Tom looked at her, then at Kate, and gulped. “Kate. This is … Lucy.”
“Lucy,” Kate said levelly “Hi!” the girl said, holding out her hand, then gasped. “Hey, you’re that girl from the newspaper, aren’t you? Oh, shame, wasn’t it? Oh, poor you.”
Kate suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She attempted a smile.
“Lucy’s a nurse at the hospital,” Tom said.
“That’s right,” Lucy said brightly. “I was just looking for some wine. Can’t have pizza without wine, can you?”
Kate shook her head, numb. “No. I don’t suppose you can. Well, Tom, I’m glad to hear that you’ll be fed. Can’t have you working all those hours and not having time to eat, can we?”
“It’s … it’s not what you think,” Tom said, looking at Kate intently. “It’s not…”
“I don’t think anything, Tom,” Kate said lightly. “I never have.”
She turned a brilliant smile on Lucy. “Enjoy your pizza,” she said, then turned and hurried out of the shop. Suddenly the thought of pizza made her want to gag. Actually, the thought of eating anything made her want to throw up.
She walked along the street and turned in to her own, walking briskly back toward her flat. But with each step that she took, the brittle smile on her face eroded a little. And by the time she opened her front door, it was all she could do to get inside before her tears began to flow. Their kiss hadn’t meant anything. Tom had a girlfriend with large breasts and curly blond hair. No doubt tomorrow he’d have a different one.
And she couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the idea of him being with anyone else but her. Which was ridiculous. This was Tom, after all. Tom, one of her oldest friends. They’d only kissed once, and it was really no big deal.
Except it was a big deal, Kate realized now. Everything about that night had been a big deal. Just not to him.
Suddenly, Kate knew why she’d been feeling so unsettled by the kiss, had got over Joe’s betrayal so quickly. She was in love with Tom. And yet she hated him, too. Because he’d let her fall for him when he wasn’t interested. Because she realized that she needed him, and he didn’t need anyone; he considered love a weakness. As for the kiss, he’d probably done it just to stop her crying. It wouldn’t have meant anything to him. She shuddered at how close she’d come to calling him, to asking how he felt about the whole thing. Silly Kate and her romantic fantasies, he’d have thought. When will she grow up and accept reality?
Well, now she would accept reality. Now she would forget her romantic fantasies and her dreams of a happy ending. Slowly, she walked into the kitchen and picked up The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook, which was sitting on the table.
“It’s all your fault,” she muttered. “Making out that everything’s fine. But you’re wrong. Things aren’t fine. There is no Prince Charming. There is no beau with a jaunty hat and pleasing manner who’s going to make everything okay.” She looked at the book for a moment or two, flicking through and seeing chapters she hadn’t yet read: “Spreading Romance—and Making the World a Better Place” and “Following Your Dreams.”
Then she marched to her front door, opened it, and threw the book into the trash bin.
“You’ve ruined my life,” she said bitterly. “Tom was right—there is no such thing as a happy ending.”
And with that, she ran to the bathroom to throw up.
26
Magda frowned and banged the telephone receiver down. This was just too much. This was not acceptable. Not in the least.
It was Wednesday now. Wednesday afternoon and Penny still hadn’t shown her face on the set of Future: Perfect. She hadn’t even called to give Magda an update or to apologize. And when Magda called her for the umpteenth time this week, some assistant or other had answered the phone and said apologetically that Penny wasn’t available right now.
Wasn’t available? Did she know who was paying Penny’s wages?
“‘Scuse me, Magda, sorry to trouble you, but we’ve just had the builders you booked for the Joneses on the phone. Their job’s overrunning so they won’t be able to get there till next week now.”
Magda stared at the researcher in front of her. It was almost as if the entire building community in London was conniving to make things difficult for her. She’d had enough problems tracking down one firm who would take the job, and now even they were letting her down.
“Next week? But we need them now. We need that place finished now.“
The researcher shrugged. “That’s builders for you,” he said, grinning, then wiped the smile from his face when he saw that Magda was in no mood for humor. “I’ll, uh, try to find someone else, shall I?” he suggested. Magda nodded curtly, waited until he’d disappeared, and then let her head drop onto the top of her desk.
Everything was a mess. The Kitchins’ house was a tip, the pink velvet was unused, and without a presenter they had no links filmed, no introductory sequence, nothing—and now the Jones house was going to be useless, too.
Bloody Penny Pennington. Magda had trusted her when she said, “Leave the interiors to me.” Trusted her when she said the skiing trip would be a day, or a day and a half tops. Trusted her to come back to work and sort this mess out before it cost Magda her job for gross mismanagement.
And now she had an e-mail from someone at NorthWest Productions asking her to give them a reference for Kate, and saying how excited they were to work with her. Frowning, she picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Hello?”
“Kate. It’s Magda.”
There was silence at the other end.
“I was just wondering how you were getting on. I see you’ve been in touch with NorthWest. Nice little company. No money, of course, but I suppose you knew that. …”
Kate cleared her throat. “Magda, what do you want?”
Magda frowned. Kate sounded different. Impatient. Miserable. Maybe the girl would have a career in television after all.
“Okay,” Magda said. “Cards on the table. I was maybe a bit hasty, with that firing business. Wondered if you’d be interested in coming back.”
“Come back?” Kate snorted. “You’re joking. Absolutely no way.”
Magda took a deep breath. “Just a few days, Kate. I’ll pay you double. We just need you to finish off the Joneses’ house for us. And the Kitchins’, too. Do that, and then we can talk about the future. Pay rises, that sort of thing.”
“Finish off the Kitchins’ house? What have you done so far?”
Magda sighed. “Okay, to do the Kitchins’ house. Please, Kate?”
There was a pause. A pause had to mean she was thinking about it. That was good.
“I’m sorry, Magda. But it’s a matter of loyalty, you know? I’m just not sure I can work with you anymore.”
Magda scowled. Bloody girl was getting too clever for her own good. “The people at NorthWest Productions are cowboys. You know that, don’t you?”
“Thanks, Magda. If I decide I want career advice from you I’ll ask, okay?”
Magda raised her eyebrows. Was this really the same Kate? “Okay,” she said briskly. “Bottom line is that maybe I was a bit hasty. Maybe our little chat was an overreaction.”
“Maybe you’re sorry?”
“Don’t push your luck. So, look, talk me through this hospice idea.”
“You want to know about the hospice now?”
Magda gripped the telephone receiver. “Yes, Kate, I want to know about the bloody hospice.”
Kate sighed. “Fine. Basically, it’s a hospice affiliated to the Charing Cross Hospital cancer unit. People go there when they’ve had surgery but are still doing chemo—like a halfway house. It’s in really bad repair, so the plan is to do the whole place up.”
“Cancer,” Magda said, picking up a pen on autopilot and scribbling notes. “And there are patients with interesting life stories?”
“Of course there are. One or two in particular whose stories the show could follow from surgery through re
covery.”
Magda thought for a moment. This was the sort of thing Channel 3 would love.
“Look,” she said. “We might be interested. I’ve got a meeting with Channel Three later today, and it just might appeal. They’re lobbying for a share of the BBC license fee and they’re looking for programs with a social conscience.”
“Channel Three?” Kate asked, her deadpan tone suddenly forgotten.
Magda smiled with satisfaction. Now she had Kate’s attention.
“That’s right,” Magda said matter-of-factly “So what do you say?”
There was another pause. “I say that if you can get me some details, some assurances, and some indication of budgets, I might consider it,” Kate said. “Until then, I suggest you contact Penny and hope that she can bring her interiors flair to the Kitchins’ house. Because I’m afraid that I’m rather busy.”
Kate hung up, and Magda shook her head, smiling. She was actually beginning to like that girl.
“And if it goes ahead, we’ll be on television?” Betty asked.
Kate nodded. She’d gone down to the hospice as soon as she’d hung up the phone with Magda to make sure everyone was comfortable with the idea and to start putting together her proposal. She’d been planning to come down again before she started contacting production companies, but it wasn’t until she chucked that book away—that stupid, hopeless book for hopeless cases—that she’d finally realized that sometimes you had to take the bull by the horns.
“But only if,” she warned. “It might not come off. Television people can be very…” She searched for the right word. “Flaky,” she said eventually.
She looked around the dark dayroom. Paint was peeling, and miscellaneous pipes crawled up the walls, disappearing into the ceiling, with no indication as to what they were for or where they led. The radiators on each side of the room clanked ominously, and she could smell dry rot. Television people might be flaky, but they were also the best hope the residents had for transforming this place. It might also be the best hope Kate had for staying sane. By hook or by crook, she was going to see this hospice transformed into the home-from-home that the residents deserved. And in doing it, she wasn’t going to take any prisoners. No one was ever going to take her for a fool again.
Betty nodded. “But there’ll be cameras here? We’ll be asked to answer questions?”
Kate nodded again. “Which is why you’ve got to be completely okay with it. It’s a big commitment, and the cameras can be quite intrusive. …”
“Like Big Brother,“ Margaret said knowledgeably
“Will they have cameras behind the mirrors? Even when we’re in the bathroom?” Betty asked, worried.
Kate grinned. “No, Betty. Just the ones you can see. And they’ll only be here sometimes.”
Carole smiled. “So what do you say? Are we in favor?”
Betty nodded vigorously. “Of course we’re in favor,” she said. “So long as I don’t have to go on television without my makeup. And I don’t want that Trinny and Susannah manhandling me, either.”
Kate kept a straight face. “Okay, I’ll make sure they’re barred. In fact, none of the crew from ‘What Not to Wear’ will be allowed anywhere near us. Anything else?”
Edward, a middle-aged gentleman who spent most of his time playing chess against a machine, put his hand up.
“Yes, Ed?” Carole asked.
“When will it be on television?” he asked, his voice wheezy.
Carole looked at Kate, who frowned in thought. “It’s hard to say,” she said. “Probably three to four months after filming is finished. So if we started next month and the whole thing took four months, then we’d be looking at maybe December, or early next year.”
Ed nodded seriously. “Have to make sure I’m still around then,” he said, returning to his chess.
Carole grimaced. “Of course you’ll be here, Ed. Don’t be silly. Now, does anyone else have any questions? Any concerns they’d like to raise?”
The residents of St. Mary’s Hospice looked at one another and shook their heads.
“Then I’d like to thank Kate for taking the time to come down here again,” Carole said with a smile. “And to wish her luck in her negotiations with those flaky television people.”
Magda called first thing the next morning.
“Hello?”
“Kate, it’s me, Magda.”
“Magda!” Kate did her best to sound surprised and casual. “How are things?”
“Things?” Magda asked. “Screw things. I had my meeting with the Channel Three executives, and they’re interested.”
Kate said nothing.
“I said, they’re interested. They think it’s got legs.”
“Right,” Kate said, playing it cool. “Well, I suppose you’ll want to know my conditions?”
“Your conditions?”
“Absolutely,” Kate said. “Do you have a pen and paper handy?”
“Of course,” Magda said tightly.
“Okay, then. First, this is not a weeklong shoot. We’re talking several weeks minimum, probably three months. We can’t cut corners and I want staple guns to be banned. Second, no one is to refer to any of the residents as a victim. Cameras must not be intrusive, and I don’t want anyone trying to make the residents cry at any point. Third, the residents will need separate accommodation whilst the electrical and piping work is done. And fourth, I want commitment in writing to stumping up the cash for the work. We’re talking about a renovations budget alone of two hundred thousand pounds.”
She waited for Magda to tell her where to go, or to shout at her for being so demanding. But to her surprise, she did neither. “Labor or supplies?” Magda asked instead.
“Sorry?” Kate said blankly.
“The two hundred k Is it for labor or supplies?”
“Um, about half and half.”
“Supplies we’ll get through sponsorship. Labor we can probably get for nothing, too, if we credit the builders.”
“You won’t get Phil for free. And he’s going to manage it.”
“Fine, so we’ll pay Phil.” Magda reviewed the notes she’d just taken. “So that’s it?” she said dubiously after a pause. “We’ll treat the residents with respect. And we’ll use discreet cameras. We can be nice. Do we have a deal?”
Kate hesitated but pressed on. “Not yet. I want no Penny. I don’t want her anywhere near the program. I won’t let her exploit these people for publicity. She can’t even do a voice-over once it’s finished.”
“Fine,” Magda said. “Now, here are my conditions. You get me a proposal in twenty-four hours with background on the hospice, outline of the major players and their televisual appeal, timelines, budgets—just give me your time and Phil’s time, I can do the rest— and a couple of paragraphs selling the concept. I will talk to people here and get the wheels in motion. Deal?”
“Deal,” Kate said, slightly taken aback.
“And you finish the Joneses’ and the Kitchins’ houses. After that it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll stay on the air, but all I know is that I’ve got fifty meters of pink velvet and much as I’d love to stick them up Penny’s arse, she’s nowhere to be found so you’re going to have to do something with them instead. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kate put the phone down numbly and dialed Phil’s number.
“Magda’s okayed the hospice idea,” she said. “With a budget of two hundred thousand. And Channel Three wants it.”
“Channel Three,” Phil said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “So, quite a few people watching, then.”
“She wants us to finish the Kitchins’ house,” Kate continued. “And the Joneses’.”
“Well, should be alright,” Phil said lightly. “I’ve finished at my sister-in-law’s anyway. The woman could give Penny Pennington a run for her money on the annoying stakes ‘n’ all.”
“Channel Three!” Kate w
hispered.
“Two hundred k,” Phil said, and whistled. “So that’s quite good news, then.”
“Quite good,” Kate agreed. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Tom took a detour into work. A detour that took him past Kate’s flat. Just to check that she was okay. He wasn’t going to go in or anything.
He walked up to her door and stood against it for a few seconds. Kate’s flat. Kate’s flat where he’d been a thousand times, more even, talking until the early hours, passing out on her sofa, eating homemade casseroles whilst the rain beat down outside. It was like his home away from home, a place of sanctuary.
At least it had been.
Now it was a place of danger. A place where he’d been unable to control himself, unable to keep his rigid armor on. Jesus, he’d nearly told her how he felt about her, nearly prostrated himself before her and embarrassed her beyond belief with his protestations of love.
She might not think so, but in the circumstances, failing to call her back a couple of times was letting her off easy. Right now, she was pissed off, but she’d thank him later. At least she would if she ever discovered why he did it, which she wouldn’t because he would never tell her. She’d meet some other big-jawed superstar and be married with children in a jiffy. And he’d be able to put this excruciating memory behind him and pretend to live a perfectly normal life again. He was pretty good at it, really. Been doing it long enough.
The trick was never to let on. And that didn’t just apply to the big stuff; it applied to the small stuff, too. Tom knew that if you made an emotional connection with someone, however small, you were done for. They’d chip, chip, chip away at you until you were a defenseless, needy wreck. And then they’d leave you. Leave you to cope, alone, with no one to confide in anymore and no understanding of how to deal with the big bad world.
On which note, Tom thought, it was time to get back to the hospital.
He paused for a moment, then frowned as his eyes caught sight of something in Kate’s bin. Hopeless Romantic something.
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