Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  ‘Sorry.’ Her face was purple as she realized she’d interrupted something. Her heels clicked, louder than a Ricky Martin video.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ A pair of startled, ice-blue, furious eyes ate her up and spat her out.

  ‘What the flick . . . ? Hell, we were almost finished.’ He jumped up and yanked off his headphones and Lindsay realized they’d been in the middle of a recording of some sort. She was absolutely mortified and wanted to charge back through the door but her legs were superglued to the floor. She recognized the face but couldn’t put a name to it, perhaps because the features were completely distorted with rage.

  ‘Haven’t you ever been told not to enter a studio when the red light is on?’ He looked as if he wanted to slap her.

  ‘It’s OK, Chris, we can pick it up easily enough,’ a soothing voice explained from the corner. She saw a pair of kind grey eyes. ‘Are you looking for the news crew?’

  ‘Yes, I thought this was the control room. I didn’t see the red light, I’m really sorry.’ Lindsay couldn’t ever remember feeling so small.

  ‘It’s an easy mistake to make, the signs on the wall are confusing,’ the man explained. ‘I’ll show you where to go.’

  ‘Fucking hell, I don’t believe this. I need a coffee, give me five, Dan.’

  The outraged presenter passed Lindsay with a swish of icy cold air and a smell of leather and aftershave and sweat. Half afraid to look but unable to resist, she saw a tall, unshaven man with tired eyes, tanned skin and thick dark hair that was too long and too fingered. As she followed him through the studio door she saw that he was much taller than he appeared on TV. He wore black jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt and a long black leather jacket so soft and crumpled it could have been a chamois. A very expensive one. He moved so fast that he was almost at the far end of the building within seconds and she saw him running his hands through his hair, head down, in obvious frustration.

  ‘I can’t believe I did that. It was the first thing they told us on the course – never break a red light. They’ll probably throw me out when they hear.’ Lindsay looked horrified as she was directed towards the control room.

  ‘Well, I don’t intend telling anyone and I don’t think you should either and don’t worry about Chris, he won’t even remember it once he’s had a strong coffee,’ Dan said with only slight exaggeration. ‘He’s having a bad day. He just got back this evening from Afghanistan and the Director of News wants a voice-over for a promo tomorrow. He’s been travelling for twenty-four hours and was on his way home to bed when he got the call. He’s a cool guy, you’ll be fine, and’, he winked, ‘you won’t ever make that mistake again.’

  Lindsay smiled weakly.

  Dan Pearson had noticed how attractive she was and introduced himself. ‘I’m a floor manager, by the way, so no doubt we’ll get to work together sometime soon.’

  ‘If I survive the training, that is.’ Lindsay was very glad she’d met Dan. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem, I hope he’s brought me back a coffee. See you later.’ Dan hurried away just as Mary from autocue arrived and snatched the links from Lindsay.

  ‘I hate working on News,’ she apologized, ‘everything’s always last minute and you spend the entire bulletin terrified in case you make a mistake.’

  The next two hours seemed to pass in minutes. It also seemed to happen in slow motion. It was like watching a behind-the-scenes TV documentary, Lindsay thought, fascinated. It looked like complete chaos yet everybody appeared to know what to do. She helped Alison as much as she could, ran with tapes, photocopied, distributed running orders and kept asking if anyone wanted coffee, which they all did, every ten minutes. She was nervous as she sat in studio beside Alison.

  ‘One minute to air,’ the older woman announced calmly.

  ‘What’s the first story?’ came a voice over talk-back.

  ‘Don’t know yet, stand by with the Blair-Ahem tape and also the Bush story,’ the director said quickly. ‘Meanwhile, let’s check our sources.’

  On camera, Lindsay could see the two presenters gathering papers, making last-minute notes as make-up added their final touches.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and the duty editor ran in. ‘We’re going with the Peace Process first, we’ve a statement from the IRA.’

  ‘Ten seconds to air, stand by opening animation.’ Alison never flinched as chaos reigned and people cursed silently and sighed loudly at yet another change of plan.

  ‘We’re on.’

  ‘Good evening and welcome. First tonight to some breaking news . . .’

  Lindsay’s heart was thumping for the entire bulletin, convinced they were heading for a disaster and dreading the outcome. Scripts changed, stories were dropped, a tape went missing and yet viewers at home knew nothing. It seemed like only ten seconds later that she heard the familiar ‘That’s it for now from the Newsroom, a very good evening to you.’

  ‘Well done, everyone, that was a bit hairy.’ The director let out a sigh of relief and the studio cleared within seconds, the crew heading for coffee and a smoke before doing it all again at eleven.

  Lindsay helped Alison gather tapes and clear up.

  ‘It’s great, I’m not on late tonight. Usually the A.P. for the nine has to do the late news as well.’ Alison smiled. ‘Thanks, you were a real help. Come back any time and good luck with the rest of the course.’

  The girls left the TV building together and went their separate ways. It was a chilly, wet evening and Lindsay was completely exhausted. She made herself a large hot whiskey with cloves and lemon as soon as she got in, convinced she was coming down with something and still shivering after her earlier encounter. She tucked herself up on the couch, with Charlie keeping her warm.

  She’d never met anyone quite like Chris Keating before. Mind you, tonight could hardly be called a meeting. There was something about him, something raw and sexy and slightly scary. No, definitely very scary, dangerous even. She’d never seen anyone so furious before, certainly not fury directed at her. He didn’t hold back, that was for sure. Still, she probably wouldn’t come into contact with him again, which disappointed her slightly, although she didn’t know why. And, thanking God for the Dan Pearsons of the world, she cursed her stupidity for the tenth time.

  She sighed and headed for bed, much to Charlie’s disgust, as he was only beginning to get comfortable.

  No way was she writing a report tonight, even if she had to get up at six tomorrow morning. She was declaring this day officially over.

  Chapter Six

  NEXT MORNING, LINDSAY woke from a murky, grey sleep. It was seven-thirty and she was late and tired. Days like this rarely got much better, she knew from experience. She was grumpy and even Charlie, who loved mornings and bounded around the kitchen enthusiastically, was ignored as she quickly scribbled her notes, showered and dressed, grabbed a coffee and headed for work to type up her report which had to be in before lunch.

  At elevenses Michael Russell smiled at her sympathetically.

  ‘I believe last night’s bulletin was rough, did you cope OK and was everything I heard true?’ He stared at her questioningly. She completely misread the look.

  Oh God, he knows. Lindsay felt sick. ‘I just got confused and didn’t see the red light,’ she blurted out before she had time to think.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’d better come into the office and explain.’ He didn’t wait for a reply.

  It turned out, of course, that he wasn’t referring to the famous incident; had merely heard that it was a particularly hairy bulletin and that Lindsay had coped very well. He made a point of asking for feedback when one of the trainees helped out on a high-profile programme and he’d been particularly interested to see how Lindsay had fared, because she was so new to the game. The report had been very good, but of course now she had to explain about the near disaster. He was furious.

  God, I’m certainly making a habit of annoying influential men in television, she thought grimly, unable to beli
eve that she’d actually brought this upon herself.

  ‘Breaking a red light unless you’re directly involved and know exactly what’s going on is a mortal sin in this business and forcing them to stop a recording is even worse. We absolutely depend on our colleagues allowing trainees access to real programmes, otherwise you’d never get any worthwhile hands-on experience. An incident like this reflects badly on everyone in Training.’ For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Lindsay was mortified. Whatever shred of confidence she had left evaporated. She was sure her face resembled a two-bar electric fire. She wanted to crawl away and die.

  ‘I know, it was stupid, I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re dead right. I’m not letting you near a live studio for the foreseeable future. From now on all your attachments will be on pre-recorded programmes and if you make a mistake like this again you’re out.’ He knew he was being hard on her but if anyone had reported this he’d have his ass kicked at the next editorial. Luckily, he knew Chris Keating wouldn’t give it another thought and Dan Pearson was probably the best F.M. in the business, so he’d say nothing.

  Lindsay felt sick for the rest of the day. Not only had she done something incredibly stupid last night but she’d also put her new job in jeopardy in the first week. Please let this day, this week be over soon, she begged God.

  She couldn’t even face joining the others for a drink after work and they didn’t understand why.

  ‘Come on,’ Carrie pleaded, ‘we owe ourselves a celebration, we’ve survived and the first week is always the worst.’

  ‘I nearly didn’t.’ Lindsay told her new friend what had happened earlier.

  ‘For God’s sake, it could have happened to any of us, I think he went completely over the top.’

  ‘No, he was right. It could have been a complicated TV programme with special effects and everything and I clattered in right in the middle of it. I was lucky it was only a sound recording, although I don’t think Chris what’shisname will be asking to work with me again.’ She attempted a smile.

  ‘He doesn’t have any say in who he works with and he sounds like a right bollocks anyway. Come on, just the one.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m going to curl up on the couch and lick my wounds, I’ll see you on Monday.’ Lindsay felt very vulnerable as she got into her car and drove the short distance home. She’d been right about the day not getting any better.

  When she got in the phone was ringing and for the first time in weeks she didn’t even wonder if it might be him.

  ‘Oh, great, you’re home. I just left a message on your mobile. Get your glad rags on. Debs and I are taking you to dinner – new little Italian in Baggot Street, very trendy, supposed to be fantastic.’

  ‘Tara, I couldn’t bear it tonight. Would you mind if I passed?’

  ‘Yes, I would and so would Debbie who is at this moment breaking her neck to get from the airport to your house to pick you up so you don’t have to drive. They only have one table free at eight and I practically had to sleep with the manager to get it. Come on, babe, it’ll do you good; we haven’t really talked since Rome. We’ll relax and have some nice food, a couple of glasses of wine, a good gossip and you’ll be home by midnight.’

  Lindsay didn’t have the strength to argue. She pulled on her comfiest stretch black trousers and bright red Lainey Keogh sweater and added her black suede ankle boots which Debbie said made her legs look longer than Elle Macpherson’s. She hadn’t the energy to do anything more than touch up her make-up, adding some strong red lipstick and leaving her hair loose. She sighed. She’d have had a burning knitting needle inserted into her eye sooner than go out tonight, but she knew she had no choice.

  Thirty minutes later they arrived at the restaurant and it was indeed the in place to be, if the noise level was anything to go by.

  Behaviour determines mood, Lindsay remembered from one of her many self-help books, so she smiled grimly and stuck her chest out and followed the waiter down through the middle of the restaurant and almost fainted as she came face to face with Paul, sitting in a dimly lit booth on the right. He wasn’t alone. A bottle of champagne was chilling beside the table. She knew she should just keep going but someone had driven a stake through her left foot and she came to a sudden and complete stop directly in front of him.

  ‘Lindsay, hi . . .’ He sounded very uncomfortable. She looked around for the girls, desperately needing support, but Tara had stopped when she’d spotted a guy from her office, someone she suspected Debbie fancied, and they’d both noticed that Lindsay was chatting to someone but couldn’t see who it was.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How are you?’

  How do you think I am? ‘Fine, you?’

  ‘OK, yeah . . . erm, this is Kate. Kate, Lindsay.’

  ‘Hello.’ Lindsay plastered a smile on her face and tried to take in everything about the other woman at once. Late twenties, blonde, big eyes – even bigger boobs, good looking in a very obvious way, she thought nastily. Too much make-up. Sexy. Small. Tiny waist.

  Get a grip, you couldn’t possibly see her waist from where you were, she could imagine Debbie saying, practical even in a crisis.

  Cool, no cold. Frosty smile. Provocative, revealing dress. No knickers, she’d bet her life on it. Definitely a man’s woman. More a Rhonda or a Sharon than a Kate really.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She didn’t look that interested. Lindsay hated her for not at least being curious.

  ‘I was going to ring you . . .’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Paul, hadn’t we better order . . . ?’ The cool voice trailed off.

  ‘Sorry, we have a lot of catching up to do.’ Lindsay was as capable as anyone of being cool. And just now she felt very cold and very calm, which was a bad sign.

  ‘Well, I think it’s all history now and Paul and I have a very different relationship, so perhaps it’s better we all try to move on.’

  Lindsay couldn’t believe her ears. You bitch, she thought, you stupid, fucking, insensitive bitch.

  Without even realizing what she was doing, Lindsay slipped into the seat opposite and stared at the confident, cold face.

  ‘Really, just how different is your relationship, I wonder? Does he not cuddle you till you fall asleep at night? Kiss you awake when he knows you’re tired? Cut your toenails? Bring you home champagne and chips, or chocolate and tampons? Feed you ice cream in bed? Stick notes in your suitcase when you go away? Text you to ask if you’re wearing stockings? Burst your pimples? Jump into the bath beside you with his clothes on because he can’t wait? Kiss your nose when you have a cold? Swear he’ll still fancy you when you’re ninety? . . .’ She could have gone on for ever but she suddenly ran out of steam.

  She looked straight at the face she thought she knew so well but couldn’t see his gorgeous brown eyes because he wasn’t able to look at her.

  ‘He did with me. In fact,’ she tore herself away from his eyes and looked at the now flushed face of the woman sitting beside him, ‘the only bad thing about him was his goodbye. There wasn’t one.’

  Lindsay stood up just as Tara and Debbie hurled themselves at the table, having just realized who she was talking to. Tara looked worried and Debbie was clearly furious. For what seemed an eternity all five of them stared at each other and Lindsay knew she had to get out. Fast.

  ‘See you around. Next time you’re asked to appear on TV, maybe.’ She remembered he’d been on a programme about design once and he’d adored the buzz. ‘I’m working at Channel 6 now – Assistant Producer.’ She had no idea where that came from, just knew she couldn’t resist it. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.

  She turned and headed for the door at an incredible pace, with Tara in front and Debbie’s hand on her back as a single, big fat tear rolled down her face. It was over. And there was absolutely no good in goodbye.

  Chapter Seven

  AS SHE STRUGGLED to clear her fur-coated brain next morning, Lindsay wondered for
a split second where she was. A warm, late autumn sun had somehow found its target and hurt her eyes. She shook her head to escape the probing rays and almost immediately came face to face with a pair of equally bewildered eyes. Tara groaned. ‘Oh God, I feel awful. What’s that revolting smell?’

  ‘Leftover pizza that didn’t smell great last night, come to think of it,’ a muffled voice murmured from under the duvet.

  ‘Someone shovelled gravel down my throat in the middle of the night, which one of you is the culprit?’

  To call what emerged from halfway down the bed dishevelled was an act of pure kindness. Debbie’s hair was matted, her face had been whitewashed, her eyes were swollen and she had two coal-black streaks under her lower lashes.

  ‘The Gothic look really suits you,’ was the best Lindsay could come up with, knowing she probably looked exactly the same, or worse.

  Debbie’s eyes pleaded for help. ‘I need water and the bathroom, fast.’ A bare bottom clambered over the other two and disappeared as life came sharply into focus for Lindsay. She pulled herself into a sitting position and looked around.

  The room had been bombed. Clothes, coats, shoes, bags, make-up remover, tissues, glasses, bottles, screw tops, and several enormous boxes of half-eaten pizza that smelt vile and looked even worse were all that Lindsay could see. She sank back down, unable to face it all.

  ‘You OK?’ Tara knew what she was thinking.

  ‘Yeah, I just remembered why you’re here.’

  Debbie reappeared, wearing a ridiculous jumper and no knickers, carrying a carton of juice. She passed it silently, climbed back into bed and shuddered.

  ‘Ugh, I hope that bastard rots in hell.’ She didn’t need to elaborate. They stayed there for a while, each lost in thought as Lindsay came to grips with what had happened. She felt hollow. It was over, she knew that for definite now.

  She made a quick decision.

  ‘OK, come on, tea and toast.’ She couldn’t go any further down that particular cul-de-sac just yet. She jumped up, startling the other two who were clearly ready for a doze.