Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  ‘Who’s looking after the audience this week? Monica? Last week they were all from a geriatric ward, I’m certain one or two of them even fell asleep during the show. I want to see young faces this Saturday.’

  Monica’s face resembled a very ripe tomato and Lindsay wondered how she was going to tackle that particular problem because she knew that tickets for this week’s show would have been distributed at least a month in advance. There was a huge waiting list, stretching to nearly a year but Lindsay knew Tom Watts was right. The audience were beginning to look a bit too middle aged.

  ‘Who wrote this intro to the boy band? I refuse to call them the Monkees of this Millennium. It’s crap and it dates all of us and whatever about the rest of you, I’m in my prime.’ He grinned and everyone relaxed a bit. It was going to be OK. He was in a good mood. Even though editorial control for the programme rested with the Executive Producer, a high-profile presenter such as Tom Watts wielded considerable power and it was clear that he considered this was ‘his’ show.

  The meeting lasted only twenty minutes or so and afterwards no one made any real move to go to lunch. One or two people nipped out to get a takeaway coffee and a sandwich, with a quick ‘anyone want anything from the canteen?’ but as this was Thursday and Tom was in the office, they all knew that they could be called upon at any moment. The pressure was on.

  Noticing that Tom and Alan were deep in discussion at one end of the office, Lindsay went to have a quiet moment with Monica about the audience. As she had suspected, the younger girl was in a bit of a panic. She was absolutely efficient and methodical and each person who applied for tickets had to fill out a questionnaire, in order to ensure a good mix of social background, urban versus rural, age, male/female, etc. She had already taken steps to ensure that younger applicants were given priority where tickets were concerned but this would take a few more weeks to show on air, which wouldn’t solve this particular headache. There was also another simple problem, difficult to overcome. People lied.

  ‘A lot of people know that if they look for tickets for their granny and grandad they might not get them so they tell us they’re for their brothers and sisters, or nieces and nephews,’ Monica explained. ‘So, even though I think we have a good mix, when they arrive it’s clear that a good number of them didn’t give their correct ages.’

  ‘OK, let’s see if I can help, I’ve nothing much to do at the moment.’ Lindsay knew that Monica was worried. ‘For a start, let me have a look at the file on last week’s gang, just to get an idea.’

  Sure enough, there were lots of applications from twenty- and thirty-somethings but when Lindsay looked at the tape of the programme there were far more of the blue-rinse brigade in the audience.

  She discussed it again later with Monica.

  ‘Are the tickets printed with specific seat numbers?’

  ‘No, because it would take too long to seat them, with an audience of three hundred and fifty.’

  ‘How many floating tickets do we keep back each week for guests, friends, etc.?’

  ‘About forty.’

  ‘OK, here’s a plan. Suppose we give as many of the spares as we can to younger people, friends of the production team, etc. We could put a special mark on them so that when they arrive we could direct them into studio first and seat them in the front row. Then you and I could mingle with the general audience while they’re having their pre-show glass of wine and pick out as many young faces as we can and place them in prominent positions for cameras. That way it might appear there are more younger people present, at least as far as the viewers at home are concerned. After all, that’s all that matters.’ Lindsay grinned. Monica was delighted and they agreed to rope in any of the researchers they could to help on the night. Lindsay also suggested that Monica draft up a new questionnaire for ticket applicants and include a few trick questions.

  They giggled helplessly in the corner as they worked it out.

  ‘OK, let’s start by asking them what sort of music they like,’ Lindsay reasoned. ‘If they list Britney Spears or Slipknot as their favourite performers they’re probably still at school, or male, or both. If they mention Perry Como or Doris Day they might live in a nursing home or at the very least the only other thing that occupies them at the weekend is collecting their pension.’

  Monica began to get into the swing of it. ‘We could ask them what their favourite food is, that’s a real giveaway.’

  ‘Definitely. Irish stews and toad-in-the-holes get nothing. Fajitas and lamb vindaloos get extra tickets.’ The two girls tried in vain to keep the laughter under control.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Alan Morland approached Monica’s desk.

  ‘Come on, share it.’ Two foolish grins stared back at him and he knew it was useless.

  ‘Monica, I need to talk to you about the audience later.’ He looked tired.

  ‘Oh, that’s what we’re working on at the moment.’ The younger girl was on the defensive immediately.

  Lindsay stepped in. ‘Monica already had a plan so I’m just seeing if I can lend a hand, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Yeah, great, thanks, I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need me.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, no worries.’

  Lindsay spent the rest of the day helping out where she could. David, the researcher looking after the boy band, was in trouble. Apart from the intro that Tom hated, the record company involved with the band had sent in a list of requirements for their dressing rooms that would take two days to organize. Also, there were several topics that the band would not discuss. These included the recent suspected drug raid on one of their homes and the question of whether a well-known teenage pop idol in the UK was pregnant by the lead singer.

  These were, of course, the very questions that Tom wanted answers to and he was pushing David very hard, while Alan Morland was trying to keep everyone happy.

  ‘I don’t care, let’s dump them if they won’t cooperate. They need us, we don’t need them,’ Tom insisted as he left the office. Nobody else agreed with him and Alan walked with him to his car to discuss it further. The boys were currently No. 1 in ten countries and having them on the show was a coup. Lindsay suggested that she and David go to the canteen and put their heads together to see if they could reach a compromise with the record company, keep Tom happy and not lose the band.

  Lindsay had to drag herself to the shops after work, to organize food for the famous dinner and by the time she let herself in to the house at nine-thirty Charlie was hysterical and she wasn’t feeling very calm herself. No amount of hot milk, her mother’s favourite remedy, would help tonight, she suspected, as she took off her shoes and ignored Charlie, stretched out on her favourite tapestry cushions on a chair from which he was normally banned. Bed by eleven seemed the only cure for both of them although she knew that Charlie, with his soulful, pleading eyes, would rather have had a walk.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FRIDAY CAME AT last and Lindsay wasn’t sure whether she was thrilled or traumatized. She was awake by six a.m. and despite her intentions, ran around the house plumping cushions and opening windows and generally annoying Charlie, who wasn’t used to living with a tornado. By eight-thirty she’d exfoliated to within an inch of her life, flossed and whitened her teeth, applied at least half of her very expensive face mask whilst praying that she wouldn’t erupt in an army of fluorescent spots and checked for a suspected cold sore three times.

  She was exhausted by the time she hit the office at ten, having nipped in to her local salon for a quick blow-dry. She decided enough was enough and put all thoughts of impending doom in relation to the evening ahead to the back of her mind, giving herself a ‘get a life’ mental lash. It nearly worked.

  Fridays, she quickly realized, are the worst days for a live weekend chat show, the last working day of the week for most people and the day on which things always seemed to go wrong. Today was no exception. Everyone appeared to be working against the clock. Tom Watts was in for most of the day,
going through briefs with the researchers. Each one provided detailed notes on their particular guest and tried to make them as interesting as possible. They also offered a suggested introduction that Tom might or might not use and a list of relevant questions. The skill was to get the person to talk about topics that they might not necessarily want to talk about, but which the viewers definitely wanted and even expected them to. This week there was a problem with a former Page Three model who was coming on to promote her book but refusing to talk about whether she’d had her breasts enlarged, a subject that had filled many tabloid pages in recent months. Alice, the researcher, was adamant that she would get up and leave if the subject was raised. Tom, however, seemed determined to do so and tried to rope Lindsay in for support.

  ‘Lindsay, tell us what you think. I say we have to ask her about her boob job, Alice is afraid to push it.’

  Lindsay joined them reluctantly, aware that this was one of the calls she would have to make if she were in charge. There was no easy answer.

  ‘I imagine this kind of thing comes up often on live programmes everywhere and it is a dilemma. I think we have a responsibility to honour a commitment not to discuss it, provided it’s been made clear to us when the artist was being offered.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a cop out,’ Tom goaded her.

  ‘Well, I don’t think this is a discussion we should be having the day before the artist comes on the show. We should have these things clarified before we agree to have the guest on. In this case, if we had known earlier, we could have incorporated an item on cosmetic surgery into the interview and perhaps have asked her to comment generally, but I don’t think we can do anything now, it’s too late in the day.’

  ‘Well, I cannot have her without asking her something, we’ll be laughed at, it’s the only reason people want to see her.’ Tom was adamant.

  ‘Can we find out if she’d be prepared to comment generally?’ Lindsay asked Alice.

  ‘She would, reluctantly, I think. I did a long phone interview with her last night. She is fed up with the media attention to her breasts and wants to move on and develop her career as a writer.’

  ‘Well, developing her boobs has certainly helped develop her writing career,’ Lindsay laughed. ‘I think we should take a different approach and ask her about her Page Three days and if it’s been a help or a hindrance. We can also ask about the lengths these girls are prepared to go to, to make it onto the pages of the tabloids and take the questioning as far as we can down that road.’

  ‘OK, give me an hour and I’ll change the line of questioning.’ Alice seemed relieved to have reached a compromise, although Lindsay sensed that Tom Watts was not happy. It would make for an interesting twenty minutes both on screen and off, she thought.

  The morning raced ahead like a greyhound, the atmosphere was tense and Lindsay longed to be in the thick of it all instead of on the sidelines, but she knew her turn would come.

  Suddenly it was six o’clock and although everyone was still working, Lindsay, doing her best superwoman impression and fooling nobody, left feeling very guilty.

  By seven-thirty the fires were lit, candles lined the mantelpiece and the kitchen and sitting room looked just right – warm, cosy and elegant but well used and comfortable. Most important, the rooms didn’t look too set up for an intimate evening. Lindsay loved flowers, candles, lamps and cushions, so everything looked natural.

  She had the quickest shower ever, partly because of time but also so as not to ruin her hair, which was soft and shiny and curly, but could become dead and lifeless after about thirty seconds in a steamy shower. She set out her make-up with all the subtlety of Colonel Gaddafi.

  First up, Clarins Beauty Flash Balm. None of her friends had ever been able to explain what it did, but applied it lavishly none the less. Then came Laura Mercier Secret Camouflage, quite simply the best concealer in the world. Next her desert island must-have – Touché Eclat, for under eyes, which seemed to lighten the whole eye area, even more so once Geri Haliwell supposedly claimed not to be able to leave home without it. Foundation, luminizing colour powder (great for a touch of sparkle, especially on the cleavage), eye make-up and Posh Spice’s favourite lip pencil – Mac ‘Spice’ – completed the look, not forgetting a dash of Prescriptives cheek stick, which took her three months to locate once Madonna was apparently spotted with a similar-looking black tube in a posh loo in Los Angeles. A twenty-five-minute military regime involving some fifteen make-up products ensured she looked as if she wasn’t wearing any. Well, hardly any. She hadn’t really made up her mind what to wear, but eventually settled on her fine wool black pinstripe trousers which were well cut and narrow and slightly flared at the bottom, making her legs look long and reasonably thin when worn over high-heeled boots. On top she wore a fab French blouse, in various shades of blue and grey and inky black. It was quite flamboyant but very delicate and see through. She left enough buttons open to show a generous helping of the matching black, heavily embroidered bra top, which was a feature of the designer. It pushed her boobs up and made her feel very sexy, without being too ‘come and get me’.

  All the same she closed one button, just in case.

  Hell, what am I worrying about, he’s already had me, she thought, and opened two more.

  She checked the food and opened a bottle of nicely chilled white wine, desperate for a glass herself but deciding that she had to face him sober sometime. She had just decided the top was too much and was standing in her bra and pants when the doorbell rang.

  Oscar nomination sprang to mind later as she thought about her performance when she opened the door trying to keep the ‘this could all go horribly wrong’ look off her face. As soon as she saw him she burst out laughing, partly from nerves but mostly because of what he was holding in his hand – a giant tin of Pedigree Chum with a huge, juicy looking, meaty, smelly bone sellotaped to the top of the can.

  ‘I gathered that the goodwill of this dog of yours might be crucial to the future of our relationship,’ he grinned and she wondered for the millionth time how she’d had the courage to do what she did last Friday.

  ‘My friends are usually much more subtle, I’m afraid he’ll see through that lot immediately and refuse to come near you.’ She grinned back and stepped aside, the awkwardness of the first ‘will he, won’t he, should I, shouldn’t I’ moment gone in a whiff of beef marrowbone.

  He followed her down the few steps to the kitchen. She had not invited him into the sitting room on purpose. This was where she and Charlie hung out and this was what she wanted him to see and hopefully like.

  ‘Wow, what a great room.’ He looked around and earned himself five brownie points in as many seconds. Lindsay loved this room. It was big, open and friendly with an old Victorian fireplace, a big squashy sofa and original beams and wood panelling. It also had a big, old, well-scrubbed table, home to a massive antique jug of flowers courtesy of the market, or her garden, or both. There was no fitted kitchen; the units were all free-standing and individual, which seemed to add to the unstructured look. The original French doors to the garden were intact and the sixty-year-old Aga, complete with four-year-old Charlie firmly attached, completed the vaguely Shaker style. She sometimes thought the dog would have to be surgically removed if she ever decided to sell the place. At this moment, Charlie was eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. He was well used to Lindsay’s friends who all came to tickle his tummy and he usually didn’t have to move from his favourite spot. This one smelt different, however, and his nose edged its way towards the source of the best whiff he’d had all day. It took all of five seconds for Charlie to decide that Chris was his new V.B.F.

  ‘Beer or wine?’ Lindsay was feeling awkward again.

  ‘Wine would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Red if you have some open.’

  ‘Sure.’ She poured half a bottle into one of her fat, long-stemmed wineglasses and it still looked like a miserable half glass. She did the same wi
th the white for herself, enjoying the instant sedative as she took a big gulp and sent half of it down her front. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed.

  He was very impressive, she thought again, glancing at him as she mopped up her cleavage. It wasn’t that he was drop-dead gorgeous; it was more the whole package. He was tall, well built and looked really healthy, as if he was about to spring into action at any moment. He had a clean and vibrant smell and tonight he was wearing an expensive black jacket with a grey shirt open at the neck and his hair had that just-washed appeal. She had that feeling of wanting to touch him, again.

  ‘So, tell me about the first week. Was it better or worse than you expected?’

  ‘Oh, no, I expected it to be brilliant and it was. It was also really scary.’ She filled him in and he seemed relaxed and happy as she recounted the incident of the former Page Three model.

  ‘I’ll have to remember to tape that tomorrow night.’

  She wondered if he had another date with the Sunday girl. ‘How was your week?’

  ‘Fine, although I’m a bit wrecked. I went to London as I told you and then ended up in Luxemburg, covering a story I’ve been keeping an eye on for a while now. So, I only got back last night and then Jim Burns, Director of News, rang at eight-thirty this morning. He wants me to do a stint on Ireland Today.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’ Lindsay knew that it was the top-rating morning TV programme, on air from seven to nine a.m., with a hard news edge to it and an interesting mix of guests.

  ‘I’m not sure. Personally, I never watch TV in the mornings and I hate the idea of getting up at five. I’d rather it were radio, at least that way I could fall into work with wet hair and wearing jeans. At the moment, it’s only for a couple of weeks in January, but you know what they’re like, I could be still there next Christmas, which is definitely not my intention. There are too many other things I want to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘More in-depth news stuff and two projects – documentaries – I’m working on. I’ve also been asked to do a late-night current affairs type thing on radio, which I’m supposed to be starting immediately after Christmas. It’s already in the transmission schedule but I couldn’t do both late-night radio and morning TV. Might have a bit of a disastrous effect on my social life.’ He grinned and raised his eyebrows.