by Penny Smith
When she surfaced from slumber on Saturday morning, there was a moment of semi-consciousness when she felt surprisingly cheerful. Now, what was it? Why was she feeling so happy? She came fully awake. Oh, yes. Bob. She smiled and stretched in the bed, feeling the cold sheets in the area where she hadn’t been lying. And then the headache kicked in. Ouch, she thought. And as the evening’s events came back to her, she stood up gingerly and padded to the bathroom for some paracetamol.
She probably ought to ring Adam and put him in the picture. Not the full picture, just the section she wanted him to look at. She couldn’t articulate to herself exactly what the full picture was because it involved being truthful about her feelings, and she wasn’t ready to do that just yet. She would think about it tomorrow. For the moment, she would dwell on the lingering kiss she had shared with Bob last night. The farewell kiss before he had gone off to his friend’s flat. The one that was supposed to be a kiss on the cheek but had turned into a full-blown, romantic, woozy-making, beyond-anything kiss.
She would phone Adam after she’d had a stiff coffee.
Adam was drinking a cup of green tea, puzzling over the news he’d received as he’d left the office the night before. The phone company had come back with a break-down of the numbers rung to make up the massive bill–and there were literally thousands and thousands of them for a premium-rate number. Further investigation revealed they were for one of the numbers on a programme called Celebrity X-Treme, the voting line for a certain Katie Fisher.
His head of IT was tracing, with some urgency, which extension had been used, and would report back to him personally. He didn’t want the story getting out before he had the full details.
He couldn’t come up with any reason why one of his staff would be so determined to keep his girlfriend in a reality television show. The only other alternative–which he was loath to contemplate–was that one of his staff wanted to stitch him up. But what would have been the point of that? He would find out, surely, and then that person would be sacked. The more he pondered, the more confused he became. For a minute, he even considered Nick. After all, he’d made it clear that he thought Adam had stolen a march on him when he’d made a move on Katie in the immediate aftermath of her split from Bob. But he dismissed the idea. He knew his friend better than that. Or did he? It was very perplexing.
He spread a rice cake with pickle and added a small slice of low-fat cheese, and as he ate it, he allowed himself to mull over his relationship with Katie.
Was it ever going to get back to its pre-Celebrity X-Treme status? Why did the beautiful Cécile d’Ombard keep coming into his head, along with a vision of her in lingerie? Or less. He was suddenly overcome with lust.
He stood up swiftly, threw his gym clothes into his bag and stalked determinedly out of his front door.
In a flat in Croydon, a young man with an unfortunate haircut was drinking a cup of builder’s tea, with two sugars, and reading the Sun. He had been keeping a weather eye on what had happened to those on Celebrity X-Treme, and was pleased to see that, since their experience, his favourites were doing well. He had a huge soft spot for Crystal Blake, and was happy that her relationship with the soap actor Peter Philbin appeared to be going from strength to strength.
And then he noticed the small box at the bottom of the story about their love for each other.
He wondered how much money the newspaper would be prepared to pay for his story, and whether it was worth sacrificing his friendship with a fellow computer enthusiast. Was it the sort of figure that might wipe out his gambling debts and get him back the girlfriend who had ditched him after she had come face to face with the bailiffs at his flat one morning? It was certainly worth a phone call, he reasoned.
In separate locations, Jack and Lynda were performing similar acts. They were sitting drinking cups of tea and staring moodily out of their respective windows.
An uncharacteristic lassitude had descended upon Lynda. Since Jack had walked out for the second time, she had found it hard to work up any enthusiasm for the variety of activities that had kept her so busy since he’d retired. It was an effort sometimes to have a shower, get dressed and do anything at all. There were days when the only thing that got her out of her nightie was that she could hardly take Hercules out for his walk in it–tempting though it sometimes was just to put a coat over the top.
When she had told Jack that he should take the dog, he had huffed and told her Hercules was too old to be uprooted from his home–even if he himself had been.
She could have kicked herself. She could have been eating some of Jack’s homemade bread and marmalade right now. Instead, she was spreading a sugary, tasteless commercially produced version on sliced white. She couldn’t even be bothered to get decent bread. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper meal. She would snack on stuff straight from the fridge. Occasionally she would put a pie in the microwave and throw some frozen peas into boiling water. But, really, it was all such an effort.
She finished her cup of tea and went to stand in front of the hall mirror. A disconsolate figure looked back, its shoulders drooping. She put her hands through her hair. She was a mess. Did she care? No. Did Hercules care? He looked up at her expectantly from his supine position on the doormat.
‘Walkies,’ she said, trying to summon a soupçon of enthusiasm. He recognized the half-hearted statement and simply thumped his tail on the floor, as if to say, ‘If you’re willing, I’m up for it.’
The phone rang, making her virtually jump out of her skin, so self-absorbed had she been.
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Ben. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, fine,’ she said. And then, when he asked, no, she wasn’t doing anything. Saturday would be fine. What was it for again? Yes, of course. And why was it at Bob’s house? Right.
Ben kept the story simple. He said that Bob was pitching for business and needed to have a dinner round at his house to show off the garden. He and Lynda would be there to stop it becoming a weirdly intimate occasion.
‘And why doesn’t he just have a lunch?’ she asked reasonably.
Ben thought quickly. ‘Presumably the other person can’t do it. I don’t know, Mum. Bob asked me if I could come and bring someone. I thought of you because you live down the road, and it’ll be nice. Don’t come if you don’t want to,’ he ended, with fake nonchalance. She had to bite, or it was back to the drawing board–and he couldn’t face any more Katie hassle.
‘All right. Yes, I will. Next Saturday? What time?’ she asked.
‘Seven for seven thirty so he can show the garden while it’s still light.’
Ben hung up and phoned his sister. ‘All sorted on the mother front,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to phone Dad now.’
Jack had drunk his tea and was disconsolately washing up the plates from his frugal breakfast. The friend he was staying with had gone for an early game of golf, and would not be back until late.
He hated being beholden to someone for his bed and board, even though he was paying him–had insisted on it. He wanted to be back at home with his wife. He missed her. He missed the dog. He was even beginning to miss being shouted at. He smiled. Heaven forfend! Missed being shouted at? What was he like? Maybe he should get a job. Go and stack shelves. Anything to get out of the appalling lethargy that had come over him. He’d never thought there would come a day when he wasn’t excited about a new recipe he wanted to try out or a new plant. Not that he could do anything with a new plant at the moment, he thought sadly. He supposed he ought to consult a divorce lawyer.
With that depressing thought, he wandered through to the hall to pick up his coat for the morning stroll down to the local newsagent for a paper.
His new mobile phone rang. He looked at caller ID, and answered it, brightening. ‘Good morning, Ben,’ he said.
‘You sound very chipper, Dad.’ His son explained what he wanted.
‘Of course,’ Jack agreed, with alacrity. Anything to get out of the paralysing
state he was slumping into. ‘Maybe I’ll give Bob a ring and offer to cook for him.’
‘No need,’ said Ben. ‘He’s got some friend of his to do the catering. By all means ask him, but I think it’s all in hand.’
‘Oh,’ said Jack, his nose slightly out of joint.
‘Dad,’ said Ben, clearly having guessed his thought process, ‘he didn’t know you were going to say yes. He asked me to organize it. So it’ll be you, me, Bob, Sophie–you know, his friend Harry’s wife–this woman and her friend. Six of us. So dress smart. It’s important. He really wants this job.’
Ben phoned his sister. ‘Right. All done. It had better bloody work.’
‘Well, if it doesn’t, we can comfort ourselves in the future with the thought that we did as much as we could,’ she said emphatically.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Katie spent the rest of Saturday trying to work out what the hell she was going to do. This is beyond the pale, she thought. I have a wonderful man who is also helping me out with a job I don’t want to lose. And he’s gorgeous, if self-obsessed. Bob lives bloody miles away. And we’ve tried twice. And. And. And. There were so many ands and buts that it was almost impossible to wade through them. They were standing up like an impenetrable forest. She needed help to cut them down. Talk about not being able to see the wood for the trees. All she could see was the would but for the reprise. Hey, she thought, not bad for a hangovered person. Bob would appreciate that one.
And that was the point. The one big point. Bob would. Adam wouldn’t.
On the other hand, she thought…and how many other hands were there? Many hands make light work.
In the middle of her heavy thinking, Adam rang to discuss the evening.
‘I’ve got tickets for that old French film you said you wanted to see on the South Bank.’
‘Oh, fantastic,’ she said, shamefaced. What was wrong with her? Adam was perfect. She had told him ages ago about Romuald et Juliette, and he had remembered. And here she was, harping on in her head about someone else.
‘How was dinner last night?’
‘A long one. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
‘Who did you drag along in the end?’ he asked.
‘I told you that Tanya was coming along, didn’t I? For Ben. And then, erm, Dee came along to offer her insight,’ she lied.
‘Ben overwhelmed by oestrogen, eh?’ laughed Adam.
‘Yes,’ she said. I’ll be struck by a bolt of lightning, she thought.
She spent the day doing a mountain of paperwork, trying to avoid thinking in the hope that Fate would intervene somehow and make everything all right. Whatever all right was.
Adam’s issue with the phone numbers made him so preoccupied that he barely noticed her reticence on the previous night’s dinner when they met at a little bistro before the cinema. The film hardly registered with him, but he liked the fact that Katie obviously enjoyed it, sniffing copiously at the end and groping for her tissues.
‘I love a good romantic weepie,’ she declared, as they came out into the balmy evening.
They decided to have a drink at a small bar nearby before going home.
And there was Bob.
They saw each other at the same time.
She turned to Adam, almost tripping him up because of her sudden stop.
‘How about we just go home?’ she asked. ‘I feel like I might have a headache coming on. Probably all that crying. And there’s such a queue at the bar. We could open a bottle at home, after all.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’re right about the crowd at the bar.’ He turned to go back out of the door, Katie hurrying along in front of him.
‘It’s also very stuffy in here,’ she said, smiling with relief that they were getting out.
At the bar Harry, who had witnessed the incident, demanded an explanation.
Bob shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said, hoping that the delicious kiss he and Katie had shared the night before was wreaking the same kind of havoc with Katie’s emotions as it had with his.
Katie, feeling maudlin, had asked Adam to drop her back at her flat, claiming that her headache was really bad now. ‘I’m sure I’ll be right as a trivet in the morning,’ she said, giving him a small, hard kiss as she got out of the taxi.
His mouth set as he watched her walk to the door. Something was going on. He had never known her to have a headache–at least, not one that had come on that swiftly. And now he came to think of it she had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening. Curious.
The next morning, after he’d seen one of the Sunday papers, he realized why. He rang her immediately. ‘I now know why you feigned a headache last night,’ he said, the newspaper in front of him showing his girlfriend with her arm round her ex-boyfriend, coming out of a restaurant.
Katie’s heart thumped loudly as she heard the words. Could this be the point at which she took a hand in her fate? Said the words that she could feel in her throat? Or should she–as she was sure she could–put a spin on the picture he was talking about that would render it harmless?
‘Katie?’ said Adam, sounding tight-lipped and angry.
‘Yes. I accept it doesn’t look good.’
‘Why didn’t you at least have the decency to say that Bob was at this dinner?’
‘Because…’ she said weakly.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Ben asked him,’ she said. ‘And then I thought it would sound more than it was if I told you he’d be there.’
‘And this was?’
‘The night before. Honestly,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure I can believe in your honesty,’ he said cuttingly.
‘But that’s how it happened,’ she said.
‘And the picture in the paper?’
‘Well, we used to go out together,’ she said.
‘You know, Katie, this is a habit with you, isn’t it? And I’m not sure I can cope with it. It’s rude. It implies that I’m not worthy of the great Katie Fisher’s honesty’
She was silent.
‘You flirt with Paul Martin in front of millions of people. And now there’s this photograph. It makes me look stupid. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘Do you want to continue with this relationship, Katie?’
She said nothing.
‘I’ll take it that the answer is negative, then. It would have been nice if you’d had the guts to say so, rather than letting me find out this way. I’d thought more of you. Thank you for everything. I hope I’ve been useful. Goodbye. And good luck.’
Adam pressed the end-call button with vehemence. And then, in high dudgeon, phoned Cécile d’Ombard.
Katie tried to cry. She wanted to feel sorry. But she couldn’t. All she could think was that next Saturday she was going to see Bob. And not only was she going to see him, but she was going to see him at his home.
She might not have a new series any more. She might not have a high-powered boyfriend any more. But her life was looking up, and she felt optimistic. Positive. Positively happy.
She got out of bed and checked in the mirror.
‘I’m heppy.’ She spoke in an upper-crust accent and smiled at her reflection, feeling the urge to skip.
On Monday, Keera Keethley dressed with her usual care and attention. After the programme, she was going straight to the BBC for a meeting about Behind the Seams. She hesitated between a skirt or trousers. Trousers, she thought, having put them on. They fitted so snugly over her perfect, taut bottom. It was a shame that the jacket covered it. But if she wore a silky long-sleeved shirt, she could take off the jacket and reach up somewhere to hang it. Or bend over to pick up her bag. She mimed it in the mirror. Bending over was good. Her hair flowed forward in a raven’s wing. Standing up again gave it a mildly dishevelled look, which was very pleasing. She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the slinky shirt clinging to her body. Perfect.
At Hello Britain!, Dee was holding court in the newsr
oom about her lunch with Oliver on Friday. ‘So I come out of the restaurant. And, obviously, I don’t know that upstairs there’s been this big Hollywood A-list event. Really major stars. I mean big, Brad Pitt-type names. And I come out with Oliver into this barrage of flashlights. And then, quite clearly, I hear one of the photographers say, “Yes, the camera is definitely working.” How hilarious is that?’ She laughed.
Keera went to the executive producer to see if there was anything special about the programme she needed to know. ‘You’ve got the entertainment slot today. A man who used to be a car mechanic and is now an opera singer.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard of him,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘He was on the radio last week. Apparently, he literally rocketed into the number-one slot after an appearance on local television.’
‘Did he?’ asked Richard. ‘How interesting. Wonder how much fuel that involved. Anyway…you’re doing a swift interview with him while he’s at the mike stand, then he’ll take it away and sing his song. The rest of it is pretty much as you see it on the computer.’
Keera enjoyed the show that morning–all the more so because she felt superior to everyone. Who else was having a meeting later about a prime-time series?
She smiled and nodded graciously as the guests came and went.
‘What’s up with her this morning?’ asked Dee, of the floor manager.
‘No idea,’ he responded, ‘but it’s like being in the presence of the Queen of Sheba, isn’t it? Any minute, I’m expecting her to ask me to kneel while she knights me.’
Dee giggled. ‘I know. Hysterical, isn’t it? I’m enjoying her new laugh, though.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the floor manager, appreciatively. ‘It’s much better now that she’s added the trill at the end. Like ‘avin’ parakeets in the studio.’
Unaware of the speculation, Keera left the building with a jaunty step.
She got to the BBC with time to spare, and pulled open the Daily Telegraph as she waited for Nick Midhurst and the producer of Behind the Seams to appear. It was such a dreary paper. So much foreign news. Who cared? She examined a photograph in the television pages. What an enormous head that man had. Or was it the way the photo had been cropped? No. His ears seemed a normal size. And a man who looked like Gollum was hosting a new quiz show. She wondered how anyone who wasn’t as beautiful as she was ever got on screen. There should be a…what was that word?…a crematorium? something like that…on ugly people on television. Shouldn’t be allowed.