After the Break

by Penny Smith

  In her earpiece, she heard a shouted: ‘But we can help. But…’

  She didn’t know what he was trying to say, so carried on, ‘They’re in danger of becoming extinct, and we can help. Here’s Rachel Barrington.’ As the report was going out, she explained to her interviewee what she wanted from him while Rod gritted his teeth in annoyance.

  Keera put on her fake smile as the VT ended. ‘And here is one of the endangered moths, along with its handler.’

  He opened the cage to bring out the most enormous specimen. And it flew straight up into the lights. ‘Oh dear.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m not sure we’ll be able to coax her down. She’s eaten already.’

  Keera did her tinkly laugh. ‘We’ll let her sit up there for a moment while we talk about her and others like her.’

  The moth sat on the light, refusing to budge, as the interview continued. Rod watched her as she wiggled her feelers. She was beautiful. All sandy brown feathery wings. He liked moths. It was strange how everyone liked butterflies, dragonflies and bees and generally nothing else on the insect front. You didn’t find people propounding the merits of beetles or ants. Yet some beetles were stunning. He had seen a lime green one in Jamaica. Or had it been America?

  The floor manager passed him a handwritten note: ‘Apparently it’s worth twenty grand.’

  As Keera wrapped up the chat, Rod leaned over. ‘Sorry about your moth,’ he said. ‘She’s having a nice time sitting up on the lights. And I hear she’s worth twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Yes, she is. And that is exactly why we won’t be going anywhere until she comes down.’

  ‘We’ll keep you supplied with hot drinks until that happens,’ said Rod, and he turned into a two-shot to continue with the programme.

  The cameras turned away from them, to pick up a young indy band who were to perform their first hit.

  ‘Rod,’ said Keera, sweetly, ‘that was my interview that you just signed off. And I saw you being handed a note. You should have passed it to me, since it was my item. Can you do that in future?’

  He smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and said as sweetly as she had, ‘Of course I can, Keera.’ He pulled one of the tabloids off the desk to check a fact for his next interview.

  Keera examined her fingernails. She loved her hands. Hands were worth looking after. They showed your age. She had noticed that some of the guests who were young had old-looking hands. Maybe she’d give hers a good exfoliation this afternoon, cover them with heavy moisturizer and encase them in white cotton gloves. There might be a fifties musical she could watch while it was all soaking in.

  Dee, trying to sort out a microphone problem with the sound department, couldn’t help enjoying this morning’s bickering. If Katie hadn’t been in Norway, she would have phoned her up to bitch about it.

  Adam would also have quite liked to speak to Katie. He had enjoyed Paris, and particularly his dinner with Cécile d’Ombard, but he had come back to tabloid pictures and stories from Celebrity X-Treme that seemed to suggest his girlfriend had exceeded her brief. As humans are wont to be, he was jealous and angry because he had done a very similar thing. The difference was that he had done his misbehaving–if misbehaving it was–in Paris, without witnesses. Actually, he didn’t even acknowledge that he was feeling jealous and angry. He put his peevishness down to the fact that he hated his advice being ignored.

  So, when he went into Wolf Days Productions that Monday morning, he was not in the best of moods. The producers, Gemma and Rose, were chatting inconsequentially, as usual. This morning, they were discussing breakfast.

  ‘Bacon sandwich. Ketchup,’ said Rose.

  ‘Cereal. No milk,’ said Gemma.

  ‘What? In a bowl?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Do you two really have nothing better to do or do I pay you to talk about your bloody breakfast habits?’ growled Adam, as he strode through the office, leaving a waft of something expensive and peppery in his wake.

  Rose sniffed appreciatively. ‘He smells so yummy,’ she said, gazing after him hungrily.

  ‘And his clothes are always so cool.’

  ‘I think it’s the way he wears them. He’s fit.’

  ‘Would you prefer to be fit and thick, or fat and clever?’

  Rose crunched a Hobnob from a packet she had found on her desk, and pondered for a minute. She noticed a crumb on the computer, picked it up and ate it, then made a face. ‘Yurk,’ she exclaimed. ‘That was disgusting. I thought it was a bit of biscuit and it tasted like scab. Do you think I’ve eaten a piece of scab that someone’s picked off? That is so gross.’

  ‘Or maybe it was a piece of crunchy dandruff. Like when it’s psoriasis.’

  ‘How revolting,’ Rose grimaced.

  ‘Yup. Anyway. Fit and thick or fat and clever?’

  ‘Are you still on that? I may be dying from scabitis. Or bogeyitis. Urgh. I feel sick.’

  ‘Sick or thick?’

  ‘Sick. As in I’m going to vomit if I’ve actually eaten someone else’s scab.’

  ‘Well, take your mind off it and discuss. Cool but dim? Nerdy but brainy?’

  Rose went to the water-cooler for a drink to wash down whatever it was she had swallowed. She came back and said, ‘Actually? As I am. Very cool. Very clever.’

  ‘Right. So you aren’t going to answer?’

  ‘I don’t want to be one or the other. It’s impossible. I don’t want to have to be fat and anything. I refuse to have an option where I can’t change. If I’m fat and clever, I want to be able to stop eating so that I can be slim and clever. And if I’m fit but not that bright, I want to be able to study and improve myself.’

  ‘Ooo-er! ’Ark at you.’

  ‘Well, it’s daft. If you’re going to do those either-or things, there has to be no way of changing. Like the shag, marry or over-the-cliff one.’

  ‘All right. We’ll do that, then. Let me have a look in today’s newspaper,’ said Gemma, reaching over for the Daily Telegraph. ‘Taken at random, who would you shag, marry or throw off the cliff? John Prescott. Robert Mugabe–no, too easy. Ho hum. Robert Kilroy-Silk and–’

  ‘Gemma,’ called Nick, from his office.

  ‘I’ll marry him,’ whispered Rose, as Gemma stood up.

  ‘He wasn’t on the list,’ she threw over her shoulder.

  Nick looked slightly bemused as she went in. ‘We’re going to see if we can find anything suitable for Keera Keethley.’

  ‘Keera Keethley? But Katie would kill Adam,’ burst out Gemma.

  ‘Yes. I must say, I’m surprised. But to put you in the picture, her agent phoned me up to ask about possible programmes. I’ve just spoken to Adam, and he’s said we should. Look at possible programmes, that is. I don’t think it’s up to us to decode what’s going on there, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Gemma…’ he said, with a warning look.

  ‘Oh, all right. But why ask me? You know exactly what we’ve got and what we’re working on.’

  ‘That’s correct. But you also have friends–as do I–who work at other companies. You have your ear to the ground, and you’re also being paid to come up with ideas and proposals. Obviously I know that there’s nothing that would suit Keera at the moment. Could you think something up, do you reckon?’

  ‘As you know,’ said Gemma, ‘she turned us down for Dare to Bare. And, as you know, I was greatly relieved, because apparently she’s a bit of a mare.’

  ‘Is she?’ he asked. Like most men, he thought she was gorgeous, if dim. He didn’t think it mattered that much for some programmes–particularly if you looked like Keera.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Gemma, firmly. ‘She’s gone over to the dark side.’

  He laughed. ‘What are you talking about? Gone over to the dark side? You’ve been watching too much Most Haunted.’

  ‘I mean she’s done that thing some presenters do, where they believe their own publicity and
are falser than false, and it’s all about how they look and not about the programme. And they’re demanding.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that constitutes nightmare.’

  ‘And she can’t do the job,’ finished Gemma, dramatically.

  ‘Well, Hello Britain! seems to rate her. To use a dreadful Americanism, this is a heads-up that we may have to look for something.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’d do that to Katie.’

  ‘As I said, ours is not to reason why.’

  ‘As you said,’ said Gemma, going back to her computer.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Rose.

  Within fifteen minutes, everyone knew that Adam was pissed off with Katie.

  Every day that she woke up in Norway Katie promised herself she would get on with the job in hand, make friends with the muddle-headed Crystal and the asinine Peter, stop sneering at the oafish Dave Beal and absolutely stop flirting with Paul Martin. She was all right with Flynn O’Mara, who was a nice woman with a strange job.

  But no sooner had she stretched and gone through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea than she had snapped at Dave, had a go at Peter, tutted at Crystal and smirked conspiratorially at Paul. She gave herself a mental shake. Most of the time, she now forgot that the cameras were there. But when she remembered–and recently it was only when the eviction was announced–she felt guilty. She wondered–seriously wondered–whether she still had a boyfriend. Could she explain it all away? At least she hadn’t kissed Paul Martin. That was the one thing she was holding on to.

  Paul wandered over as Crystal and Peter gazed admiringly at each other.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Those love birds, eh?’

  ‘Um,’ she said, trying to adhere to her rule of being nice to and about them. ‘I once had a very sweet friend who was a perfect widgeon. You couldn’t go out with her if you needed to have a deep and meaningful conversation. But she didn’t have a malicious bone in her body. It was like going out with Winnie-the-Pooh–not intellectually stimulating, but she made me happy. They have their own unique take on life, people like that.’

  ‘She still a friend?’

  ‘No.’ She laughed. ‘You know, she once told me that some people steal your sleep–and I could see her point. She also thinks that when you get déjà vu, it’s because there’s been a time crease. And that the word “tentacles” is rude.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ he said and, with a gesture to Crystal and Peter, ‘So they’re a pair of tits and we should beat them to death with spades in case they’re infectious.’

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t even remotely say that. We can’t all like current affairs and reading books. And even to my ears that sounds snotty and stuck-up. But on the other hand, I really can’t be expected to carry on a conversation with someone who thinks that an abdication is when you’ve got a flat stomach.’

  ‘Your friend? Or Crystal?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, OK. I made that up. Neither of them said it. Good line, though.’

  He ran his hand through his thick hair and gave her a searching look. ‘You bored with all this?’

  ‘No,’ she said, with feeling. ‘I am, surprisingly, enjoying myself. You?’

  ‘How could I not be when I’m in here with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘There you go again. You’re determined to get me into trouble. If you carry on, I’ll have to dedicate myself to talking to Crystal and Peter about High School Musical films.’

  ‘Instead of talking to me about what matters. Love. Marriage. Children.’ He gave her a meaningful look.

  And maybe because she was tired, maybe because of the promise she had made to herself that morning, or maybe because he had a spot on his chin, she was irritated. ‘Enough already’ She put up one hand. ‘I’m not in the mood. Now is not the time or place.’ She walked away.

  ‘My place some other time,’ said Paul, looking towards a camera.

  ‘Good one,’ whispered Siobhan, as she wrote down the time details on her pad.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bob had woken up grumpy, and was made grumpier by being forced to listen to Radio 4: his temporary housemate had it on very loudly in the kitchen. There was never anything happy on the Today programme. Unremittingly bad news. Which was why he preferred XFM. Or even Radio 2.

  He threw on his clothes and shuffled downstairs, his sandy blond hair sticking up in all directions. He rubbed his stubbly chin and yawned as he went into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning,’ Jack said chirpily. ‘I have a horrible feeling I’ve woken you before you normally get up. I was trying to find a whisk. I had to open all the drawers before I found it. And you’ve got a sticky one,’ he indicated the drawer he had pulled out completely, ‘so I’ll sort that out today.’

  Bob couldn’t help smiling. Nobody who had stayed at the house had ever done anything but eat, drink or make merry before.

  ‘I was thinking coffee and omelette?’ Jack suggested.

  ‘Excellent. Need any help?’

  ‘No, thanks. Think I’ve got all I need now. Cheese, tomato and onion all right?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Bob went to sit at the table, his feet in odd socks, his grey cashmere sweater tucked into his jeans at the back.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked Jack, twisting round from his position at the kitchen counter. ‘Apart from being woken up far too early by that old man in the kitchen, that is.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Bob, ruffling his hair vigorously to try to energize himself. ‘Got out of bed on the wrong side, I think. Sorry. Not exactly mine host today’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ said Jack. ‘Here. Do you need ketchup?’

  ‘Does the Pope pray? It’s in the pantry’

  They sat eating the fluffy omelette, and sipping coffee as the Today programme gave way to Start the Week. Sunlight was slanting through the window, showing up streaks and smears. ‘I’ll wash the windows for you, today,’ Jack said, taking the plates to the sink.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ said Bob, ‘honestly. You’re welcome to just hang out.’

  ‘No. I can’t tell you how grateful I was when you said yes to my request out of the blue for a place to lay my head. The least I can do is the sort of odd jobs I’d be doing at home.’

  ‘Well, thank you, then,’ said Bob, picking up yesterday’s newspaper and turning a page.

  ‘Do you never use the dishwasher?’ asked Jack, who had noticed that it looked rusty round the edges.

  ‘Nope. I used to. But you take a week to fill it up, by which time there are no mugs left and you keep on having to get them out again. And then the stuff’s all caked on. You can only do it so long before you think it’s a health and safety hazard.’

  ‘Health, I can understand. Safety?’

  Bob thought for a moment. ‘Spontaneous combustion?’ he suggested.

  ‘Listening to the news, that’s the least of our worries,’ Jack said, washing out the omelette pan. ‘War, pestilence, famine, global recession or depression–even champagne is an issue. Did you hear that this morning? More people are killed by flying champagne corks than bites from poisonous spiders. And a lot of them are at weddings. Not that I suppose you get many poisonous spiders at weddings.’

  ‘My mother-in-law came to mine.’

  Jack wiped his hands on the tea-towel and nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, they do tend to.’ He hung the tea-towel on the radiator and leaned against it. ‘I obviously don’t want to get in your way. So what are you up to? I was thinking fish for dinner. Not that you have to have dinner here, if you have something else planned. I could have a quiet one on my own.’

  Bob smiled up at his guest. ‘Fish would be lovely. I should be getting on with a project that has to be sorted by the end of the week. Instead I’ve spent the last week procrastinating, and I’m probably going to carry on putting it off until the last possible minute. Time stealing.’

  ‘Are you enjoying it, though, the procrastination?’

  ‘No. I think that’s why I’m
in a bad mood. I know I’d feel better if I got on with it. But I can’t be bothered to start. I watch television or do other things–and feel guilty doing them so don’t enjoy the experience. It’s ridiculous. I should just get on with it.’

  ‘Can I help, then, by making life so uncomfortable everywhere except your office that you have to do your work?’

  ‘I’d get on the computer and write emails. Or look out of the window and plan new planting.’

  Jack went over to the window. ‘It looks beautiful,’ he said.

  Bob joined him, his hands on his hips. ‘It does, doesn’t it? I love this time of year. Actually, I like all times of the year, even the dead of winter. It’s nice when there’s snow everywhere and you suddenly see the shape of the garden. It can give you ideas.’

  They silently surveyed the scene.

  From the radio, a voice said: ‘…so we discover it’s a Burne-Jones. Which doesn’t actually make it any better.’

  Without moving his head, Jack murmured, ‘It would make it better for me.’

  ‘And me,’ agreed Bob. ‘Unless, of course, I’d thought it was a Picasso.’

  ‘Easy mistake to make,’ said Jack. ‘Now, in all seriousness, is there anything else that you need me to do? Otherwise I’m going to do the windows, finish that drawer, potter about finding other little jobs for myself, then cook dinner. And I’m afraid you’ll have to do a little bit of shopping for me. I’d do it myself but I can’t because of the danger of running into someone who would tell Lynda. And I’ll insist on paying for the ingredients, no matter what you say–if you were going to say anything in the first place, which I suppose you might not, but in case you were–because I’d like to.’

  ‘Write me a list, and I’ll go immediately’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that urgent,’ Jack assured him.

  ‘If I don’t go now, it’ll be dinner time before I do. When I get my procrastinating head on, there’s no knowing when it’ll come off. And Caligula will keep you company until then. He loves curling up at home if there’s someone to stroke him.’

  Caligula could tell he was being spoken about. He stood up, stretched, spread his paws, put his tail out and marched over to the cat-flap. He checked to make sure they were watching, put his ears back and climbed out.