by Susan Lewis
The next morning there was a production meeting. Corrie sat on the edge listening intently to everything that was said and making notes. When it was over Bob, the exec. producer, called her into his office.
As Corrie got up from her chair she didn’t see Alan Fox behind her until it was too late. She bumped into him, knocking the cup of scalding hot coffee he was carrying all over him.
‘Cunt!’ he seethed.
Corrie gasped.
The secretaries giggled.
Corrie turned away quickly, damned if she was going to apologize now, and went into Bob’s office.
‘It’s customary, Corrie,’ Bob began, ‘for the research team to stay in the office to watch transmission. Your absence was noted last night.’
Corrie’s cheeks blazed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, ‘I didn’t realize. It won’t happen again.’
‘Good.’
‘Is that all?’ she said, when he didn’t continue.
He sighed. ‘No. I’m afraid it’s not.’
Corrie’s heart churned. Whatever else he had to say she knew she wasn’t going to like it.
‘I know you’ve only been here a couple of days,’ he said, ‘but several people have already remarked on your attitude. Personally speaking I think you’re doing a grand job, it’s not easy dealing with all those egos out there, but try to remember your position – and have a little more respect, eh?’
Boiling with indignation Corrie managed a brief, though polite, ‘Of course,’ and left the office.
– 6 –
SIX WEEKS LATER things still hadn’t improved. Annalise was the only one who spoke civilly to Corrie, but Annalise was rarely in the office. She was either out filming, closeted in the edit suite or at home recovering from a hangover.
By now Corrie had discovered the reason behind the secretaries’ animosity. They believed that they should have been offered the job as research assistant and felt that Corrie had come in over their heads. There were times when Corrie was tempted to tell them to have the bloody job, but she managed to bite her tongue and got on with whatever task she had been asked to do. As for the others, Alan Fox, she now realized, was governing their hostility. He was much older than the other reporters, had been in the game a lot longer, fancied himself as a bit of a Romeo, and, due to the fact that he presented the programme when Luke wasn’t around, was treated, and behaved, as though he were king pin. Whether it was because of his seniority and track record, or his caustic wit, Corrie wasn’t sure, but it seemed that everyone, producers, researchers and reporters alike, were all apt, like puppets, to dance to any tune he called. And, at the end of the day when he invited people over to the wine bar for a drink, Corrie noticed that no one ever refused, just as she noticed that she was never included.
She lived for the days when he was out on a story, when at least she felt she could breathe. She had now become the butt of his jokes, which were all the more painful for being so subtly delivered that she didn’t always understand them. At least when he wasn’t there people left her alone.
Some of the worst times though were when the office was full, but quiet, and she had nothing to do. Unless Annalise was there she was never included in the conversation, so she had no choice but to sit in her isolated chair staring out of the window of the tower block, gazing down onto the rooftops below and the River Thames. Occasionally she would try to alleviate her acute self-consciousness by reading a newspaper, but it seemed that every paper she picked up was suddenly wanted by someone else. Corrie simply smiled and handed it over. Not for a minute did she give any indication of how much they were hurting her, nor of how sickened she was by the way none of them had the guts to go against Alan. She simply took it, was always polite, then returned each evening to the loneliness of the Regent’s Park flat and cried herself to sleep.
When Annalise was there things in truth weren’t so much better, but at least Annalise was the centre of attention then, instead of Alan Fox. Annalise was so bubbly and lively and outrageous everyone seemed to love her. And no one could blame them for that, since apart from her mischievous sense of humour, refreshing honesty and wit, she had a remarkable capacity for being teased, and an equally remarkable talent for making everyone feel quite special.
The strange thing was that she didn’t seem to notice Corrie’s misery at all. She simply behaved as though everything was wonderful, like Corrie was having a marvellous time working for TW and wasn’t life just terrific? Everyone was aware of her relationship with Luke – Annalise did nothing to hide it – but what anyone thought about it Corrie had no idea, she was not privy to office gossip. For her part she did wonder from time to time about the dark circles which sometimes appeared under Annalise’s eyes. Annalise unfailingly attributed them to a hangover, but Corrie wasn’t always convinced, since there were days when Annalise’s intrinsic jubilation of life didn’t quite ring true. Corrie was certain this had something to do with Luke, and wondered what his relationship with Annalise really meant to him – she guessed not as much as it did to Annalise.
She’d never yet spoken to Luke Fitzpatrick, and doubted he even knew she was there. His office, like Bob’s, was off the main production unit, but unlike Bob’s it had no window onto the comings and goings of the team. He wasn’t there every day either, but when he was she loved to watch the way he joked around with everyone, or reshaped their ideas to something that invariably worked better. She liked him, instinctively, mainly because of the way he sent himself up over his popularity with the viewing public. Corrie was astounded to discover that some adoring fans actually sent him nude photographs of themselves, along with shockingly explicit descriptions of what they would like to do to him. When these photographs circulated the office they never reached Corrie, but she knew from the comments and hilarity that not all the photographs were of women. Julia, Luke’s secretary, had the thankless task of replying to his fan mail, popping a signed photograph of him into each envelope. Paula wanted one, but Corrie didn’t have the nerve to ask.
For the most part she kept herself to herself and observed everything quietly from the wings. On the whole it was hell, but she had now reached the point where she would rather die than allow herself to give in. She was going to use this time to learn. She was already absorbing all the information that came her way and studying how the programmes were made, from research to transmission. She listened hard to all the production meetings that took place in the general office, and tried to figure out for herself why some things worked and others didn’t. She had started buying her own newspapers to bone up on what was going on in the world, and when the time was right she was going to say to hell with TW and find herself a job in another production company. One where she would be given an opportunity to excel. Where she might even yet rise to the top. And where, please God, she might one day find herself in a position to employ – or not – Alan Fox and his sycophants. Then it would be her turn to watch them suffer. She could hardly wait for the day.
‘Your heart isn’t hard enough to carry a grudge like that,’ Paula told her when Corrie finally came clean as to how things really were at TW.
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Corrie snapped.
‘I will. I know you, remember. You’re not capable of hatred, or revenge, much as you might like to think you are.’
‘I’ve changed.’
‘Not that much. OK, this might be toughening you up a bit, and who knows, maybe you need it. But being tough doesn’t have to mean being hardbitten and vicious. It means standing up for yourself and showing them that you’re bigger, better than them. The last thing you want is to be like them, to stoop to their level.’
‘But you don’t know what it’s like,’ Corrie protested.
‘I know I don’t. But listen, Corrie, if I were you I’d find a way to disarm them. Do something to make them like you. After all you’re not a horrible person, and in the end that’ll be a much more satisfying, not to mention healthy, victory than festering away there on how you’re going
to chew them up and spit out their bones – and you can do it if you put your mind to it.’
‘Since when did you get to be so wise?’
‘Since I was old enough to understand the advice Edwina always gave us. You reap what you feel. And if you feel bitter and lonely, hard done by and sorry for yourself, then that’s the way you’ll end up, no matter how successful you become. Don’t let them do that to you, Corrie, they’re not worth it – and you’re worth a great deal more.’
There was a long pause before Corrie grudgingly whispered, ‘I suppose you’re right,’ and Paula instantly heard the tears in her voice. She knew it had been the mention of Edwina that had done it.
‘We all love you, Corrie,’ she said softly. ‘We’re rooting for you. You can do it, you can get there. But just bear this in mind. All you’re thinking of at the moment is material success, of “getting there.” But a fat lot of good that’s going to do you without personal success. That is the kind of success it is impossible to be happy without. So don’t be too proud to forgive, and think before you go blindly into some kind of revenge trip. Ask yourself, who are you going to end up hurting? You. That’s who. So, for your own sake, don’t do it.’
‘I wish it were as easy as that,’ Corrie sniffed.
‘I know. But just promise me that you won’t go getting yourself all screwed up over this, over them, and how you’d like to pay them back – at least not until you’ve tried another way.’
Paula waited, and finally Corrie’s voice came across the line, ‘OK, I’ll give it a go,’ she said. ‘But if doesn’t work then I’m telling you now, I’ll …’
‘Save the threats,’ Paula interrupted. ‘You don’t know what might be around the corner. And let’s face it, since things can’t get much worse …’
‘I know, they can only get better. You just better be right, that’s all I can say, because this is going right against the grain with me, putting myself out on a limb to be nice to those fuckheads.’
‘You can do it,’ Paula laughed. ‘You can do anything.’
‘Says who?’
‘Me. Who else?’
‘My mother, who seems to be living on in you,’ Corrie smiled. ‘That’s who else.’
Phillip Denby was watching his wife. From where he stood, in front of the mirror arranging his bow tie, he could see only her profile, until she tilted her face to the light. She moved her head from side to side before discarding yet another pair of priceless earrings replacing them with another. Again she raised her face to the light, and his eyes followed the curve of her long, slender neck to her delicately bronzed shoulders. Her complexion was as flawless as the diamonds clipped to her ears, her ice-blue eyes as hard and translucent.
She was sitting at her own mirror, in her dressing room. The door was open, Phillip had left it that way after being summoned inside a few minutes ago for his opinion on the dress she had chosen for their cocktail party. As usual her taste was impeccable. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder, knee length black velvet creation from an Italian designer, with matching long gloves and black suede stiletto heels with fake diamond clusters. Her silvery blonde hair had been dressed earlier in the day, semi-precious stones studding the black lace snood holding the chignon. At her throat was the peardrop diamond he had given her three weeks before on their wedding anniversary.
Catching him watching her Octavia stood up and turned to face him. ‘What do you think?’ she said, smoothing her hands over her hips.
‘Very nice,’ Phillip answered, assuming, correctly, that she meant the earrings.
‘Yes, aren’t they?’ she purred, turning back to the mirror and pouting her lips. His face was expressionless as he continued to watch her. She was probably as beautiful now – at forty-six – as she had been the day he married her. She should be, the surgery had cost him a fortune. Was there an area of her body that hadn’t yet been subjected to the surgeon’s knife, he wondered. Probably not. Everything that could be tucked had been. That could be lifted, replaced or rebuilt was, that needed to be removed had vanished. Her hair was highlighted regularly, she took a sunbed once a week, had her nails manicured twice a week and worked out every morning with her personal trainer in the gymnasium Phillip had had installed in the basement of their Chelsea home.
How many times during the evening ahead, he wondered idly, would he be told what a beautiful couple they made? Friends and strangers alike remarked on it, with tedious regularity. The perfect couple, was how they had been written up in Harpers a few months ago, and if one judged them by looks and material wealth alone, then he couldn’t deny that they did appear to have everything. Even they never discussed what was missing from their lives – he guessed that as far as Octavia was concerned nothing was. She was incapable of love, he’d discovered that only weeks after they were married, just as she was incapable of understanding the bitterness he felt on the occasions she demanded he make love to her.
She had never had an orgasm, at least not with him, and Phillip had given up trying when she’d told him she really didn’t want one – it was undignified, she’d said.
She was dabbing herself with expensive perfume as he walked into her dressing room. Standing behind her he put his hands on her hips and looked at their reflections in the mirror. ‘Mmm, smells good,’ he murmured.
‘Phillip, please,’ she said, wriggling away, ‘you’ll muss up my hair.’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, not quite sure why he had touched her anyway.
‘Shouldn’t you be going downstairs to check on things?’ she said, replacing her perfume on the dressing table and picking up a lip brush.
Swallowing the urge to sweep his fist across the dressing table and smash every bottle on it, he nodded. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I go?’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for you?’
‘No. Nothing,’ she answered, seeming hardly to have heard him.
Why, oh why, he asked himself savagely as he crossed the room, was he so servile with her? Why couldn’t he find it in himself to stand up to her, to tell her what he really thought of her and get the hell out of this farce of a marriage?
As he reached the door his nerves started churning up his stomach. For the past two hours he had been trying to pluck up the courage to tell her he was going away the following week for a few days, but as yet he’d been unable to. He frequently travelled on business, and she never minded, the trouble was, the trip he had planned for next week wasn’t business and he was very much afraid that she was going to say she wanted to come too.
He was almost out the door when suddenly the words tumbled from his mouth. ‘Oh darling, I almost forgot to tell you. I’m going to Spain for a couple of days next week.’
‘Really?’ she said, retouching her lips. ‘What’s in Spain?’
‘Golf.’ He smiled nonchalantly, but his hand had tightened on the door handle.
Her lip brush stopped in mid-air, and she turned slowly to face him. ‘Golf?’ she repeated, almost allowing a frown to crease her perfect brow. ‘You’re going to Spain to play golf?’
Phillip laughed awkwardly. ‘Well it’s not unheard of,’ he said. ‘Plenty of others do it, all the time.’
‘I’m sure they do,’ she said, ‘but you don’t. At least you never have before. So why suddenly now?’
It was over. There would be no trip to Spain. She was suspicious, she would never allow him to go when she didn’t believe his reason for going. He felt a quick stab of sadness – and resentment – that he would have to let Pam down, yet again. ‘A few of the chaps from the bank are going,’ he said dismally. ‘They’ve invited me along – it seemed like a good idea.’
When he looked up to his amazement he saw that she was smiling, and his hopes suddenly soared.
‘How nice that you have some leisure time available to you,’ she drawled. ‘I’m so pleased, Phillip.’
He could hardly believe his ears and for one fleeting moment was tempted to thank her, but her next words stopped him.
&nb
sp; ‘The de Whitneys have invited us to their cabin in Gstaad next week for a spot of skiing,’ she said. ‘Of course, I told them it was out of the question, with you being so busy. But now … Well, I’ll get right on the phone and tell them we’ll be there next Tuesday. Oh, darling, how simply splendid. You didn’t really want to play golf, did you? No, of course you didn’t. Such a dull game. And aren’t I clever, I’ve managed to rescue you from all those middle-class oafs who will insist …’
‘Actually,’ Phillip interrupted, ‘I didn’t need rescuing. I rather wanted to go.’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Phillip. You hate golf.’
‘I enjoy golf, Octavia.’
‘No, no, no. You detest it, and Gstaad will be such fun, even though skiing is a bit of a bore. But you know how hospitable the de Whitneys are. One can’t fail to have a good time with dear Ramona as one’s hostess. And you adore skiing, don’t you darling? You’re so adept at it.’
It was true, Phillip was a good skier, and of their countless number of friends he probably like Ramona and Ivan de Whitney the most. But right now he wanted to go to Spain.
‘I’ve already booked the flights to Barcelona,’ he protested weakly.
‘Flights?’ Octavia said, giving a little shake of her head indicating confusion.
Phillip coloured and was about to attempt an explanation when Octavia’s face lit up.
‘Oh, I see,’ she cried. ‘You were intending to take me with you? How sweet of you, darling. But really, I’m not cut out to be a golf widow, and I would so much prefer to go to Gstaad. You can always cancel the flights, can’t you? Yes, of course you can. Get that stupendously efficient little secretary of yours to see to it. Pauline, or whatever her name is.’
‘You know very well that her name is Pam,’ Phillip retorted.
‘So it is. Well get her to handle things. She can book us onto the flight to Switzerland at the same time. Oh, Phillip, you’ve quite made my day. I’ll start shopping first thing in the morning.’