What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Actually, shh, but I think maybe I’m kind of starting to see a bit of this in Joely.

  And you should see the fees these people are commanding! Not to mention their dressing-room rider demands. There’s an ex-Hollyoaks actor I won’t name who has genuinely requested ‘three women’ be provided in his room ‘upon arrival’. I am tempted to call his mum and sisters and have them be there.

  But I’m hoping it’ll be worth it. Live TV is always the most exciting kind of TV, and it’s great for my CV that I’m heading this up.

  ‘Sadly no famouses this time,’ I tell Sam, shaking my head. ‘Oh, but Davina McCall’s recording in the other studio next week,’ I say in hushed tones, checking no one can hear us gushing.

  ‘Ooooh, I love her!’ Sam says and I laugh. Duh, everyone loves Davina. She’s a glorious, shimmering goddess, and when Rex gets crushed to death by his own inflated ego one day, I pray Davina will come take over as host of this show.

  Sam runs off, already on her phone, sorting the taxi.

  I pull out my to-do list, stretching my arms to the ceiling as I do. I’m going to yoga later and I can’t wait to sweat the day off. It’s full-on when we’re mid-series like this. Eighty episodes, recording every weekday for months – it doesn’t stop. The latest group auditions don’t start until next week, though, and Aslan – my fellow AP and work husband – is babysitting today’s contestants. I might just have time to grab some food from the canteen before filming starts.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I keep it there because it feels nice on my bum cheek and I’m not ashamed to say it.

  Six messages are waiting patiently from Lauren: three asking for my thoughts on prawn cocktail starters (I have no thoughts on prawn cocktail starters) and the others listing agenda points for our next wedding meeting later this week. It feels a lot to me like items we’ve already talked about. Many times. In fact, I am fairly certain, barely a few weeks into this engagement, we’ve already exhausted every possible element of wedding chat. But every time I think a decision has been made, something else comes up. So much for Lauren’s promise to make quick decisions. I breathe out, feeling a tiny bit overwhelmed. Work is too busy for prawn cocktails. Sliding my phone back in my pocket without replying, I head for the studio canteen. I need a coffee, some cake and a Franny chat.

  Franny is my grandma. Granny Franny is her name, which – I know! – is hilarious, isn’t it! But she’s not just my grandma; she’s the communal grandma around here. She got the job of tea lady/canteen supervisor just after I became AP. The impression I get from the rest of the catering staff is that she just sort of turned up one day and told them she was having a job. It’s ridiculous, given how competitive TV is, but Granny Franny is a force of nature. She barrels in, announces to the world what she wants, and won’t take no for an answer. And because she’s literally ninety years old, I think everyone felt too awkward to say no. She threatens to die on you if you say no to her, so it’s probably better they didn’t try.

  I really love having her so close to me. I want her around as much as I’m allowed, at all times. Because even though she’s more alive than anyone you’ve ever met, I still know there is a . . . time limit on this relationship. I hate even thinking that because she is my favourite person in the entire universe, but I have to be somewhat realistic – she is a nonagenarian, after all. Granny Franny is like a mum and a best friend, as well as being a brilliant grandma. My parents had quite a volatile marriage from day one, and Franny only lived two streets away, so I spent most of my childhood over at her house doing our quizzes, and listening to her recite whole chapters from books she’d memorised for my bedtime stories.

  Much as I love my parents, I think of Franny as being the one who really raised me – all the good parts of me, anyway – and our daily lunches together mean a lot.

  In the steamy cooking area, Franny looks as fake-busy as ever. Her role is mostly supervisory, because she doesn’t actually really know how to cook, but she definitely likes to boss people about. Her ‘experience’ is deeply appreciated, by which I mean, the rest of the kitchen staff are afraid of her. As I walk over, Franny is waving her walking stick in the air. She doesn’t really need it, but she says it makes her look ‘grand, like Maggie Smith’. She says she’s the dowager of the canteen, which is ‘way better than Downton fucking Abbey’. The subject of the stick-waving is poor Andrea. Andrea is Franny’s closest friend and also Franny’s worst enemy; she gets a lot of stick, literally and figuratively. Right now, Franny is shouting at her about the chip fat needing more fat. Her cooking advice is almost always ‘more fat’.

  As she spots me across the kitchen, her lovely creased face lights up. Andrea gives me a relieved nod hello and shuffles away as I join my grandma, resting my head on her shoulder.

  ‘I’ve only got ten minutes, while Rex gets his chest waxed,’ I say conversationally, as I help myself to a tuna sandwich from the counter and hand her the usual egg mayo.

  ‘Can I watch?’ she asks as we sit down at a table around the back. She fancies Rex.

  I roll my eyes as Franny narrows her eyes at the sandwich.

  ‘This looks fucking disgusting,’ she mutters resentfully.

  I snort. ‘Your girls made it, didn’t they?’

  She shrugs and all the loose skin around her face rearranges itself into an expression of disapproval.

  ‘You can’t get the staff these days,’ she says, peeling back the cling film before taking a large, happy bite of the wilting bread. Mouth full, she continues, ‘I would put my last shilling on Andrea having made this one – it tastes like Andrea. It has that metallic tang of cheap French perfume and sad, abandoned wife.’ She cackles evilly and I have a sudden memory of her reading me Roald Dahl’s The Witches when I was little. She was so good at the scary voices.

  Franny takes another bite before continuing – she always prefers to have a mouthful of food when she’s talking. ‘So how is my darling Rexy today?’ she says, through smooshed egg. ‘I’m glad to hear he takes care of himself, although personally I do prefer a full chest.’ This is true to the extreme. Franny’s usual type is very small, very hairy men. Her last husband, Husband Number Four, was the spit of Danny Devito.

  ‘He’s a nightmare, as usual,’ I say, and she reaches out to stroke my hand soothingly. It’s nice but now I have egg on my hand.

  ‘You should put him in his place occasionally. It would be good for him’ she says, gently scolding, and I laugh out loud.

  ‘I’d lose my job, Franny. He likes his assistants silent.’

  She cocks her head at me. ‘He doesn’t treat your friend Aslan like that, though, does he? And he’s the same work level as you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing a bite of my sandwich. ‘But he’s a man. He’s less experienced than me, he started this job after me, and bless him, he’s not as good as me – but obviously he’s on more money and gets more respect. It’s the way the world works. You should see the way the contestants all ignore me when he’s there, or treat me like I’m the tea lady.’

  Franny puffs out her chest, sitting up straighter. ‘Nothing wrong with being a tea lady, Delilah,’ she says huffily.

  ‘Oh no, no, I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I only mean that it’s not my job. I’m meant to be the assistant producer – I report to the actual producer of the show! – and yet I always seem to be the one fetching and carrying. And Rex is the worst of them all. He’s always openly telling everyone how he likes his women submissive – he even says it on the telly. It’s his brand. He thinks women should be in heels and lipstick at all times.’ I sigh.

  ‘You need to stand up for yourself more,’ she says, thumping her stick on the ground. ‘You let people run you ragged and take advantage. Your boss, your colleagues, even your family. Has that brother of yours paid back that money yet?’

  I blush. It’s been a few weeks since I lent Tom anot
her £100, and of course he never pays it back. I can hardly get him to answer the phone, never mind transfer money into my bank account.

  I shake my head and Franny sighs, changing the subject. ‘How are things with Will?’

  I smile at this, thinking about our lovely, quiet weekend together. We went to the cinema to see a shit horror film on Sunday, and then did our traditional race home. He got an Uber and I got the bus, and even though he beat me, we agreed that I was the true winner because I didn’t have to deal with the social awkwardness of chatting to the Uber driver.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I say simply. ‘Work want him to take on some extra projects this summer, so he’s going to be busy, but if he does well, it could mean a big promotion for him.’

  Franny nods. ‘Well, tell him he still has to come see me some time, even when he’s a big-shot charity mogul. The last time I saw him, he promised me we could get drunk on sherry. Maybe he could even join us one Thursday night, Lilah? He owes me, you tell him that.’

  ‘I shall indeed,’ I say, standing up. I better go check how Rex’s chest contouring is progressing.

  ‘Oh, your dad rang me earlier,’ she says suddenly. ‘He says you haven’t returned his calls from the other day and he wants you to know that your mother is a witch. He says his penis used to be a perfectly good size, but they did something to him during the vasectomy – it wouldn’t stop bleeding afterwards – and now it’s not as big as it used to be but it’s still better than average.’

  I shriek and cover my ears. ‘Oh my God, Franny, why would you tell me this? About your own son, too?!’

  She throws her head back, cackling. ‘I just thought it was funny. I’ll say anything if I think it’s funny.’

  Wedding Number Three: Harriet and Jamie, Trunch Hall, Liverpool

  Theme: Red and gold. The bride’s side were all in gold, while the alcoholics on the groom’s side were glowing bright red.

  Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.

  Gift: A personalised Moet magnum @ £120.

  Gossip: Groom’s dad surprised everyone at the reception with a performance he’d been practising for weeks. He sang ‘Blurred Lines’ by Robin Thicke. Yes, that song basically about rape. What is your point?

  My bank balance: £232.56

  5

  I. Am. Broken.

  It’s Sunday night and I’ve spent a long weekend with Lauren and Joely at a wedding show fair thingy. Which means I’ve had forty-eight hours of being shoved out of the way by intense-looking women with unwashed hair in a bun and crazy eyes. There was this one particularly feral lady, who I think might haunt my dreams. She was trying to rip a bouquet in half to prove some kind of a point to a florist, and when security literally carried her away, she screamed that we were ‘cum for brains’ and that every single one of us would be ‘butt-fucked in hell’. The florist didn’t seem that bothered, she said it happens to a lot of her brides, and that the woman who’d been taken away – Marie – was usually a ‘really nice lady who works in HR.’ And yes, she’d still be providing her with the tulip and lily arrangements they’d agreed on in saner moments. Lauren was impressed with her professionalism – she says she’s going to hire her.

  It was really full-on, and oh God, I’m worried about Lauren turning into one of those screaming ladies. I’m already seeing hints of it. There was definitely a moment earlier when I thought she was going to go full bridezilla over the type of chocolate they use in the chocolate fountain. It was like when Bruce Banner started his transformation into the Incredible Hulk but instead of gamma radiation, Lauren’s trigger is Lindt. Obviously I love her, but she’s always been a, er, high-octane human. Planning a giant wedding in less than six months is going to be the most stressful thing imaginable.

  I got back from the event a couple of hours ago, drained and broken, to find Will already in bed, reading. He bounced up, pleased to see me, proudly presenting some fridge leftovers for my dinner. We watched an episode of Game of Thrones together, then had guilty sex, knowing full well it was inspired by the sexy incest. That show has really done a lot for the image of incest, hasn’t it? The producers should bill counsellors for all the hours of therapy we need now.

  Lying in bed, I told Will about my day, and he listened intently as I told him how Lauren had settled ‘definitely this time’ on another gown. This will be her – hold on, let me count – seventh choice of wedding dress. She hated all the internet dresses she’d ordered (who saw that coming?) and we’ve been scouring bridal shops ever since for alternatives. Now all I see when I close my eyes is an endless sea of white silk. But Lauren says the dress is the most important part. She says that even if Charlie stands her up at the altar, so long as she has an incredible dress to wear, she ‘won’t care’. She started talking about how she’d be like Carrie Bradshaw, running after Big in her perfect dress. Forget the groom or the vows, Lauren says any decent wedding is only about the dress and the attention. Joely agreed very noisily with Lauren, so I did too.

  Beside me, Will shifts into the big spoon and I can feel he is tensing to say something.

  ‘Lilah?’ he says sleepily into my neck. ‘Will you marry me?’

  I sit bolt upright in bed. What the fuck?

  ‘Are you serious?’ I squeak, my heart suddenly beating too fast as a wave of sickness washes over me.

  He opens one eye, squinting at me. ‘What?’

  I turn to face him properly. He’s smirking. I fight the urge to shake him.

  ‘Will, I’m not kidding, I need to know if you’re being serious.’

  ‘Yeah, go on, marry me,’ he says, but his tone is still light.

  ‘You’re proposing to me like that? Are you really, seriously proposing to me like that? Is this a joke?’ I poke him and I can feel my palms are clammy. ‘Will? Will?’

  He closes the eye again and smiles lazily, rolling over in the bed and away from me.

  ‘I’ll take that as an enthusiastic yes then,’ he says.

  I stare down at him, my heart still thumping. Was it a joke? The tightness in my chest and shallow breathing indicates that my body, at least, thinks not. It’s not the first time he’s mentioned maybe becoming a Mr and Mrs, but it was always in a big ONE DAY kind of way. He’s made several references to it – casually talking about a misty, unrecognisable future together in the countryside wearing wellies. I would always smile and nod, without giving it much thought. And there’s certainly never been an actual proposal before – jokey or otherwise. Also, now I’m thinking about it, this is exactly the type of proposal Will would do: something laid back and post-coitus. He’s a low-key person, and doesn’t like drama and attention. He doesn’t have it in him to do something elaborate or public. He cringes at those viral flash-mob proposals that end up on YouTube and won’t even read Buzzfeed for fear of a dancing in-law.

  Maybe this is . . .

  No, no, come on, he’s joking, he must be. We’ve only been together about twenty months, and I still feel too young at twenty-eight to be thinking about marriage, even if everyone else is. But then, every age I’ve been has felt too young for anything grown-up. I’m still not sure I’m ready to lose my virginity, even though that ship sailed when I was fifteen, thanks to my summer holiday boyfriend, Jim.

  Side note: Jim still sends me regular inappropriate Snapchats about taking my ‘cherry’. He got really excited by that cherry-themed filter recently.

  Also, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not sure getting married is what I want anyway. I’ve never been that fussed about the idea. I wasn’t one of those kids dreaming about my Big Day or marching elaborately dressed Barbies up the aisle in my bedroom. I was usually too busy making my Barbies have sex with each other to worry about whether it was sanctioned in the eyes of the Lord. Marriage never really seemed like an important thing. I’ve talked a
bout it a bit before with Lauren and Joely – and even Tom, actually – and they all said I would change my mind. I thought I probably would too, but actually, the more of my life I spend at these endless weddings and hen dos, the more sure I feel that it’s not for me. The expense, the showiness, the stress and the expectation raining down on you – none of it feels like it will ever appeal to me.

  Plus, of course, my biggest marriage example isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of the institution. My parents racked up a good twenty-five years of mutual loathing before their divorce. Would I really want to take the chance of ending up in something like that? I never want to hate someone as much as my parents hate each other. I know that isn’t the fault of marriage, exactly, but maybe they wouldn’t have stayed together for so long if they hadn’t signed a pointless piece of paper and made vows to a God they don’t even believe in.

  Silence fills the room and I can feel Will is waiting beside me, his shoulders tense, but my throat is too tight to say anything.

  I stare at a spot on his back and fight the urge to pop it. He hates it when I do that. Although it would probably resolve this maybe wanting-to-marry-me thing. He very nearly ended things during our fourth date, when we were meant to be watching the latest Marvel movie at his place, and I got obsessed with an ingrown hair on his leg. I ended up using my tweezers on it and he hid in the loo for half an hour until I swore I’d never do it again. But I was lying. Will says I’m a weird mixture of being too over-familiar and too private and hard to read. But he says it nicely, like he thinks it’s a good thing.