,’ commented Katie, coming into the kitchen wearing an odd assortment of clothing. ‘Does it mean that it’s like a dentist trying to pull teeth out, or like the person having to put up with the pain of the teeth being pulled out? Or am I refining it too much?’

  ‘I used to love pulling my teeth out when I was little,’ said Tanya. ‘That nice sucking feeling when it gave way and the hole you could stick your tongue in.’

  ‘Yurk. You are, like, so weird,’ said Crystal.

  ‘But, weirdly, I agree with you,’ said Katie, going over to put some bread in the toaster. I also think it’s weird that the plural of tooth is teeth, but the plural of booth is not beeth. The English language is full of paradoxes. Or should that be paradoxii? Does anyone else want toast, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, please, all carbohydrates gratefully received,’ replied Paul, who had moved in to take up the favoured spot by the fire. ‘Anything to soak up last night’s alcohol.’ He gave Katie a knowing look. She smiled innocently back at him.

  ‘A boy at school used to eat his scabs,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘This is so gross,’ exclaimed Crystal.

  ‘Oh, come on. Bet you were a scrubby little nose-picker,’ he said, leaning into the heat.

  ‘No, I was not,’ she said petulantly. ‘I bet you were.’

  ‘I doubt there’s anyone who doesn’t–or didn’t–pick their nose. I wonder if there’s anyone who will ever admit to eating it?’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Katie, thoughtfully. ‘Is it, perhaps, one of the last taboos? You can admit to adultery. There are those who are only too keen to confess to murder, even. But eating your own bogeys? Even if I did, or had, would I own up? I doubt it. Which means that no one will ever know the extent of the problem. If problem it is.’

  ‘It’s perhaps more of a problem if you stick them somewhere,’ added Paul. ‘A pilot friend of mine had a mate who stuck them on the underneath of the seat. He’d get into the plane, try to adjust it and there’d be a mass of crunchy bogeys in great stalactites under it.’