Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  “Well, in the host’s chair would be a good place,” was his sarcastic reply.

  Abigail sat in Peter Denham’s special leather chair; opposite her were two more, obviously for husband and wife. Behind her, a backdrop featured red and orange painted swirls.

  A sound technician fiddled with her microphone, as the lights went on and off, in a series of checks.

  “Testin’, testin’,” a technician’s cockney voice boomed in Abigail’s earpiece, making her jump.

  “Sorry.”

  Her palms were sweating, and the adrenaline that was coursing through her body was making her tremble.

  “For the love of God, sit up straight, stop slouching!”

  Abigail straightened in her chair. She hated that man, and this was another reason why she had to be successful tonight.

  “Two minutes!”

  There was some commotion, and she turned to see the Stantons being escorted on set, as there was clapping from the studio audience.

  The Stantons smiled and waved, as Abigail stood, and held out a hand to Darren Stanton, who looked as good as he did on TV. He had wavy black hair, an excellent physique, showcased by a slightly unbuttoned blue shirt, which he wore with denim jeans and suede boots.

  “I’m Darren,” he said with a big smile as he shook her hand.

  “It’s a pleasure, Darren,” Abigail said with a big smile.

  Next, was Mrs Stanton, the rising movie queen, rumoured to have signed up to make a Hollywood film for a cool two million pounds.

  Not surprisingly, she was dressed almost identical to her husband, with shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “Hi,” she said, shaking Abigail’s hand.

  “Hello, it’s good to meet you.”

  They both sat in the opposite chairs, as if they’d already been briefed, and waited.

  “One minute!”

  Somebody thrust a list of questions in Abby’s hands. She glanced at the paper, “You both know the areas we’re going to cover, I take it?”

  “Yes, and so do you,” said Leticia, nodding at a nearby Autocue screen. “And don’t you forget it,” she added with a menacing smile.

  I should have known that they wouldn’t want me asking any questions the audience might actually want to hear. Like, tell us about how you are trying to block the release of one of your earlier films, Mrs Stanton.

  Abigail knew that the questions on her sheet of paper and on the autocue would be dull and uninteresting. She also knew that she would have a hard time making them seem any different. After all, these words would have been dissected by Stanton’s legal and PR team until they contained nothing remotely interesting.

  But that is how things worked with celebrity interviews. Nobody was interested in the truth, just the ratings and, of course, what made the egomaniacs feel good and best pedalled their latest product.

  So much for exclusive.

  “HEY!” It was Harry James yelling in her ear piece, startling her for the second time that evening.

  You bastard, do that one more time and I’m pulling this fucking thing out!

  “What?” she seethed.

  “I need you to talk into this thing for a last minute check.”

  “Oh, you want me to say something? How about….”

  “Thirty seconds!”

  Leticia, or Mrs Stanton as she preferred to be called these days, was fussing over what was left of her husband’s hair and she was starting to annoy Abigail who, if she didn’t know better, would have thought the woman was parading her claim on her racing driver husband.

  “Twenty seconds!”

  “Try not to freeze in front of all those people, won’t you, kid,” came Harry’s reassuring words.

  Fuck you!

  “Ten seconds!”

  A dazzle of light flooded the set. The stage manager walked out in front of the studio audience and held up his hands; on cue, they exploded in rapturous applause.

  “Five, four, three, two, one……”

  “Camera one,” somebody said in Abigail’s ear. She turned to it and with a smile began to read the auto queue, “Good evening, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to tonight without Peter Denham, but with the co.”

  What?

  “My name is Abigail Palmer and I will be filling in for Peter, who has been unavoidably detained somewhere with some tigers, I hear.”

  Smile? Are these people for real? They are actually writing in my smiles.

  The audience, as if cued, laughed.

  “Tonight we’ll be talking to some very special guests indeed. He has been hailed as one of the best British racing car drivers since Hill, and she, as a blonde Catherine Zeta-Jones. Alone they were icons, but together they are the biggest sensation since Brad and Angelina. Ladies and gentleman, would you please welcome Darren Stanton and Leticia Aaron-Stanton!”

  The floor manager appeared to be attempting flight as, behind the scenes, he waved his arms frantically up and down at the audience, who clapped and whistled in response.

  A group of numbered cameras all around the trio moved in closer, one of them capturing a smiling picture of the couple and beaming it to a nearby monitor.

  “Hello and welcome to the show.”

  “Thanks for having us,” Leticia replied with a fake butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.

  “This is apparently the first interview you have given together since the birth of your son, Terrence, who’s three years old now, is that right?”

  “Three and half, yes,” Leticia corrected.

  “Well, it’s truly a privilege to have you here with us tonight. Darren, is it true you were besieged by members of our studio audience tonight?”

  He smiled, “Well, they were asking for my autograph, yeah.”

  “In fact, Darren, you were voted one of the sexiest racing car drivers in the world, which means literally thousands of women find you adorable. What does it feel like to be idolised by so many?”

  “Well, it’s great and it’s really flattering, but you know, at the end of the day I just do my job. I just drive.”

  “What about you, Leticia? What does it feel like to have to share your husband with so many?”

  Leticia shrugged, “Well, I’ve got to be honest with you. I’m so busy with my own career that I hardly notice it. To me, he’s just Darren. My husband who, like most men, leaves the toilet seat up and underwear on the bathroom floor.”

  There was a cheer from some members of the audience.

  Abigail looked and smiled broadly then, she turned back, “Darren, tell me about Terrence, there is no mistaking how proud you are of him. What does it feel like to be a father?”

  “Yeah, it’s great.”

  I should have added in words of more than one syllable.

  “Do you think he is going to grow up to be a racer, just like you and your father before you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Now, Leticia, there have been these reports in the press that you refuse to leave your home without Terrence, is there any truth to that?”

  “Absolutely not. You know, I’m just like most women out there. I have to earn a living. So, those that think I’m a neurotic mum who can’t trust her son with anybody other than family, are just talking rubbish. In fact, Terrence is at home with his nanny right now.”

  The tedium of the questions, as per the script, continued for another fifteen minutes. Questions, not surprisingly, lingered on Leticia’s new film in which she plays Brad Pitt’s love interest. One of the reasons why the film’s marketing team insisted on the comment about the couple being the new ‘Brad and Angelina’.

  What wasn’t mentioned, is that she had a minuscule role and is killed off in the first act.

  Darren’s questions revolved around his career, his son, and his soon to be released line of sportswear.

  All subjects that had been researched and published many times before. The whole thing was a charade. They even had her ask details about the Stanton’s homes in various corners o
f the world. This included their residence in London where, for some obscure reason, Abigail was obliged to comment on how normal it was for the two to shack up in an apartment building, rather than buying their own house somewhere on the outskirts of the city.

  Apparently, the reason for choosing their London pad was the convenience and security that it provided.

  28 Security

  Back in Apartment 10, Amy, the Stanton’s twenty-six-year-old nanny, sneered at the TV and then turned the volume down.

  She was lying on the sofa, devouring a bar of chocolate.

  Mrs Stanton had just said that she wasn’t neurotic about leaving her son, but she was. Amy had to endure no fewer than three investigations into her past, just so she could be eligible for this job. Even after that, Leticia had demanded three character and employment references, along with detailed information about any previous, current or potential boyfriends, that were strictly forbidden from going anywhere near her child at any time.

  The woman was fanatical about her son and spoilt him rotten.

  That said; she did pay extremely well, and the little boy was actually really cute when his mum wasn’t around, and he knew who was boss.

  In fact, she’d only just managed to get him to sleep for he insisted he was not tired, and did not want to go to bed. However, one fairy tale later, he’d finally succumbed.

  Now, Amy was talking on her mobile phone, and explaining to her friend how tonight she had seen Darren Stanton come out of the bedroom, topless. “He is gorgeous,” she said, longingly, as Darren’s face appeared on the television screen, “but she’s a bitch. What the hell does he see in her anyway?”

  “They’ll be divorced soon,” her friend said, casually, on the other end of the phone, “and then she’ll get all his millions.”

  “Oh God, I hope so,” Amy said, “except for the part where she gets the millions.”

  “Why is it that all the best ones are either taken or out of our league?”

  “Hey, speak for yourself,” Amy exclaimed in mock protestation.

  “Dream on, girl. You’ve got more chance of shagging the prime minister.”

  Amy pulled a face, “Eww, no thanks,” she said, popping another cube of chocolate into her mouth.

  “Did I tell you what happened to that queen bitch, Tracey?”

  “No, what the hell is going on?”

  “Well, she…”

  “…No, I mean with the TV. It keeps freezing, and then clumps of people’s faces keep moving. Eww, it’s like painting pixels moving around a canvas.”

  “Are you watching Satellite TV?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’ll be it then. It always goes like that when there’s bad weather.”

  “It’s just foggy. Hardly bad weather.”

  “Yeah, and what’s up with that. One minute, I’m freezing my tits off, thinking it’s going to snow, but then we get freezing fog.”

  “It’s global warming, innit’. Pretty soon those ice caps are gonna’ melt, and we’re gonna’ drown in giant tsunamis.”

  “Great, thanks for that cheerful outlook.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t,” Amy said, distractedly, as she got up from her lying position and looked around the room. She could have sworn she heard something move behind her, and she wondered if Terrence had got out of bed.

  She watched as the furniture revealed itself through bursts of blue light from the TV.

  The room was empty.

  “I can’t believe you’ve landed that job there. Satellite TV, all those perks and, best one of all, you get to be in the same house as that stud…”

  “… and his queen bitch wife, remember,” Amy added, as she rolled onto her knees and then slowly leant forward to check behind the couch.

  Nothing.

  “Yeah, well, I think the benefits outweigh the suffering, don’t you?”

  Amy didn’t answer as she was still scanning the room.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said, resuming her prostrate position.

  “What’s going on with the phone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep cutting out, that or you sound like a Dalek. And then these bursts of static are driving me nuts. Are you not hearing that?”

  “No, must be your end. You sound fine to me,” Amy said, subconsciously looking at the glowing screen of her device, as if it could give her some kind of clue as to her friend’s complaint.

  “I can’t see anything…”

  The words were cut short as Amy snapped upright into sitting position as she felt someone pulling at her hair.”

  “What the…”

  “Amy?”

  Amy looked around the room.

  It was empty.

  “Amy?”

  She reached out for a nearby lamp and felt a hand on hers. She screamed and leapt to the opposite side of the couch.

  “JEEEEESUS!” She exclaimed, when she saw Terrence standing by the sofa. “Terrence! You gave me a bloody heart attack!” She snapped.

  The boy just stood, watching her, with bleary eyes and dishevelled blonde hair.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Amy eventually tuned into her friend on the phone. “Nothing, he’s up again. Hold on,” Amy said, putting the mobile phone down and turning to the boy. “What are you doing out of bed, Terry? You gave Amy a really big fright,” she said, buttoning up the jacket of his Scooby pyjamas.

  “Someone keeps tapping on my window.”

  “It’s just the wind, Terry.”

  “No, that man.”

  “What man?”

  “Man outside my window.”

  “There’s nobody outside your window, Terrence. We’re way too high in the sky for anybody to be outside your window. Now, come on. We need to get you back to bed before your parents get home.”

  “No,” the three-year-old whined. “Not tired.”

  “Of course you are. You were very sleepy earlier.”

  “No, Amy, it’s cold in my room.”

  “Well, we’ll turn up the heating, but you must get back to bed. Your mummy left strict instructions. Come on, let’s go,” she said, taking his hand, but the boy snatched it away and pulled one of his obstinate frowns where his nose wrinkled, his eyebrows furrowed and he stared every which way but at the person who was talking to him.

  Amy grabbed her phone, “Hey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to have to call you back. I’ve got a situation here.”

  “What, is the hotty home?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Okay, call me as soon as you’re done.”

  “Will do.”

  Amy disconnected the call and threw her mobile device onto the sofa.

  “Right, young man,” she said, snapping on a lamp, and putting her hands on her hips in an obvious display of authority, “time for you to get back to bed whether you like it or not.”

  She scooped the protesting child into her arms, and carried him back to his bedroom, just as a close up of his smiling parents filled the television screen.

  “Terry, Terrence…”Amy corrected herself.

  Queen bitch actually made a point of saying that her son’s name was Terrence and not Terry.

  “…you gave Amy a real fright earlier. Especially when you pulled my hair, which, by the way, wasn’t very nice, was it?” Amy continued as they made their way down the corridor.

  “It wasn’t me,” the little boy, whined.

  “Come on, Terrence,” she said, seriously.

  “It wasn’t,” the boy repeated, as they reached a door sporting the roaring mouth of a tyrannosaur and the words: T-errence’s Room.

  Amy felt the boy’s whole body stiffen and he buried his face in her neck.

  The move was palpable and it made her pause.

  “Terrence? What’s wrong?”

  No answer.

  “Terrence?”
<
br />   Still no answer, just clinging.

  She unravelled the little boy’s grasp and looked into his big brown eyes, and felt a pang of concern; he seemed genuinely afraid.

  “Oh Terrence, what’s the matter? Tell Amy what’s wrong.”

  The boy looked at his bedroom door for several seconds and then turned, leant in close to her ear and whispered, “He’s…he’s in there. Hiding behind the curtains.”

  The line chilled Amy and it took her a few seconds to compose herself.

  “That’s not funny, Terrence,” she snapped.

  Then, as if to prove a point, she pushed the door open to a dark room.

  “What happened to your night light? I left it on for you.”

  “He switched it off.”

  “Terrence, I told you that isn’t funny,” she said, angrily. The little boy’s words were really starting to creep her out.

  She searched the wall for the overhead light switch, flipped it on and gasped.

  All of the little boy’s toys were stacked in one big pile in the centre of the room. Trains, teddy bears, Transformer figurines, Marvel figurines, skipping ropes, jigsaw puzzles, colouring books and crayons.

  It was as if the boy had emptied the entire contents of his giant plastic storage boxes, and then stacked everything in one big pile, like some bizarre PG rated orgy.

  “Oh my God, Terrence. What have you done?” Amy breathed. “Is this why you didn’t want me to bring you back to your room?”

  The boy just looked at her.

  “Why would you do this?” She said, stepping closer, as if this would help her comprehend the exhibit.

  She let the boy slide to the floor, but he clung on.

  “No, Terrence. Amy is very cross with you right now. If your mum comes home and sees this, she’s going to have a fit. I may even lose my job. Is that what you want?”

  She looked at him, but the boy was too busy holding onto and burying his face in her leg.

  “OK, well, it’s into bed for you. I’ve got to clear all this up before your parents get home.”

  She picked him up and placed him in the bed, where the boy instantly shrank under the duvet, until just the top part of his face was showing.

  Again, Amy couldn’t help but notice the look in his eyes, which were now wide and full of apprehension.