‘Five minutes to go, Thea…’ Jayne warned.
Thea called Greg again. ‘It’s tight, but… he’s just outside… we’re going to get it… Hey, Gordon, put your earpiece in.’ There were muffled sounds, then Gordon the political editor came on the line.
‘Confirmed. He’s going.’
‘For sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. But Sky are on to it too. Get me on air now.’
‘Live in forty seconds. Live to Westminster in forty,’ Jayne calmly told the studio. ‘Marco, newsflash in ten.’
A few miles away Greg was hammering an intro into the system. Before he’d even finished typing, Marco was reading it from the autocue.
‘And now over to Westminster for some breaking news. The Seven Thirty News understands that the Home Secretary is to resign today.’ A red strap line flashed up on the screen beneath him, echoing his words. Gordon, Gordon, please let this be true, Thea thought. If they got this wrong her job would be right on the line.
‘Our political editor Gordon Cray is with us now. Gordon, I understand that you’re the first journalist to confirm—’
‘That’s right, Marco,’ gasped lanky Gordon, grinning as if all his numbers had come up on the lottery.
Thea imagined the fury at the BBC, the hissy fits at ITN, the tantrums at Sky. There was nothing better than knowing you’d scooped your rivals. She imagined the bollockings in their newsrooms, the ‘Why didn’t we have this?’ and blew her onscreen colleague a kiss.
‘I love you, Gordon Cray,’ she whispered. ‘I want to have your babies.’ She looked at the red studio clock. Four minutes left. Thea hugged herself.
‘I think I’ve just redeemed myself,’ she whispered, her face lighting up like the Blackpool illuminations.
‘Brilliant work,’ Dean said, clapping her on the shoulder. ‘Maybe you should be programme editing full time?’
‘Mmm.’ Thea smiled. She didn’t want to be a programme editor, even though technically it was a promotion. Editors sat at a desk all day, getting bedsores and grief. She changed the subject. ‘What can I get you, Dean?’
‘Don’t be silly, this one’s on me.’
‘Thank you, I’ll have a red wine,’ she said.
They were leaning against the polished bar of the Bricklayers, the Seven Thirty’s local. Before Thea had gone to New York, nearly every evening had started here with a few drinks before a crowd of them moved on to the Groucho or Soho House. Since her return Thea had only been in a couple of times for a quick snifter. Tonight, however, Dean had announced he was buying everyone a round and the place was bursting at the seams. Emma Waters had announced for once she’d skip her children’s bedtime. Marco had called Stephanie and said not to wait up. Even Roxanne Fox had deigned to come and was sipping Perrier in the corner, talking to Rhys, who was virtually salivating at this chance to curry favour.
Glass in hand, she turned back to her colleagues who were laughing, gossiping, congratulating each other on their triumph. There was nothing like that sense of team spirit when they’d all worked together to pull off a big story. Shame it happened so rarely. Thea was suffused with well-being, in the way she used to be after a night with Luke.
‘We made all the others look like nincompoops,’ Dean crowed for the umpteenth time.
‘I can’t believe we were so prepared,’ said lazy Bryn Darwin. ‘Totally unlike us.’
‘Remember the Queen Mother?’ Emma Waters chimed in.
‘Oh Christ.’ There was general laughter. The death of the Queen Mother had been the most over-anticipated incident in the history of journalism. Packages had been prepared decades in advance; there was an annual rehearsal of how the inevitable event would be covered.
‘Happened on a bloody Easter Saturday when there were only three people in the office.’ Jayne giggled. ‘We’d got a black suit in the cupboard for a male presenter to wear…’
‘But the only bloke in was me and I had a broken arm from that story I did about army recruitment.’ Bryn smiled happily.
‘So the buck passed to me and I was wearing a bright pink dress.’ Emma chortled, her collarbone crimson from her third gin and tonic. ‘Couldn’t have been less suitable.’
‘And then we paged everyone to try to get them to come in and Greg Andrews called and I thought he was offering to do a live but it turned out he was at Thorpe Park with his family,’ Sunil recalled. ‘He ended up having to do a two-way from the monkey house.’
‘Disaster,’ everyone agreed happily.
‘Talking of disasters,’ said Marco, looking put out. ‘Has anyone seen this?’
He reached for his briefcase and brought out a tacky-looking woman’s magazine, emblazoned with Day-Glo pictures of C-list celebrities.
‘Wicked!’ Thea said with disdain. ‘Funnily enough, it wasn’t on my reading pile this week.’
‘Then it should have been.’ Like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, Marco revealed Poppy’s page.
‘Ta-dah! “The Bimbo Bites Back”. It’s hilarious. Mrs Norton’s views on Gwyneth’s appalling dress sense, the waste of time that is potty training and – best of all – the haggard witchery that is Hannah Creighton.’
‘Let me see.’ Dean grabbed it and scanned the page hastily. Then he slammed it down on the bar. ‘Oh fucking hell, this is all we need. Luke’s wife starting a catfight with Hannah. She’ll never let this one go quietly.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with us,’ Thea pointed out, compelled – though she didn’t quite know why – to defend Luke. ‘Poppy has no connection with the show.’
‘Oh no, Thea, none at all. She’s only married to its anchorman.’ He put on a silly girly voice. “‘Until I saw Denise’s orange dress I’d no idea how much you could do with a sewing machine and a pair of curtains.” Christ on a bike, I hope she’s been commissioned to write the introduction to Luke’s book on – what is it again? – the history of the Balkans.’
‘Poor girl’s got to do something with her time,’ Marco pointed out. ‘After all, Luke is away a lot.’
They all tittered. Thea felt another one of her unaccountable flashes of sympathy for Poppy, as Roxanne tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Thea, do you mind? Just had a question. You haven’t been working on any religious stories lately?’
‘Religious? No, I don’t think so.’
‘Nothing involving the Bishop of Bellchester?’
‘Not that I recall.’ Before Thea could ask why, her phone began vibrating in her pocket. ‘Oh excuse me.’ A number beginning +502. Guatemala calling.
‘Hello?’ she shouted above the din of the jukebox and her colleagues’ chatter.
‘Is that Thea Mackharven?’ An American woman’s voice. Nasal. Sounded as if she’d last laughed circa the sinking of the Titanic.
‘Yes.’
‘Please hold, I have Leanne Martines for you.’
Leanne Martines? But now it was a different voice. Equally nasal, rather weary.
‘Thea? Hello. This is Leanne, Minnie Maltravers’s personal assistant. Just to congratulate your show on its fantastic work and to let you know Minnie would like to give you an interview on Saturday to discuss the motivation behind her adoption of Cristiano.’
Thea’s heart almost stopped with excitement.
‘That’s fantastic news!’ she shouted. Dean banged his pint down on the bar.
‘You’ve got it?’ he mouthed. Thea nodded and held up a hand to silence him as the most salient point came into focus.
‘Uh. Saturday? You mean the day after tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, Saturday. Short notice I know, but that’s the best time for Minnie. She’s keen to put a stop to all this malicious talk once and for all before little Cristiano is irreparably damaged. Five p.m. The Balmoral Hotel.’ ‘The Balmoral Hotel? Is that in Scotland?’ Leanne gave a dry little laugh. ‘Full marks for deduction, Miss Mackharven. That’s where Minnie is right now. You’d better get that Luke Norton of yours out of Guatemala and on the first plane to Edinbur
gh.’
33
It was seven on Saturday morning and Thea was standing tapping her foot by the British Airways check-in at Terminal One. Beside her, yawned creepy Rhys and George, the cameraman.
‘Where the hell’s Luke?’ she snapped, looking at her watch for the fourteenth time in five minutes. ‘We’re going to miss the plane.’
‘His flight from Miami’s only just landed,’ soothed Rhys. ‘He’s probably still stuck on the plane with the door jammed.’
Thea took a gulp of her latte and wondered if she had time to run and buy another one. Since that Thursday night call she’d slept a total of three hours, so busy had she been finessing details of the Minnie interview with Leanne. The list of stipulations made sorting out peace in the Middle East look a doddle.
‘Why the Balmoral Hotel?’ Thea had asked. ‘Isn’t Minnie’s castle somewhere near Inverness? Why don’t we do it there?’
‘She’s going to be in Edinburgh on Friday night,’ Leanne explained. ‘It’s Hope Scott’s birthday party at the Balmoral and she’s spending the night there, which means she’ll actually be in the building on Saturday morning and you’ll have no worries about her turning up.’
315
There was a sinking feeling in Thea’s stomach. ‘Should I have worries?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Leanne said hurriedly. ‘But, you know – cars can break down, or get stuck in traffic. Knowing Minnie is actually on site will mean peace of mind for everyone.’ She cleared her throat like a policeman about to give evidence in a black-and-white film. ‘Now, some other points. Minnie will only do the interview if she is lit by candlelight.’
‘Yes, that’s all in hand.’
‘She will be wearing an outfit by Bing Parsons and she’d like Luke to be wearing one too.’
‘Absolutely,’ Thea said cheerily, her mind cartwheeling as she worked out how they could persuade the hottest designer of the moment to lend them a suit.
‘Hair and make-up?’
‘Yes, it’s all sorted,’ Thea said sweetly. Minnie was very precise about who was allowed to touch her famous face and mane. ‘We’ve got Carlo flying in from New York just like she requested to do her hair.’ First class, she thought. Another budget nightmare. ‘And we’ve persuaded Belinda, the make-up artist, to travel to Edinburgh on the sleeper. She’s too pregnant to fly, apparently.’ And as a result she’s demanding four times her already extortionate rates.
‘This interview is going to cost us our entire monthly budget,’ Thea warned Dean, when she called him for the sixteenth time shortly after two a.m. on Saturday morning.
‘Yeah, but it’s going to give us viewing figures to make a donkey cack himself and win us a load of awards.’ Thea could hear Farrah mumbling crossly in the background. ‘It’s all right, babe, go back to sleep. Spend whatever it takes.’ There was a tiny pause, then he added, ‘You’ll have to cut back on flights and accommodation for the crew obviously. Cheapest you can find.’
‘I’ll book a campsite.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ There was a tiny pause, then Dean said, ‘I’m not joking, Thea.’
‘Nor am I.’
Rhys said, ‘I think we should check in.’
‘We can’t leave without Luke.’
‘We may have no choice. He’ll have to catch us up.’
‘He’s taking a leaf out of Minnie’s book.’ George yawned. ‘I remember one of my photographer mates telling me about a shoot she did for Vogue in Cape Town. They waited four days for her to show up.’
‘Four days?’
‘In which case, what’s the rush?’ Rhys grinned. ‘Luke could cycle to Edinburgh. Cut down on his carbon footprint.’
‘I’ll ring some estate agents. Ask them to show us round some houses, since we’re going to end up spending the rest or our lives there.’
George and Rhys chortled. Thea didn’t. This wasn’t funny. They had to catch the plane and Luke had to be with them. But just then, she saw him hurrying across the concourse pulling a wheelie suitcase like a little dog. Alexa was just behind. Thea was pleased to note how rough she looked after a night on the red-eye.
‘Jesus, I hope you’ve got an intravenous coffee drip on you,’ he hailed them. ‘I’ve been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours now. Guatemala–Miami, Miami–here. What a fucking nightmare.’
‘It’ll be worth it,’ Thea said. ‘Come on. Let’s check in.’
‘Economy?’ asked Luke suspiciously.
Thea smiled brightly. ‘I’m afraid so. Business was fully booked.’
‘Christ, I’ve already gone all the way across the Atlantic in economy. I bet you Jeremy Paxman doesn’t travel cattle.’
‘It’s only an hour’s flight.’ Thea tried to placate him, but Luke ignored her, striding ahead to the check-in desk.
It was only an hour’s flight, but unfortunately Thea hadn’t reckoned with an hour and a half on the Heathrow tarmac due to engine trouble. Because they had checked in so late, they weren’t even sitting together. Luke was at the back of the plane studying the enormous Minnie dossier Rhys had compiled, while the others were fast asleep near the front. Wedged between three burly IT consultants on their way to a rugby match and already downing lagers, Thea tried to breathe deeply but her pulse was racing. They were supposed to be at the hotel at ten, to allow plenty of time to set up before the interview at one. What would happen if they were late? Surreptitiously, she pulled out her phone and texted Leanne for the third time.
Still not moving. Should be there by noon latest.
The reply flashed back.
We understand. Minnie happy to wait for you.
318
By the time they’d landed at Edinburgh at half past eleven, Thea was feeling distinctly edgy, a situation not improved by the twenty-minute queue for a taxi.
‘Couldn’t you have ordered a limo?’ Luke complained.
‘They were all booked,’ lied Thea. She’d completely forgotten. God, was she losing it already, like Gran? ‘Oh, look, we’re next. The Balmoral,’ she said to the driver, as they climbed in.
‘At least we’re staying somewhere decent,’ Luke mumbled.
‘Um,’ Thea said as the cab sped off, ‘we’re not actually staying at the Balmoral. It’s just where we’re doing the interview.’
‘So where are we? I stayed at the Scotsman last time I seem to recall. That was nice, and the Sheraton isn’t bad.’
Thea shut her eyes and leant back against the sticky vinyl seat. ‘We’re staying in the Hootsmon.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a hotel called the Hootsmon. It’s in a lovely quiet suburb. On the website it looked really cool.’
George and Alexa exchanged glances as Luke exploded, ‘The Hootsmon. Fucking hell, Thea!’
‘I’m sorry, Luke. I know it’s not ideal. But everywhere’s booked. It’s this rugby match. And we’re not allowed to spend more than seventy-five pounds a head.’
‘And people think our job is glamorous,’ he said huffily.
‘Think of all the awards ceremonies we’ll go to as a result of this. They’ll be glamorous.’ ‘I hate awards ceremonies.’ Thea felt wounded. Was he saying he’d hated BAFTA night? She pushed the thought to the back of her mind as they drew up outside the hotel. The Stone and Crombie suite where the interview was taking place was in complete chaos. A man was standing on a step ladder at the far corner of the room, rigging up a billowing satin sheet, while a young Japanese woman in hotpants with pigtails stood below him shouting: ‘Left, left, a bit to the right. No, a bit to the left.’ Two young women were setting out a dozen ivory candelabras.
‘What’s this? Snow White’s boudoir?’ Luke demanded.
‘It’s the deal we’ve done. Minnie has no veto over the questions we ask but she gets to choose the set.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Luke muttered under his breath. ‘From the siege of Sarajevo to this.’
In a bedroom that led off the sitting room, the heavily pregnant mak
e-up artist was gabbling on her phone. A black man with a buzz cut whom Thea took to be the hairdresser – they always had the worst hair – was laying out an array of wigs and hairpieces. The stylists, two women so skinny they looked as if they’d need to run round the shower to get wet, were leafing through a long rack of clothes, consulting urgently. A woman in jeans and a Barbie T-shirt with a haunted look that Thea would soon discover was the trademark of anyone who came in contact with the legend that was Minnie Maltravers hurried towards her, proffering a bony hand.
‘Thea? I’m Leanne,’ she said. She spoke as if it was a race against the clock. ‘So good to meet you finally.’
‘Is everything OK? I’m so sorry we’re late.’
‘It’s fine. As it happens Minnie has a bit of a cold, so she’s still in bed. But she’ll be down in about half an hour. Everything is more or less set up here, so as soon as she arrives you’ll be good to go.’
Two hours passed. The make-up was lined up, the outfits selected, the lights were in place. Luke and Thea had been over the questions time and time again. It was three o’clock when Leanne returned. Thea felt like a wilting weed.
‘Now, we’ll be starting very soon. Minnie’s just asked me to go out and buy her a flannel nightgown and The Lord of the Rings trilogy.’
‘The Lord of the Rings?’ Thea couldn’t help her incredulous tone.
Leanne’s eyes filled with panic. ‘Forget I said that,’ she pleaded. ‘Minnie’ll kill me.’
‘Sure,’ Thea said neutrally, filing it away as an anecdote to dine out on for years.
‘Minnie’s exhausted,’ Leanne explained. ‘She’s finding motherhood a real challenge. All those sleepless nights…’
George snorted sarcastically.
‘All those sleepless nights, feeding little Cristiano,’ Leanne continued.
‘She doesn’t have a nanny for that?’ George asked.
Leanne inhaled.
‘No, she doesn’t. Minnie is completely hands-on. That’s why she went to Hope’s party last night. She just needed to let her hair down. A sentiment all moms can relate to. And now she’s having a bit of a lie-in.’
The Model Wife Page 25