After the Break

by Penny Smith

  He reduced the heat under his soup and went upstairs to collect a few things together. He wasn’t sure how much he needed, since he wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d be away. He clicked the locks on his battered old suitcase. Was he really going to do this? And was he really going to do it now? For the first time in ages, he was nervous and excited.

  A few miles away at the Old Coach House, Bob Hewlett was also making a decision.

  It was strange watching Katie on Celebrity X-Treme, and even more peculiar watching her apparently getting off with someone else. It was horrible. Fascinating. And yet strangely, deep down, it made him hope. If she was so in love with this Adam bloke, how could she contemplate anyone else?

  He phoned Ben, and was surprised when he answered. ‘Hey, I was all prepared to leave a message.’

  ‘A rare morning off. I told the hospital to hold all further patients. We’ve got a lovely big fridge where we stack them until I can get in.’

  ‘What a brilliant idea. How great would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before. What do you reckon? Stacked upright or lying on shelves?’

  ‘Upright, like bottles of beer, surely.’

  ‘Hmm. I can see trouble ahead. You’d open the door, and they’d be falling down like skittles.’

  ‘Talking of which…’ said Bob, then hesitated.

  ‘Talking of which…’ Ben prompted.

  ‘Have you been watching your sister on Celebrity X-Treme?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve Sky-plussed it so I don’t miss a single frame. Load of old tosh, eh? What’s it got to do with skittles?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said “talking of which” after we’d talked about stacking people in a fridge like skittles. Do you remember? I’m sure you were there.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Maybe it was the shape of the skittles that made me think of her. Sorry. Sorry. Don’t know what I’m talking about. Too much coffee. Too little coffee.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ben, as Bob randomly wittered on.

  ‘Yes. Really I am, Doctor. Anyway…how do you think Katie’s doing?’

  ‘Lots of air time. I assume that’s good. That Martin chap’s a sleaze-bag. You can see his game sticking out a mile.’

  ‘That’s a revolting thought. The Tanya woman’s a good-looking bird, though.’

  ‘She most assuredly is. I may get Katie to introduce her to me when they all get out.’

  ‘Do they fly straight home?’

  ‘I think they have to wait for the whole show to end. Or do they? You know, I can’t remember what she told me. Why? You want to go to the end-of-show party with Clare?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Bob said hastily. I was wondering when you were next up in Yorkshire.’

  ‘Are you having a party?’

  ‘No. I’m missing you, passionately, desperately, fervently,’ he said theatrically. And then in a normal voice: ‘Do I have to have a party to get you up here to see me and your parents? What are you like?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Well, depending on what Katie’s got planned after she gets out of the igloo, we could maybe both come up for a weekend. Although Adam will probably be in tow. If he doesn’t ditch her, that is. Mum and Dad will no doubt be wanting to hear all about it. Having said that, maybe they won’t. We’ll see. Now, I notice from the way the big hand and the little hand are positioned on my rectangular timepiece that I have to go to work.’

  ‘Just before you do, I heard a good line for you the other day. “Support bacteria if you want to be cultured.’”

  ‘Ha. I was considering setting up a DIY surgery and calling it Suture Self.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Bob, approvingly, as Caligula leaped onto his lap and paddled his claws into his thigh. He winced. He loved his cat, but there were times when he pined for the unconditional adoration of a dog with blunt toenails.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It had been no surprise to the producers of Celebrity X-Treme that the first person to be voted off was Steve Flyte. They had made sure that his appearances on the show had been fleeting and anodyne. Although the public could always go collectively bonkers and do something odd, there had been enough reality shows now for people to realize that if they voted off all the baddies it would be a boring programme.

  The two main irritants were Dave Beal and Denise Trench–and Dave had turned out to be a dab hand at Monopoly, putting himself out of reach of voters for the day. Siobhan didn’t care which of them stayed long-term. But she had stressed to colleagues and VT editors that she wanted Peter Philbin, Crystal Blake, Paul Martin and Katie Fisher kept in as long as possible. ‘Two love affairs from one reality show,’ she had said enthusiastically. ‘It’s never been done before.’

  ‘I can see the Peter-Crystal thing,’ said Mark, taking a long swig of his coffee, ‘but do we reckon there really is something between Paul and Katie?’

  ‘Have you been watching the bloody programme going out?’ she snapped. People needed to believe there was something going on so that the votes she had arranged to come flooding in didn’t look suspicious. ‘I reckon that after we get Flynn O’Mara off or Alex Neil or whoever we should maybe add a large dash of alcohol to the mix to get things humming.’

  ‘Denise Trench is an alcoholic,’ one of the producers reminded her.

  ‘Is that my problem? No, it isn’t. She must have to deal with these situations all the time. She can have a scrumptious glass of water or alcohol-free beer. Whatever she wants. A tonic-water cocktail. We could make sure she’s out of the way–or work on getting her out next.’

  As the puppet-masters pulled the strings, the puppets were having breakfast.

  Paul Martin was making coffee and toast for everyone, looking handsome and tousled.

  ‘How come men can be guaranteed to make the most remarkable mess of the smallest task?’ tutted Katie, as she came through to collect the latest batch.

  ‘We get taught at our mother’s knee,’ said Paul.

  He buttered the last piece of toast on the work surface next to him, then handed it to her, leaving the knife balanced on top of the marmalade jar. ‘We only do it as a cry for help. We need the love of a good woman to change our ways,’ he added, as he followed her through to the dining room.

  Crystal was eating buttered toast, standing against the window, her blonde hair in a plait down her back. She was wearing just a long nightshirt and a pair of knee-high sheepskin boots. She looked amazing.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s what I came all the way to Norway for. To watch a blonde girl in high boots masticating.’

  Crystal looked over her shoulder. ‘Sorry? Are you talking to me? I was looking at this beautiful view. Isn’t it pretty? So clean. Apart from the footprints on the lake. Do you think there are wolves?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Katie drily, looking at Paul. ‘There are definitely wolves.’

  ‘Too right there are,’ Dave said, with a wink and a nod.

  You disgusting little man, thought Katie. I bet you wear a rotting leather posing pouch and have a velour dressing-gown in red. With a hood. ‘If you were a wolf would you prefer to wear sheep’s clothing or something cooler?’ Katie asked.

  Crystal looked adorably confused. I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘You know. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s already wearing its own coat. Then it has a woolly jumper on the top. It would be very warm. They might prefer, on balance, to be wolves in thin mackintoshes.’

  Crystal smiled, amused. ‘I’m very warm in my sheepskin boots, so I could be said to be wearing sheep’s clothing already,’ she said, moving away from the window.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Paul, ‘that you have to consider the size of the animal, and the number of limbs. A wolf couldn’t wear a mac because two of its legs would be uncovered, but a sheep’s outfit would fit perfectly because of the similarity in shape. A wolf could possibly wear pig’s clothing, but its face would poke out the front.’

  ‘And the othe
r thing is, you can take a sheep’s clothing and still leave the sheep intact–albeit chilly,’ debated Katie, considering the issue.

  ‘You have a point,’ said Paul, taking a swig from his mug.

  ‘So we’ll leave it as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, then, in the absence of anything more suitable?’

  ‘Are there any other expressions that we should be considering while we’re at it? There must be hundreds that could be improved upon.’

  ‘Indubitably As my father likes to say’

  ‘And no wonder he likes saying it. It’s an excellent word. I go through months of having a favourite word, which I repeat ad infinitum in my column.’

  ‘And your favourite word at the moment is?’

  ‘Katie,’ he said promptly.

  She looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘You are a hound! Do many women fall for this rot? I assume you favour the scattergun approach in the hope that at least one in a thousand will succumb.’

  ‘I only say it to you.’ He lowered his eyelids slightly and looked up through his lashes.

  ‘Bollocks.’ She smiled. ‘Talking of which, when do you think we’ll be getting word on today’s task?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just stay here and be all cosy and comfy, and tell each other our life stories? Get to know each other even better.’ He slipped his arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck.

  ‘For God’s sake, get off me, you idiot,’ she said, unplucking his hands from behind her. ‘Have you been at the oats again?’

  ‘I’d like to be.’

  ‘Enough. And, actually, I’m not sure that makes sense. Sowing them again–that would work.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘No. Not with me,’ she said sternly. ‘I am happily paired up with a handsome, gorgeous man, thank you.’ God knew how they were going to edit this programme, and she didn’t want Adam or any of his friends getting the wrong impression. Mind you, Paul Martin was a totally appealing package, the sort of man she found it almost impossible not to respond to. It was very annoying. There were days when this man-nonsense almost made her head explode. In the olden days, I would have been the perfect courtesan, she thought. Except you had to make an effort all the time. And not spend a whole day in bed eating buns and watching daytime television. Or an evening out with your girlfriends getting drunk on margaritas and dancing like a squid on a hotplate. She smiled.

  ‘What are you smiling at, girl?’ asked Tanya, sauntering up beside her.

  ‘About how I could have been a courtesan in a different era,’ she said wistfully, then recalled why Tanya was there. ‘Whoops,’ she said, guiltily.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, babes,’ said Tanya. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t take it. “Courtesan” is a good word, isn’t it? Better than some of the others I’ve been called.’

  The bell rang out for them to gather and hear what the day’s activity would be.

  The instructor told them they were to be pulled by the dogs in giant tractor tyres on a straight course up and down two hills. They could control themselves with small wooden spikes attached to the tyres through loops.

  A small man with bandy legs, known as ‘Elfin Safety’, pointed out exactly what they were expected to do and not to do–and stressed that they would be disqualified if they infringed the rules. ‘I would remind you that disqualification means you will not get your fee,’ he said, looking from face to face. His final words, said with a sour look, were ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

  They filed out to the hut where the equipment had been laid ready. Denise Trench began trying on the helmets, careful with her hair.

  ‘You’re going to have to get a bigger helmet, love,’ said Dave, as he crunched past her. ‘And that’s never been said to me, ha-ha.’

  ‘They must be rocking in the aisles,’ put in Katie, as she joined the queue.

  ‘I bet you have Capricorn as your moon sign,’ said Flynn.

  ‘As well as my Capricorn sun sign?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Quite.’ She nodded. ‘Cool and calm. But you want to come out on top.’

  ‘I must also be a Capricorn moon, then,’ said Paul, resting his head on Katie’s shoulder. ‘I definitely want to be on top.’

  Katie shook him off, irritated. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you today. I think you need some bromide in your tea.’

  Siobhan, watching closely in the control room, jotted something down on her pad.

  Katie’s mother was in a quandary. Her husband appeared to have left her. And left her with a saucepan of parsnip and apple soup. Her first emotion on reading the note had been disbelief, then irritation and a dash of worry. She had the mobile phone they shared, so he was not contactable.

  She rang Ben, pretending she was checking when he was next up for the weekend–but either he was unaware of Jack’s whereabouts or he was putting on an excellent act. Then she phoned Jack’s oldest friend, who sounded surprised to hear from her and rambled on about his latest operation. She cut him off when he started eulogizing about the quality of the stitches. It wasn’t that she was uncaring, she reasoned, but she really did have to get on. There was Hercules to walk now that Jack wasn’t there, and food to get in, now that Jack wasn’t there. And cooking to do, now that Jack wasn’t there.

  She made herself a cup of Earl Grey, sat at the kitchen table and burst into tears.

  As Lynda was cuddling Hercules and weeping into his fur, Jack was on a bus to Blackpool. He would have preferred a train–it would have been more romantic to run away from home with the sound of the metal wheels clanking on the tracks–but the connections hadn’t worked out, and he didn’t fancy drinking endless cups of pale tea out of paper cups on draughty railway stations.

  He checked into the Big Blue Hotel and unpacked his suitcase. It felt odd not having Lynda exploding belongings into every corner, and keeping up a running commentary on the state of the place. He arranged his toiletries on the shelf in the bathroom, and cleaned his teeth, then went down to the bar where he enjoyed a cup of strong tea and admired the way that the grey sky met the grey sea so seamlessly that it looked as if a grey seal could swim its way up to the top of the window frame.

  Then he went to Blackpool Pleasure Beach and bought himself a pass for the next day. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to be busy, with the weather presenter on Hello Britain! having forecast a blustery weekend.

  The beach was deserted apart from a few hardy souls with their dogs. He hoped Hercules wouldn’t miss his customary long walks too much in the days he was planning on staying away. When Lynda took him, she was usually back within half an hour. Labradors were like children, he thought. They needed to be forced to exercise or they turned into blimps.

  The sky had now squeezed the sea so heartily that it had started to leak, and he was driven back towards the parade by a clammy dampness round the back of his neck that he suddenly found insupportable. He ducked into Gipsy Rose Bee’s fortune-telling abode and, judging by her surprise, deduced that she didn’t get that many men of a certain age requesting her predictive skills.

  She swiped an envelope addressed to Sharon McKenzie off the table and leaned forward, her plump bosom resting on the obligatory red cloth. She looked at his palms and started her reading.

  A quarter of an hour later, Jack emerged into the brightening gloom, looking as surprised as Sharon ‘Rose Bee’ McKenzie had. She had hit all the nails on the head.

  He was going to travel: he had the return ticket right there in his pocket.

  He was going to find love: perhaps, strictly speaking, it would be a rekindling of love.

  He was lost: well, he was carrying a map just in case.

  He was in need of fun in his life: yes, he had a pass to the Pleasure Beach.

  Things were looking up.

  He bought a small polystyrene tub of cockles from a van on the opposite side of the road, and walked slowly back to the hotel, now that the rain had turned to a bracing drizzle.

  As he divested himse
lf of his coat and freshened up before going to the bar for a glass of red wine, he wondered how much Lynda was missing him. Or if she was missing him at all.

  No doubt there were people who liked being on trains, thought Keera, but she was not one of them. She preferred a chauffeur-driven limousine. There was no point in being a national celebrity if you didn’t get the accessories–and it was obviously better if you got them for free. What you wanted was comfort, speed, convenience and no hoi polloi. But she couldn’t get a car at the last minute, and first class was completely booked. So here she was, with the great unwashed. Despite the lowering clouds, she put on a huge pair of sunglasses.

  It was Matthew Praed’s fault. She had no idea whether they were having an affair or not. She didn’t want to muck up their work relationship by pressing him on it, but she couldn’t believe he didn’t want to see her again. I bet he’s gay, she thought. If only her future career wasn’t at stake, with Matthew as her agent, she could have told the newspaper journalist with whom she had a cosy arrangement. Maybe she’d ask him if he’d heard of any whispers about Matthew’s sexuality. Or would that get back to him? She decided to phone the reporter anyway. It was probably time for another offensive after Dee’s recent splurge because of the broken ankle.

  She looked out of the window as the train filled up.

  Two women sat down next to her, facing each other over the table. One then stood up again, took off her coat and tried to put it in the rack overhead, enveloping Keera in bits of musty fabric.

  ‘Whoops. I’m so sorry, I can’t quite reach,’ she said to her friend.

  The other, taller, woman came round to help her. Keera caught the waft of damp wool as two coats were flung up.

  They were continuing a conversation: ‘And so she tells me she’s not going out with him. He’s not rich enough to be that fat and ugly, apparently.’