Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  It was ages since all three of them had been like this, all girlie and eager and excited and Lindsay was so glad to have them around.

  ‘I kind of guessed he wasn’t in a serious relationship cause of the vibe between us, you know. Although . . .’ Lindsay couldn’t resist a final attempt to show them her new self, ‘he does have a date with someone else tonight.’

  Debbie might as well have dyed her T-shirt red, with all the wine she’d managed to spill as she jumped up and down again.

  ‘What are you on?’ She couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘And did you not ask him what he was playing at?’ Tara was bemused at this latest twist to the happy-ever-after story, suddenly seeing her dreams of being a bridesmaid go up in smoke.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s got nothing to do with me. He had it all arranged and besides, we’ve only just met. I don’t have any claim on him and I don’t even know if I want another relationship.’

  OK, that last bit was maybe a tiny little white lie, Lindsay realized, wondering how she’d feel if he didn’t ring.

  ‘Anyway, he doesn’t know how lucky he’d be to have a girlfriend like me because I have absolutely no intention of falling in love or getting married. Ever again. I think that makes me a very good catch for a guy who must be fed up of women falling for him.’

  They weren’t fully convinced but sensibly said nothing.

  They eventually had to break for food and Debbie rustled up some pasta with the less-than-generous contents of Lindsay’s fridge – tomatoes, garlic and a block of fresh parmesan, brought to life with the help of some good olive oil and a pot of slightly wilted basil on the window sill. They talked for hours and were still amazed at her casual outlook.

  ‘It’s simple. I really fancied him, we had a great weekend and I don’t know if I’ll see him again. I guess I hope he calls, but if he doesn’t I’ll survive. I’m not sorry I did it. OK?’

  They left at nine-thirty with lots of questions still unanswered but arranged to have a pizza together during the week to ‘catch up on the latest’.

  Lindsay was in bed by ten and fell asleep wondering where he was that night.

  She opened her eyes at seven a.m. next morning and imagined it had all been a dream.

  She was determined to make the most of her last day of freedom, however, so she leapt out of bed, her feet barely touching the cold hard floorboards as she padded quickly downstairs in the chill, dark December morning, grateful as ever for the comfort of the geriatric stove. She was out walking with Charlie before seven-thirty and showered and dressed and juicing by nine. On her way into town to do some Christmas shopping she switched on her mobile. She had a text message.

  TANX FOR GT W/END. BED FELT BIG & MPTY LAST NITE.

  It had been sent at seven forty-five that morning. Lindsay couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Was it his way of telling her that he’d slept alone, in spite of his date, she wondered. She felt happy as she shopped, picking up a fab baby-blue angora sweater for Tara and a brilliant rich orangey-gold velvet scarf for Debbie. Around lunchtime she texted him back.

  BED WARMING SERVICE AVAILABLE. RATES REASONABLE. CALL CHARLIE AT 333-1833.

  He replied immediately.

  GOTTA MEET THIS GUY. SOUNDS JUST WHAT I’M LOOKING 4. WUD U BOTH B FREE 4 DINNER ON FRI?

  Her response was even quicker.

  CALL ROUND 4 A ‘BITE’ BOUT 8.30.

  She didn’t hear anything until later that evening.

  ON ROUTE 2 LONDON. C U FRI.

  She texted back her address and went to bed with a smile on her face, looking forward to her first day in a new job and wondering what the week would bring.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ON HER WAY to work next morning, Lindsay could barely contain her excitement. She had been awake since six-thirty and had stayed swamped in the huge duvet, thinking about the day ahead. By eight she was showered and dressed, having changed her clothes twice.

  She eventually settled on a Lyn Mar long, knitted, aubergine-coloured dress and coat, made funky by the addition of clumpy ankle boots. The dress was very plain and curvy and the coat was thick and chunky and cosy. The rich colouring suited her and she caught her hair back so as not to look too girlie, adding some earrings as a final touch. She felt good and was glad that Chris was in London, not sure that she could cope with the thought of maybe bumping into him on her first day at school.

  She arrived at the Live from Dublin production office at nine-fifteen and it was already buzzing. Marissa, the production secretary, showed her to a spare desk with phone and computer and explained that the weekly meeting would start at ten. Lindsay sat quietly and made a ‘To Do’ list – obvious things like ‘get stationery’ and ‘phone IT re computer’ – while keeping an eye on what was going on around her. It was a large open-plan office, home to around twenty people. It was easy to spot the researchers – they were already ‘phone bashing’ and generally getting ready for the meeting. Alan Morland, the Executive Producer, came over to say hello.

  ‘I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you on board,’ he grinned at her. ‘We can certainly use the help. This is a madhouse. Come to the meeting and just get your bearings and then in the afternoon we can have a coffee and I’ll explain all.’

  Lindsay was grateful that he seemed normal . . . and nice, which was a definite bonus. Television producers and directors were usually creative and artistic, sometimes highly strung and a few were either mad or egotistical, or both. As the meeting got underway Alan introduced her to the team. There were eight researchers, a director, two production assistants (who worked mainly in studio with the director), three secretaries and an assistant to Tom Watts, who had presented the show for the past five years. Tom wasn’t at this meeting and Lindsay wondered what he was like. She’d seen the show, of course, and knew he was in his late thirties. On screen he seemed outgoing and charming one minute, cruel and sharp tongued the next. Divorced and reported to have a string of very young girlfriends, the audience loved him although there were rumours that the show was losing some of its viewers to a rival chat show hosted by a drag queen. Lindsay knew that this was one of the reasons she’d been drafted in, to help produce items for the show that might appeal to a twenty- and thirty-something audience. The meeting went on for over two hours and ideas were raised and discussed, with each of the researchers vying to have their particular topic considered. It was healthy competition that could only be good for the ratings, although Lindsay didn’t doubt for one minute that the rivalry was real. Anyone working on the top-rated TV show was there because they were very good at their job and fiercely ambitious. A draft running order for Saturday night’s show was drawn up and a strategy discussed. Alan decided that they would open with a chart-topping boy band and follow with a discussion on teenage abortion. This was the subject of much debate. Promotions, competitions, audience were all talked through in some detail. Lindsay was exhausted by the time they broke up and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  They all went to the canteen for a quick sandwich and everybody was back at their desks in record time. Tuesday was generally an easy day, Alan told her as he invited her for coffee at three-thirty. Most people drifted home early because by Wednesday it was full steam ahead and many ended up working late and of course, they all worked every Saturday from lunchtime until the show came off air at eleven.

  Over coffee, they discussed the strategy for the coming months, as the new season would kick off after Christmas and continue until May or June. Alan explained that as they had only three more shows before the Christmas break, he was happy for her to simply observe, lend a hand when needed and generally work on ideas with researchers for after Christmas. He told her he’d been really impressed with her training programme and felt confident that she could bring some fresh ideas to the show. Lindsay was thrilled and asked for feedback on her performance as the weeks progressed.

  After coffee he
insisted she take a half-day and go home early, which meant that Lindsay was able to get a bit more Christmas shopping done and think about food for Friday.

  She was determined not to kill herself cooking and cleaning to impress Chris so after consulting one of her many cookbooks over a cup of frothy coffee she eventually settled on a simple fish dish and decided that she’d get some fresh flowers and light some candles. He’d just have to take it or leave it, she thought, although she suspected that she wouldn’t feel so confident once Friday came.

  After an hour and a half on the phone to her mother, her sister and the girls, Lindsay retired to bed exhausted and dreamt of disasters on live TV programmes, all of which were her fault.

  It was easier next day because Lindsay at least knew the ropes and she was at her desk before nine, determined to jump straight in. Everyone seemed friendly and helpful, although she wasn’t quite sure about one of the researchers, a tall thin blonde named Kate. She had been very cool towards Lindsay when she heard that she was the new assistant producer and Lindsay sensed that she’d have to work hard to win Kate over. Still, nothing could daunt her today and she got stuck in with gusto, organizing all her personal needs, making a few contact calls and starting work on a list of ideas which she hoped to present at next week’s meeting. The time flew and before she knew where she was it was six o’clock and she had arranged to meet Tara and Debbie at seven in a new café in Temple Bar.

  They all arrived within minutes of each other and ordered a huge bowl of spaghetti with squashy, roasted baby tomatoes, basil leaves torn to shreds and crispy, toasted, garlicky breadcrumbs. Just to complete the image of the three little pigs they decided on a large pepperoni pizza with lashings of stringy mozzarella. They savoured the twenty-minute wait for food, enjoying the rich scent of garlic and herbs that pervaded the tiny room, accepting the manic, friendly sounds from the kitchen, anticipating the feast that was soon to be theirs and sipping some nicely chilled Frascati. Bliss.

  The girls demanded to hear Lindsay’s news first and she happily filled them in on the first two days in her new job. They were intrigued at how easily she seemed to have fitted in and teased her a bit about name-dropping a few of Ireland’s celebrities.

  ‘Oh, I see, you just happened to get chatting to Jason Nugent in the lift,’ Debbie laughed at her animated expression as she related her encounter with a hot new radio presenter, while Tara remarked that it was a million miles away from the world she inhabited from nine to five, full of grey-haired, grey-suited, grey-faced legal types.

  The food arrived in typical Italian style, delivered by two waiters who fought as they noisily arranged the table and presented the food as if it were Babette’s Feast. The girls looked on happily. They were ravenous and didn’t mind the fuss in the least. It was all part of the Italian experience.

  ‘Guess who rang me the other day and asked me out?’ Tara could no longer contain her news. Debbie stopped, fork full of dangling spaghetti two inches from her mouth, head back in anticipation.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, sensing something important but not yet sure if it was worth delaying the first bite of spaghetti for.

  ‘Michael Russell.’

  The food won because Debbie hadn’t a clue who Michael Russell was.

  ‘Michael Russell?’ Lindsay was aghast.

  ‘Who’s Michael Russell?’

  ‘Oh my God, I knew he was interested in you that day.’

  Tara looked mortified.

  ‘Who’s Michael Russell?’

  ‘What did you say? Have you met him yet?’

  ‘No, we’re meeting for a drink on Saturday night.’ Tara grinned sheepishly.

  ‘Will somebody please tell me who the fuck is Michael Russell?’

  Debbie, annoyed and ridiculous with lurid green basil oil running down her chin, wasn’t going to be left out for a second longer.

  ‘The Course Director,’ they chorused, which meant nothing to Debbie for a split second.

  ‘Oh my God, the Course Director.’

  Lindsay was intrigued.

  ‘I knew it, that day of my final project, he talked to you for ages and I saw him looking at you as you were serving the wine. Tell us everything, quick.’

  ‘Well, he rang me the other day at work.’

  ‘How did he get your number? He didn’t ask me!’

  ‘When I filled in that form for the payment of that vast sum of money that you offered us to be your slaves for the day, I had to give my telephone number, in case of any problem. He seemed kind of shy and worried in case I wouldn’t remember him, so he introduced himself and practically gave me his life history by way of introduction, which was kind of cute.’

  ‘And did you know him?’

  ‘Yes, as soon as he spoke I sort of remembered his voice, which is odd.’

  ‘She’s getting married in the morning . . .’ Debbie sang, and they fell about laughing.

  ‘That’s fantastic. He’s very cute in a sort of Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle way.’ Lindsay, as usual, got it in one. Debbie wasn’t sure that this was a compliment – it was way too nineties.

  They chatted on this subject for at least an hour and eventually got round to Lindsay’s date on Friday.

  ‘How do you feel? Are you excited?’

  ‘What are you wearing/cooking/planning?’

  ‘Are you nervous? I wouldn’t be.’

  ‘I would, he’s sort of famous and eligible.’

  ‘Wrong, he’s very famous and eligible. Actually, I’d be scared stiff.’

  On and on it went, forcing Lindsay to articulate something she wasn’t even sure of herself.

  ‘No, I’m not nervous and I’m not going to go to a lot of trouble. I feel a bit ridiculous, to tell you the truth, as if I’m a child playing a game or something. On one hand I wonder what on earth he wants with me when he can have his pick of women . . . younger, thinner, better-looking. Why did he come looking for me?’

  ‘He didn’t. You went looking for him.’ Debbie gave her a cheeky grin.

  ‘You’re right, I’d forgotten that little detail, thank you for reminding me. But he did make the next move, I mean he didn’t have to get in touch. So, how do I feel about it? Well, I’m delighted and a bit excited and I’m dying to see how Friday goes. But you know, if it ended tomorrow, or next week, or next month even, I know I’ll be OK. When Paul came into my life, it was the best thing in the world and when it ended it was the worst possible thing that could ever happen and it changed me forever. So I’ll go along with this and see where it leads me but I have absolutely no expectation of happy ever after ’cause I don’t believe in it any more. And I’m never going to feel the way I felt about Paul ever again so I won’t get badly hurt no matter what happens. I’m going to have fun and keep my heart intact. How does that sound?’ she asked a touch too brightly.

  ‘Sounds like the best of both worlds to me.’ Tara looked at her with a hint of sadness in her eyes. ‘I think you’re great.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, Lindsay finally got to meet Tom Watts. The presenter strolled into the office at around midday and everyone jumped to attention in a funny ‘I’m not trying to impress anyone’ sort of way.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked no one in particular.

  Alan Morland immediately went to fill him in on progress for this week’s show. Rosie, his assistant, left a couple of folders on his desk and the researchers waited expectantly to be called to discuss their particular items.

  ‘Let’s have a quick meeting. All route your phones through to Marissa. Monica, maybe you could take notes of any bits and pieces that aren’t being looked after.’ Alan Morland was brisk.

  Chairs became dodgems as everyone wheeled around in a rough circle. Tom Watts glanced about him, signing post and thinking. He looked in Lindsay’s direction but gave no sign of recognition, which she took to mean that it was up to her to make the first move. She knew that he would be fully awa
re of a stranger in the office, they were an intimate bunch, drawn together in a world that was difficult for an outsider to understand, glamorous, stressful, exciting, pressurized. A world where adrenalin constantly bubbled under the surface, where huge highs and constant lows were part of a day’s work and where long hours and shared moments had spawned numerous dangerous liaisons over the years. It all made for an intoxicating atmosphere to an outsider like her.

  ‘Hi, Tom, I’m Lindsay Davidson. I’m the new Assistant Producer.’

  Nobody in television land ever called anybody Mr or Miss, all the same Lindsay was nervous as she held out her hand. He was taller than she had expected and slightly chubbier than he appeared on TV. A good-looking man with black hair and sharp eyes and a sardonic grin, she knew he’d worked in America for a couple of years, before he came to the station, although he was Irish, born and reared in a small town in the North West. No traces of his roots were evident, however, he was the all-American high-school graduate, sleek and smooth and very polished. He looked every inch the successful TV host and Lindsay knew he had a huge following throughout Ireland. She immediately suspected that he might be very demanding and play the celebrity card a lot.

  ‘Lindsay Davidson, sounds like a tennis player,’ he greeted her with a twenty-kilo handshake.

  He was a man who probably indulged a bit too much in the good things of life, Lindsay noticed, but he managed to get away with it, though not for many more years, she suspected. His aura of power gave him an undeniable attraction, and she had no doubt he used it to the full when it suited him, which it clearly did now.

  ‘Alan showed me bits of your training programme. I was impressed.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m looking forward to putting all that training to good use on the show.’

  ‘Great.’ Suddenly she knew she was dismissed.

  The meeting was short and sharp. Tom Watts seemed to know all the right questions to ask to put everyone under pressure.