Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  The house had a faintly warm, unwashed human smell and she threw open every window that wasn’t permanently closed thanks to a hundred years of paint. She filled two large plastic sacks with unrecognizable furry objects as well as the usual debris. Tara rang. She didn’t ask, didn’t have to as soon as she heard the flat voice. Her garden was still full of late summer flowers, she mentioned in passing, and she’d be offloading them later.

  Lindsay vacuumed and polished and changed the bed, she cleaned the bathroom and kitchen and washed and dried everything she could lay her hands on. She threw out anything of Paul’s that she found without pausing for a second. It worked until she found his aftershave. Even though she didn’t open it she could suddenly feel him all around her. The doorbell rang. Saved. Tara stood on the doorstep surrounded by glorious sweet peas and delicately scented phlox and the last of the tall creamy gladioli and small, exquisite, fat, cabbage roses. Lindsay could have kissed her, for her timing as much as for the well-chosen present.

  ‘Wow, I think I’m in the wrong house.’ Tara was delighted that Lindsay was cleaning, a very good sign indeed.

  ‘I just decided I can’t come home to this every night, especially if the training course is going to be as frantic as I think.’ Lindsay’s smile looked a little jaded.

  They had a quick coffee and Debbie rang from the airport. She was working today, on her way to Geneva, just calling to check in.

  ‘I’m cleaning, and Tara’s just arrived with enough flowers to turn this place into Kew Gardens,’ Lindsay told her. Good sign, thought Debbie, and promised to stop by the following night.

  When Tara left, Lindsay showered and changed and went to the supermarket, still slightly nervous in case she met him, which was ridiculous, because even if he happened to be in Dublin he certainly wouldn’t be in Tesco. He hates shopping, Lindsay thought and stopped herself. I can’t keep doing this to myself, so just for today I’m going to pretend I’m OK and who knows, maybe someday I will be. She doubted it as she filled her trolley with far too much healthy food. Fruit, salads, organic vegetables, chicken, fresh juices, pasta, litres of water, brown bread and anything else she fancied that didn’t contain sugar or chocolate or alcohol.

  When she got back, Charlie was there, ecstatic to be home. He nearly knocked her over and she hugged him to death. He licked her face and ran up and down the stairs and threw himself at her until she had to bribe him with a treat from her shopping bag to calm him down. She’d even washed his beanbag and he rolled on it furiously, determined to get rid of that horrible fresh smell as quickly as possible.

  Her mother had let herself in, as Lindsay knew she would, but couldn’t wait, late, as always, for one of her many appointments. She’d left a quick note, wondering how the holiday had gone and Lindsay was glad not to have to explain in detail just yet. She’d told her family that the wedding was off but still felt too humiliated to tell the full story, even to those she knew were on her side. Later that evening she questioned her reasons for not being more open with her mother. It was always the same, always came back to the fact that nothing she did was ever quite good enough. The vague disapproval was very subtle and she sometimes wondered if she was imagining it. It didn’t help that Lindsay had been especially close to her dad, therefore hadn’t relied on the mother-daughter relationship as much as her sister Anne. Over the years the other two had become closer and Lindsay now felt a bit excluded, although she knew she could always rely on her sister. If only her mother wasn’t so preoccupied, so distant at times, yet so quick to notice the failures. As far back as Lindsay could remember she’d always felt that she didn’t quite make the grade. And it still hurt.

  Charlie had settled in for the evening. The Aga had been turned on and that was his favourite place in the whole world, so Lindsay knew he was totally happy. I wish it was that easy, she sighed, as she tickled his stomach.

  Over the next few days Lindsay did everything she could to boost her confidence for the new job – facial, eyebrows, nails, the lot – even a new haircut. Next problem was what to wear. A visit to Grafton Street soon sorted that one.

  ‘You are becoming such a high-maintenance babe,’ Debbie teased as they met for lunch after her shopping spree. ‘How on earth will you survive on a lower salary?’ All three girls had discussed the fact that salaries in television generally were quite low, but Lindsay knew she’d work there for nothing. It was simply what she’d always wanted to do.

  ‘I know, I know, don’t remind me. I’m going to have to start budgeting really seriously,’ Lindsay grumbled. ‘I suppose I’ve been spoilt because of the money Dad left. It means I only have a small mortgage and I’ve got very used to having a healthy bank account, which has become a tad sick lately I’d say, judging by the amount I’ve been withdrawing. Also, I suppose I don’t have to worry because I know there’s money put away for both Anne and myself for the future. Makes me feel guilty sometimes.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you deserve it.’ The last thing Debbie wanted was for her friend to feel upset. ‘Now I want to see all the purchases immediately and I think we deserve a glass of something nice and chilled.’ The gorgeous black trouser suit was declared an instant success ‘although I think you have at least a dozen already’.

  ‘Yes, but this one is softer and lighter and definitely more tailored and it sort of says I mean business. Anyway, look, I’ve bought a couple of sexy little tops to wear underneath, which should work against the severe cut of the suit. Also, I fell in love with some gorgeous silver jewellery, which will make it look a bit funky. And, have a peep at these beauties.’ They were indeed the cutest, deep burgundy, leather ankle boots – gloves for the feet, according to Debbie, who wanted a pair immediately – so they demolished the wine and headed for the shops again.

  Suddenly it was the night before the big day and by ten-thirty Lindsay was tucked up in her comfy bed with its sundried sheets, determined to get an early night with no alcohol. She watched a bit of TV, read, turned off and on the light twice and finally gave up at midnight and slipped out of bed for a hot chocolate laced with a liberal dash of smoky, black rum. She read for a while then lay in the dark thinking about the week ahead, tired but not sleepy. She listened to the lingering weekend sounds outside her window and it was almost one-thirty when she gave up on the day and fell into a fitful but thankfully dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Five

  LINDSAY FELT LIKE a nervous five-year-old starting school as she walked into the Television Training Centre at nine twenty-five the next morning. She’d been up since six o’clock.

  She was directed towards a large classroom and felt very uneasy as she opened the door. The feeling was justified. Everyone seemed to know each other and most turned expectantly as the door opened, then turned back to their conversations almost immediately. They looked relaxed and happy and casual. Lindsay realized she was completely overdressed. She felt very schoolmarmish, all neat and tidy and scrubbed. They were all so arty and cosmopolitan, clearly at ease with their surroundings. Thankfully she noticed her name printed at one of the desks and slithered across the room, wishing she could go out and come in again, without her jacket and not clutching the soft leather briefcase quite so tightly.

  The door opened and a tall auburn-haired girl dressed in black layers strode in, smiling.

  She stopped, unsure, and Lindsay immediately smiled at her.

  ‘Hi,’ she looked as if she’d found her long-lost sister as she made a beeline for Lindsay. ‘Carrie Moore,’ she held out her hand and seemed delighted. ‘Hey, that’s me right beside you.’ She looked as if she was going to kiss Lindsay full on the mouth. ‘Jesus, was that seriously intimidating or am I just paranoid?’ she whispered as she slipped into the seat next to Lindsay. ‘By the way, please, please tell me I’m not overdressed or I really will have to take a tablet.’ She spoke with her lips tightly closed and grinned foolishly and Lindsay knew they’d both be OK.

  ‘I felt exactly the same two minutes ago,’ Lindsay
told her, admiring her soft black knitted coat with the flimsy, wispy layers underneath.

  ‘I feel as though my watch says midnight and theirs all say five a.m.,’ said Carrie cheerfully and Lindsay sensed that this girl was confident enough not to care too much.

  ‘I’m Lindsay and I swear I’m not the tutor and I wasn’t ever a schoolteacher, even though I’m dressed like one.’ They grinned stupidly at each other, feeling vaguely apprehensive, wondering what to expect. The room fell silent and people took their places as a tall, dark-haired man with glasses and a serious smile entered. He had a kind face.

  ‘Good morning, I’m Michael Russell, and I’m the Course Director and you’re all very welcome. Let’s start by introducing ourselves and then we can run through the schedule before we break for coffee and, let me apologize in advance because you’re all going to be extremely busy over the next few weeks. OK, who’ll start?’

  ‘James Hewson, I’m a solicitor and over the past few years I’ve . . .’

  ‘I’m Hilary Owens, I’m an actress and a broadcaster . . .’

  ‘Hello, my name is Paul Nesbitt, I’ve been working as an Energy Broker . . .’

  Christ, Lindsay thought, why do all these high-powered individuals want to give up much more lucrative careers for a less well-paid job in TV? But she knew that jobs in the media always attracted even well-established people and later over coffee she learned that many of her new acquaintances saw this job merely as a stepping stone to becoming a producer or director or reporter. It was seen as a really good place to start.

  On and on it went and Lindsay could feel herself sliding further down in her seat, hoping they’d skip over her somehow. Carrie slipped her a note. ‘I’m Carrie and I’m a prostitute and what’s worse I think I feel a cold sore coming on,’ she read and tried to stop herself giggling hysterically. No such thing. Carrie, it turned out, was an artist and Lindsay saw several pairs of eyes become immediately interested.

  She tried to frantically rehearse her piece. Lindsay Davidson, complete idiot, barely made it through the interview and don’t know how in hell they gave me a job, engaged until recently and boyfriend wanted to get away so fast he didn’t even stop to say goodbye. Will probably not get through a day without bursting into tears so if any of you are qualified doctors or nurses I strongly recommend you have a few tranquillizers ready.

  Instead, she mumbled something about interior design and always wanting to work in television and sat down quickly with a face you could warm your hands off.

  The schedule was so intense they needed the strong coffee afterwards to revive them.

  ‘Christ, there goes my life for the next few months,’ Carrie said in a soft Cork accent. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried, I don’t have a life,’ Lindsay joked.

  Carrie wondered what the story was but decided not to ask. Yet.

  They then had to have photographs taken and were issued with coded passes, which were needed to gain access to any of the buildings. Security was tight, especially anywhere near the TV and radio buildings. Over lunch, Lindsay got to know some of the group and realized they were mostly very friendly, with one or two possible exceptions. She wasn’t sure about Hilary Owens, who smiled often, but her eyes were cold and inquisitive. John Shields was witty but a bit too sharp tongued. ‘Gay,’ Carrie had declared early on. And then there was Brenda Turner, already showing signs of being very, very competitive. Lindsay knew the coming weeks would tell a story about each of them.

  In the afternoon, several ‘real’ A.P.s came to talk to them about the job. It all sounded terribly exciting. Basically, an assistant producer helped make programmes and also worked in studio helping to record programmes or go live on air with them. This was the bit that everyone seemed to love and half the class imagined themselves shouting ‘action’ or ‘ten seconds to air’ or something equally unlikely and Lindsay couldn’t wait to see it all happen, let alone be part of it. It seemed so glamorous, so terrifying, so sexy and so unreal that she found herself wondering if they hadn’t made a big mistake in choosing her. She would have been somewhat reassured if she’d known that everyone felt the same, even those who already worked in the organization and knew the job.

  At seven o’clock Michael Russell jokingly told them they could have a half-day. ‘Trust me, the days are going to be considerably longer once we really get going.’ He ignored their groans. ‘However, you all look suitably shell-shocked so I won’t give you any projects to work on tonight. Go home and get some rest and we start in earnest tomorrow at nine.’

  ‘I’m going to the pub. They have a social club on the campus and the bar opened an hour ago,’ John Shields decided.

  ‘Point me in the direction and order me a very large gin,’ Carrie told no one in particular. ‘Coming, Lindsay?’

  There goes my health kick again, Lindsay thought, knowing she was too agitated and excited and insecure to go home and take Charlie for a walk. ‘I can smell the chilled white wine from here,’ she smiled at her new friend.

  Over drinks she got to know a bit more about Carrie, although the other girl claimed there wasn’t a lot to tell. ‘Studied art at college, worked as a curator in a local museum, gave it up to paint full time. Struggled like mad for a couple of years, lived in a grotty bedsit, finally decided to try something new, so here I am. No one was more surprised than me when they offered me a place on the course and I suspect I’m the only one who didn’t take a massive cut in salary to be here.’ She grinned foolishly. ‘The money they’re offering is like winning the lottery. I haven’t had a regular income in yonks.’

  Lindsay smiled back and didn’t doubt for a minute that she had lots to offer, she was sharp as a razor.

  When she got home at nine-thirty there were three messages and Lindsay felt the familiar sensation in her stomach, even though she knew there’d be three female voices on the machine. Spot on, you fool, she thought as she heard Debs, Tara and her sister Anne ask three different versions of the same question.

  ‘How did it go, babe?’

  ‘Any interesting men?’

  ‘When will we see you on the News?’

  Lindsay peeled off her clothes, made some coffee and returned the calls, ignoring her sister’s advice to ‘call Mum, she’s dying to know all the gossip’. She threw the ball for Charlie for about ninety seconds, cleaned her face and her teeth and fell into bed, a bit deflated and annoyed with herself cause even after all that had happened she still wanted to ring Paul and tell him all about it.

  The first week was flying by. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so intense and Lindsay really had to struggle to keep up. She felt that everyone else knew more about the business than she did. They all seemed to understand the technical stuff. Lindsay worried, made millions of notes and tried not to ask too many questions. Each night she fell into bed exhausted and dreamt of crisis situations where programmes didn’t get on air and the entire country was left staring at blank screens and people all seemed to be screaming at her. Or laughing. And all the laughing faces had the same dark brown eyes and gorgeous mouth.

  The homework was horrendous. And then there were reports to write, following visits to various programmes. On the Thursday evening, Lindsay was told to sit in on the Nine O’clock News. She had to report to the editor at seven, give a hand if possible but mostly keep out of the way and simply observe.

  Walking in to programme areas was always the most difficult bit. Mostly people ignored you. Or looked through you. Or stared. The newsroom was no different. It was a vast open-plan area which even at seven in the evening was home to at least fifty people, all of whom seemed to be talking too loudly, or whispering, or hitting keyboards too hard, or gesturing furiously. Everyone seemed to be running, or at least power walking. There was a buzz, as if people were expecting something to happen at any moment. TV screens blared, shouting out news from around the world. Telephones rang constantly. The noise level was deafening.

  She walked the length o
f the endless room, tugging at her slim-fitting black dress, which she thought was almost calf length when she’d started off but now seemed to be somewhere up around her bum. She saw one or two people glance absently at her and she tried very hard to appear nonchalant. It didn’t work. She gave in and asked in a croaky voice for Martin Sheehan, the editor on duty. ‘Over there,’ a very haughty reporter whose face had always seemed so friendly on screen dismissed her with a vague wave.

  She followed the long, pointed, red fingernail in the direction of a group of at least ten people, who all seemed to be in the middle of an argument but who were in fact having a programme meeting. She almost kept going.

  ‘Hi, are you OK?’ Lindsay nearly hugged the calm older woman who looked very normal. ‘Are you the new A.P., by any chance?’

  ‘Yes’, her voice sounded croaky. Try again, Lindsay. ‘Hi, I’m Lindsay Davidson, anything I can do?’

  ‘Grab a chair, I’m Alison, the news A.P. in studio tonight, we’re just about to put a running order on the programme. It’s not too busy, I’ll have plenty of time to talk to you later.’

  Not busy, it was absolute bedlam; everyone seemed to be talking in shorthand. Lindsay tried but couldn’t even follow half of the bloody thing.

  ‘Is Blair edited?’

  ‘Anyone seen the Minister for Health?’

  ‘What time do we get VT?’

  ‘Are the V.O.s in autocue yet?’

  The responses came fast and furious.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On his way.’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘Just going now.’ Alison seemed to be the only one who knew anything and she was so cool. She thrust a sheaf of papers towards Lindsay. ‘Could you get those into autocue in Studio Three? We’re dead late, thanks.’

  Lindsay scarpered. She was just beginning to panic when she found it. She pushed open the soundproof door and too late realized she’d come onto the studio floor instead of going into the control room. The door screeched to a close.