by Sue Watson
Suddenly, the doorbell ripped into this warm blanket of peaceful whiteness. It was Arthur, my driver. He always knocked early to make sure I was on schedule, so I now had 15 minutes exactly before I was due to leave. With this in mind, I quickly moved on to the next section of my morning schedule. Blending an apple, some ginger and a handful of organic carrots, I created an ‘effortless, body-cleanse, detox breakfast’ that apparently worked miracles. It was called ‘Organic Voltage,’ or ‘OV’ and I’d found this secret to eternal youth on HotYoungThing.com. I hadn’t tried the recipe before and pouring the lumpy orange liquid into a tall glass, convinced myself that it had to taste better than it looked. I wiped the recipe card, put it back in my recipe file and strolled through to the orangery to enjoy my drink.
My thoughts returned to Nathan. The downside of my success meant that some days it was impossible to find space in my diary to even talk to him. I wasn’t home until late afternoon or early evening and as I was often busy with my script for the following day, then early to bed, Nathan liked to pop out for a drink. I was hardly ever able to go with him and I knew I had to do something about this sorry state of affairs. I decided I would cook that evening and create a lovely, romantic atmosphere for us both... surely that would bring us together again. That night I’d create my signature (and only) recipe, Thai chicken. My fragrant thighs and sticky rice had won him over once before and would only take about 45 minutes in total to prepare. We would open a bottle of white too. I didn’t normally drink wine on a show-night, but needs must – it would loosen me up and perhaps after I’d worked on my script, exfoliated and flossed and before I went to bed we would have about seven minutes left for sex.
I checked my Roland Cartier and I now had five minutes before I had to leave for the studio. Arthur would be sitting in the Merc, reading his Sun from cover to cover and not expecting me until post-crossword, pre-TV listings. So I was OK for time – in fact, I could live a little and allow myself a couple of minutes to relax and appreciate my bespoke, real-wood orangery by David Salisbury, furnished of course by Marston and Langinger.
Settling down, I took a good glug of Organic Voltage. The only thing that stopped me spitting it out was that it might permanently stain the real-oak floor. The taste made me gag and it crossed my mind that OV would more accurately stand for ‘Organic Vomit’. I swallowed hard; I’d always had a high reflux but it was worth the retching if the end result was a sparkly-clean colon.
I sat back in the oversized wicker chair and gazed though the glass towards the garden. It was hard to make out in the dimness of early morning and my un-made up reflection stared back at me. Looking away, I saw the Hello! magazine on the coffee table. At the sight of it my heart leapt into my mouth and I felt dizzy.
William and Kate gazed back all regal and perfect and spoiled. Nothing was going to burst their bubble, with a beautiful royal baby to keep them occupied. Hello! was giving me palpitations, but not because of the sycophantic prose about ‘our royal ‘new mum’ it was because shortly, the latest copy would land on my doorstep – and it featured me…me and Nathan, to be precise. And whilst Nathan was happy to be photographed with me spread across our vanilla sofas in White Company lounge-wear, he wasn’t actually present when I did the interview with the journalist, and I may have got slightly carried away.
I pushed the magazine under the pile of Country Living and Elle Decoration and steadied myself. I had to think positive, put all thoughts of Hello! magazine aside and concentrate on the show. Daylight was weeping through the trees and the garden was slowly emerging from the clutches of night. It wasn’t easy to reconcile my daily plunge into sink-estate stardom with these undulating lawns and chaste, parterre triangles leading to the brimming, beautifully-kept vegetable garden. Here, canes stood in strict lines and fat slugs never dared taint my perfect dinner-party leaves with their slimy presence.
Thinking about slugs and soil made me want to wash my hands, but first I had to finish my detox and cleanse my insides so I lifted the glass, my whole body now braced for an internal superfood scrub.
The juice was truly disgusting and trying hard to swallow, my eyes watered with the effort. Holding my nose between two perfectly OPI-manicured fingers, I closed my eyes, thought of England and swallowed. Not for the first time.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth Just had delish detox breakfast smoothie fresh raw vegetables. Yum! #LoveVeggiesLoveLife #HotYoungThing
As the car purred outside on the drive and Arthur checked out what he and Pat would be watching on TV tonight, I had two minutes to complete my morning preparation. I’d been slightly cavalier with timings today and left things a bit tight; I still needed to scrub the kitchen surfaces, wash my glass, clean the gritty blender and make certain no Organic Voltage had gathered around my electricals.
Cleaning thoroughly before I left was an absolute necessity because Astrid, my so-called cleaner, didn’t actually clean. All she had to manage were a daily dust, a good vacuum, order a weekly Jane Packer floral extravaganza for the hall table and a little artful spritzing of Jo Malone here and there.
Not too much to ask, but Astrid had no soul. It was my own fault – I’d only employed her because the agency told me she was Swedish and I was reading Steig Larsson at the time. I’d also decorated using washed-out woods and shades of white and felt that a moody, blonde Swede would look good against the paintwork. I had been working long hours and my regular cleaner had quit, so after a rather stern call to the agency, they sent Astrid straight round. When had I opened the door, a sweet little blonde girl with a huge smile had stepped in.
“Mrs Tanya?” she said.
“No… Well, yes, I suppose so” I replied, ushering her inside.
“Thank shit for that!” she said, putting down her bag. “I am thinking, this is big fuck-off house, I am liking that I live here now!”
I was a little taken aback by her directness – not to mention the swearing – but I was desperate and in thrall with all things Swedish, thanks to Steig. Plus, the third book in the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy had yet to be translated into English, which gave me an idea.
“Can you read the third Steig Larsson book to me, in English?” I asked, hopefully.
“That will be no problem. It is shit-hot ending!” She said.
So, later that week I held a reading group for a few select guests, who were all excited about hearing the final instalment of the series before most of the English-speaking world. However, I hadn’t accounted for Astrid’s ‘theatrical licence’ and along with other expletives, I was rather surprised at the many different ways Larrson had appropriated the word ‘shitting’ as an adjective in his final work. “There’s a lot of child-like anger in Larsson’s third book,” our floor manager Tim had said, shaking his head, when Astrid paused reading to make everyone tea.
“Yes,” added Judith; “that poor guy was working through his rage writing this one. He’s used the phrase “big old shithead” fifteen times – and we’re only on Chapter Four.”
I smiled stiffly and brought the evening to a close as quickly as I could.
Despite causing deep embarrassment and the end of a burgeoning book club, the reinterpretation of Larsson wasn’t the most immediate problem with Astrid. In her capacity as cleaner, it surprised me that she’d never seen a duster, ignored the vacuum and insisted on filling the house with nasty plastic daisies and cheap air freshener. Astrid wasn’t a cleaner, she was a bloody chemical warrior and the hit took me by the throat every time I walked into the house.
So I continued with my morning ritual and having cleansed and spritzed and wiped, I opened the front door and looked back at my fabulous hallway. I sprayed another veil of Jo Malone’s Basil and Verbena and took one last, heaven-scented breath. I turned to leave, trying not to inhale the dirty world outside, and stepped onto the cold, crunchy gravel.
“Good morning, Miss Travis,” Arthur’s familiar voice sang as he clambered from the Merc, almost bowing as he took my bag. Now in his sixties,
Arthur was much older than me but as I was over forty and on the telly, he treated me like he would a dowager aunt.
Greeting him with a smile and a regal pat on the arm (Arthur didn’t do showbiz air-kissing, thank God), I climbed into the thick, expensive interior. The car moved off smoothly and as I settled back, I was suddenly reminded of the first time Nathan had come with me to watch the show. We’d only been together three weeks and he was keen to see where I worked and meet the people I spent my day with. Despite his musician-cool and constant references to ‘Tanya’s daytime-pond-life-talk-show,’ he was quite impressed. He had allowed himself to be seduced by Arthur’s butter-soft, leather-scented nirvana and swigged beer like a rock star while nodding slowly with reluctant approval. He gazed around him, a half-smile playing on his lips and announcing after a low whistle; “This is some shit, Tanya Travis."
In the driving seat, Arthur didn’t say much, as usual; that’s why he’d been my driver for years. The TV channel kept him on a retainer – just for Tanya Travis – and despite cutbacks everywhere, it was a testament to my popularity and viewing figures that the TV company was willing to give me the driver I wanted. It made sense, a happy presenter was a good presenter and I needed quiet concentration in the lead-up to every show.
So I was understandably annoyed when my mobile cut through the smooth silence as we purred along the early morning roads. I was going to ignore it but thought it might be Nathan, so scrabbled in my bag and answered it.
“Hello, Nathan?” I said, breathlessly.
“Guess again, sweetcheeks,” came my agent's Brooklyn drawl. “It’s Mama. And don’t say I never call you”.
Oh great, just what I needed: a pep talk from that crazy bitch right before a live show.
“Donna, why are you calling me now? You’re normally sleeping off the Stoli until at least 10” I said, tartly.
“Now, now, don’t be so scratchy with Mama Bear, little Miss Snappy. I’ve got good news, but if you don’t want to hear it...”
“What?” I said, irritated, hoping this wasn’t about some third-rate charity event or Z-list store opening.
“I had a call this morning – well it was the middle of the night, actually. From the Beeb.”
“Oh?” I said, sitting up.
“Yeah. They have plans for a new prime-time, Saturday-night format – wondered if you might be interested?”
My heart leaped. “You are kidding! You are, aren’t you?”
“Me? Kid you? Why would I do that? It’s not signed or sealed, so no sound of champagne corks popping just yet but we’re in early talks prior to a pilot. They want someone new and fresh who can do live – they need a presenter with experience but not too much prime-time exposure. So they called me.”
My head spun, all thoughts of today’s show temporarily tossed aside.
“Wow – the BBC! So what happens now?” I asked, trying hard not to get my hopes up because TV could be so fickle. We’d had a few near misses in my career and I was keen not to let such a fantastic opportunity escape.
“All we can do is wait,” she said and I heard her pause briefly to light her breakfast cigarette. “But I can tell you they are VERY keen. Mum’s the word.”
“What’s the format?” I breathed, desperate for details.
“It’s a prime-time show dealing with sensitive issues – broken people, shattered hearts, sick minds, the usual blah,” Donna never did sympathy very well. I suppose you had to feel it and she never did.
“It sounds just up my street,” I said, wanting it badly.
“Oh, it is. And they are under the impression that you are right up their street. And of course you are – but we don’t want anything turning up from your past and ruining our hard work do we my little scandal queen? I hope you’re still keeping ‘mum’ on that and not blubbing and blabbing to anyone who’ll listen?”
I bit my lip.
“So my sweet, it’s early nights and clean living for you until we hear anything.”
“As if I ever do anything else,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Well, you’ll need to hold off the Class A drugs and sex with One Direction – one of them has a weakness for older women like you. Oh and keep the bestiality and the child sacrifices to twice a week for the foreseeable, by which time we should have it in the bag and you can shag who or whatever you like.”
“Lovely. I’ll look forward to that.”
“Joking aside Tanya, you need to be extra careful,” she said, turning all MI5. “If we get this gig it will rely on your good reputation and caring, sensitive manner. Nothing – I mean NOTHING – must spoil this.”
“Now who’s being the drama queen? What are you talking about Donna?”
“I’m talking about your so-called partner’s little indiscretions...”
“Nathan? Oh Donna, I’ve told you before. It’s not Nathan, it’s the press – you know what they’re like, they hound him.”
I heard her sigh.
“What a crock... He’s a gold-digger – and he knows I know. That’s why he hates me.”
“No he doesn’t,” I flared, “and there’s a flaw in your great gold-digging theory: I don’t have any money. As you’re always telling me, I spend it as fast as I earn it.”
“Yeah, but now he’s spending it as fast as you are and when it’s all gone and you’re homeless, he’ll be gone too.”
Donna looked after all my finances so I couldn’t hide anything from her.
“I only lent him the money for the studio, which doesn’t make him a bloody gold-digger, Donna.”
“You will never see that money again, you know.”
“It’s a few thousand, when he makes it big he’ll pay me back. You’re obsessed with money and what I can and can’t afford,” I said, echoing what Nathan had said to me earlier.
“Hmmm. I hope you’re both happy when you’re living in your car and on welfare.”
“Donna, please, I don’t need this lecture now...I’m about to get to the studio.” I snapped.
“Go on then gal, go get the pond life, tits and teeth, tits and teeth – or should I say, tarts and tattoos?” she guffawed at her own joke. “I’ll see you for lunch after the show.” She hung up and was gone. There was never a goodbye with Donna.
Slumping back into the softness and fixing my gaze hard on the window, I tried not to think about how much I wanted the BBC job. We were pulling into the home straight now, Arthur expertly guiding us towards the studio. There would be no need to ask him not to repeat our conversation; he was the soul of discretion. Thank God for Arthur, his safe driving skills and his deep social reticence.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth Just heading for the studio + chatting away with Arthur my driver about the great show we have in store for you today! #TheTruthWithTanya
3
Post-Op Transsexuals and Pageant Queens
I finally arrived at the studio where The Truth with Tanya Travis posters lined the corridors. Entering the building I glanced at that sharp-suited TV star, staring down in her pensive, firm, but caring pose. The familiar thrill of seeing myself up there – larger than life – still snaked through me, after 15 years at the top. It was now 7.22am exactly: right on time. Waiting by the studio door, Starbucks in hand was my personal angel, Georgina. Cool and blonde, with a degree in Quantum Physics and a body to die for, I should have hated her – but I couldn’t. She was so efficient, tidy and loyal. In fact she was everything anyone could want in an assistant.
“Good morning, Tanya,” she said with a smile, flashing her perfectly straight, white teeth and proffering my double-shot, tall, extra-hot, skinny latte. “I hope you slept well. We’ve got a great show lined up today!”
I smiled and handed her my suit bag as we set off down the corridor together towards my dressing room, nodding at crew members and the production team as they scurried about in the usual pre-show activity. We walked quickly, the air alive and jangling with pre-show nerves as people worked on scripts, cameras, and trailing wires
– each of them excited and anxious about their own vital role before we went live on air at 10.30am, in just under three hours’ time.
Georgina opened the door for me and as usual, I left the mad bustle and entered deep calm. My face creams, antibacterial wipes, extra scripts and laptop were all laid out for me. The laptop – as always – was already logged in and waiting, the creams precisely ten minutes out from the fridge: not too cold for comfort, but cool enough to tighten those fine lines and refresh my skin. I sometimes wondered if Georgina had some kind of sixth sense, because she always did everything just how I liked it, before I’d even thought to ask her.
She handed me the running order. “Here is the latest version,” she said, passing me the freshly printed-out sheets.
“As you can see, there’s been a slight amendment, but obviously nothing you can’t deal with, Tanya” she said, sincerely.
“It’s now the post-op transsexual, followed by the drug-dealing cage-fighter who’s made at least five women pregnant, then the six year-old pageant queen, and a mother-in-law from hell; in that order.”
“Well, that’s clearly the work of Ray.” I said, irritated, flicking through the pages. Ray was our boss and lately had taken to meddling with almost every aspect of the show.
“He’s so keen to get unusual sex and the under-forties on the Daytime agenda, he’s losing sight of the bloody goal post,” I sighed.
Georgina nodded: “Yes, and it’s affecting the kind of contributors we get. Today for example, we’re talking aggressive, unattractive, monosyllabic and animalistic.”