‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll email it on Monday.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘Thanks, Sue.’
‘Thank me next week, dollface,’ came the reply. ‘Now I’m going. But thanks for today, you’re a star.’
Kate shut the door behind her and, irresistibly, started to laugh. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t stop. And then she stopped laughing, and stood up to her full height, thoughtfully. Squaring her shoulders, she went into her bedroom to unearth her old stack of Venus copies. They were there, underneath her beloved telescope, fifteen or so of them and at the top, the first issue, with its classic, Fifties-style type, its pretty and stylish shades, the girl on the front running to catch a bus on Piccadilly, wearing TopShop’s newest spring bell-shaped raincoat, in apple green linen. She had loved that cover, loved everything about what they were trying to do … Kate gingerly moved the telescope out of the way and crouched down, thumbing through the slippery, shiny covers, marvelling at them, what Venus represented to her. Where had that Kate gone?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
May 2003
‘But I mean come on, he’s gorgeous!’ said Juliet, the Fashion Editor, stroking the silk of a top she’d brought in to show the meeting that polka dots were on their way back in. ‘He’s like an older Marco Pierre White. Except not mad. God, I love him.’
‘Did you see him comforting that shit flute player girl from Italy last night?’ said Jo, the Art Director.
‘I know!’
‘Who is he?’ demanded Sue Jordan and Priscilla, the super-sucky News Editor and Deputy Editor said, immediately,
‘Daniel Miller. He’s on that TV show, Maestro! It’s like Pop Stars. He’s gorgeous, Sue.’
‘Daniel Miller?’ said Sue. From her lofty position at the head of the table she called down to Kate. ‘Hold on. Let me just ask our lovely Features Editor something – Kate, isn’t he your father?’
Kate, who had been staring out of the great glass windows across the river at the South Bank during this conversation, turned back to the group. She smoothed a fleck of imaginary lint off her grey Joseph suit, her most expensive clothing purchase ever.
‘Um, yes.’ She scratched her hair with a pencil, and hummed nonchalantly. ‘I suppose he is.’
‘What?’ said Tom Price, the publisher of the magazine. ‘Daniel Miller’s your father? My god!’
‘Are you shitting me?’ said Juliet. ‘Kate Miller. Daniel Miller. Oh my god!’
‘Wow!’ said Priscilla, trying and failing to look pleased for Kate at her genetic heritage, which had given her these inadvertent brownie points.
‘He’s your dad?’ said Nicola, the deputy features editor. ‘Why didn’t you say so!?’
Kate thought back to eighteen months ago, before the show had been commissioned, and how close Daniel had come to having to sell his house and move into a flat in Acton. ‘It didn’t exactly come up.’
‘Why doesn’t he like being sent chocolates?’ Nicola demanded. ‘There was an interview with him in Good Housekeeping and he said he hated being sent chocolates. That’s so weird! But sexy of him!’
‘He’s diabetic,’ said Kate in quelling tones. ‘He can’t eat sugar. It’s really bad for him. People are always sending him presents after recitals, and so forth. Right. Shall we move on?’
And so forth? When was the last time she’d said ‘and so forth’?
‘Wow,’ said Priscilla. She drummed her square nails loudly on the glass surface. ‘This is great, Kate. Can you get us an interview with him? And tell him not to go with anyone else? Oh my god!’ Her eyes lit up. ‘He’s divorced, isn’t he? I read it in Hello! last week,’ she told the assembled faces around the table, who were gaping with interest. ‘His wife ran off with someone. Isn’t that true?’
‘She’s my mum,’ Kate said sharply. ‘And she didn’t run off with someone. She –’ She was extremely thankful when Nicola interrupted.
‘Well, I know he was devastated! Is he looking for love? Perhaps that’s the angle! We could fix him up with someone!’
‘Hm,’ ‘Mmm,’ ‘Ooh, that’s a good idea,’ various people murmured, not without bitterness, as if Kate had organized all of this merely to advance her career.
Kate clutched her big, square notebook, hugging it to her. It was quite funny, really, to think how the fortunes of the Miller family ebbed and flowed, resulting in this completely ridiculous conversation. She was almost laughing; she wished Charly or Zoe was here to hear it. Sean wouldn’t get it, she thought to herself, bless him. He’d be outraged on all their behalfs. ‘Right,’ she said, feeling sympathy for the very first time with celebrities who complain about how misrepresented they are. ‘First, that’s my mother you’re talking about and she didn’t run off with someone else. She left Dad because it wasn’t working.’
‘Why?’ said Priscilla, fascinated.
‘Oh.’ Kate was flummoxed. ‘Well, I don’t know why, actually. It just wasn’t working.’ They looked blankly at her. ‘I was fourteen,’ she offered. She didn’t say, it was the day after my birthday, and I didn’t see her for over a year afterwards.
‘Mmm.’
‘Plus, it was thirteen years ago,’ Kate pointed out. ‘It’s long-passed water under the bridge. They’re the best of friends, now.’
Since last week her father had referred to her mother’s request for him to send her their wedding album (she’d just got into scrapbooking) as ‘another demand from Satan’s bitch minion’ and then roared loudly ‘GOD! I hate her!!’ This was not at all true but, for now, here at this meeting, it would have to suffice, because she certainly wasn’t going into the whole long drama with them.
‘And what about your poor dad?’ Juliet’s eyes were like saucers. ‘That’s sad for him, though. Is he still on his own?’
Kate thought of the sopranos, the violin students and fans who’d littered his bedroom and the rest of the house after Venetia left, whom Kate had had to fight past on her way to school in the morning. It was like running the gauntlet every day – one never knew if Natalia from Moscow, or Briony from Colorado, might be trying to be domestic in the kitchen, making coffee for their hero, and catch her on the way out, plying her with insincere compliments, pumping her for information, how best to snare her father. Kate had to be polite to them, but it made her uncomfortable. She much preferred the constant stream of good friends, old compadres, who filled the house, always had done, filling it with music and laughter and expensive red wine, late into the night. The question was ridiculous, in any case. Her father, on his own! It was almost laughable.
Then she thought of his life since he’d met Lisa, how all of that had gone, how her home, the spindly house in Kentish Town, had been sold, how order and beige colours had entered his life. Someone had written of Daniel Miller in the Observer a couple of weeks ago that he was a marketing exercise now, not a musician, and Kate couldn’t help but agree, secretly. It had taken Lisa six months to move in, a couple of months after that to get pregnant, ten months to get her old friends from GMTV where she’d worked to meet him, and a year later he was back in the studio, recording Daniel Miller plays Glen Miller. And now he could afford a wedding where his wife wore Temperley couture and the guests were each given a small silver violin charm engraved with Lisa and Daniel’s initials and the date as a memento. Kate shook her head.
‘He’s not on his own, no,’ she told the assembled meeting. She coughed. ‘It’s his second wedding tomorrow, actually.’
There was astonishment around the table. This was news. ‘Wow,’ said Tom, still unnaturally fascinated. ‘Is someone taking the photos? Have they got a magazine deal?’
‘No,’ said Kate, holding her pencil. ‘At least, I really really hope not. Otherwise I’ll have to wear a yashmak.’
‘Don’t you mean a burqa?’ asked Priscilla, faux-kindly.
‘No.’ Kate put her pencil back down on the table.
‘Sure you do, Kate.’
‘A burqa’s a whole garment thing. A yashmak
is just a veil, er – it’s mainly worn by Muslim women, usually Turkish,’ Kate heard herself say, and then she groaned inwardly.
‘How do you know this stuff!’ Priscilla trilled. ‘You’re like a fat old man in a pub quiz! Oh Kate. You are funny.’
‘What, because she knows something else beyond how much combined weight the Spice Girls have lost this week?’ said Juliet, unexpectedly and Kate looked at her in surprise and smiled.
‘Right, right.’ Sue patted the glass desk with a gesture of finality. She nodded kindly at Kate. ‘That’s all for now, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s meet on Monday as usual and Kate – enjoy the wedding.’
As Kate gathered up her things, her Filofax, her ideas book, the latest issues of the magazine, Sue followed her out, towards her office.
‘You OK about tomorrow?’ she said, as Kate reached her desk. ‘Just wondering.’
Sue was not given to sentiment or overt displays of affection, and Kate turned back to look at her, smiling with gratitude. She was Features Editor, only because of Sue, and it was the most unimaginable, thrilling, exciting thing.
After the weeks and weeks of interviews, the secrecy surrounding the whole thing, she had finally left Woman’s World to be Deputy Features Editor in time for the launch of Venus in early 2002. But the original Features Editor, Alice – who was more of the Fashionista school and believed in claiming every single cab, and once even her own husband’s birthday dinner, on expenses – had not lasted until the launch and so, just before Christmas 2001, Kate had been promoted to Features Editor.
Thinking of this now, Kate patted Sue’s arm, lightly – the two of them were rare in the Venus offices for not going in for displays of affection. There was a lot of surplus airkissing; Sue didn’t like it much. Nor did she like anorexic models, hugely expensive photoshoots in Miami to get a shot of a model against a white wall, overpaid, irrelevant columnists, or fashion itself, really. It was why Broadgate had hired her to head up the magazine. They wanted someone with a fresh eye, someone who could keep costs down, and someone who could assemble a team of young people who did know all of that.
‘It’s going to be great,’ she told Sue. ‘It’s not like I can’t wait and it’s the best day of my life, but you know … I’m really happy for Dad. Lisa’s turned his life around.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Sue said. She looked around Kate’s small glass office. ‘It must be weird, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, it is a bit.’ Kate was always honest with Sue. ‘But Sean’s coming. And Zoe and Steve – our best friends, you know. They got married last year, you remember you got that wedding company to provide the free sugared almonds?’
‘Little Zoe, with the black hair.’ Sue was pleased. ‘Ah, lovely. How is she?’
‘She’s very well,’ said Kate. ‘She’s pregnant, in fact, so she’s really well.’
‘Well, it’ll be good for you to have a gang of your own there.’
‘And Charly’s coming,’ Kate added, mischievously.
Sue looked mock-horrified. ‘Right. A gang indeed.’
‘She’s wearing black, and she told my mother on the phone last night that she’d scream “No!” during the speeches if she wants her to.’
Sue genuinely looked horrified this time. ‘Oh dear god, she is something, isn’t she. What did your poor mother say?’
‘History doesn’t relate,’ said Kate, laughing. ‘But I expect, knowing Mum, she’d love it if it was all about her instead.’
She could tell Sue didn’t know whether to laugh or not at this and she waved goodbye and scurried, relieved, back to her own office. Kate turned back to her desk and picked up the phone. Sean was staying at hers tonight before the wedding, and she wanted to make sure he’d remember to bring everything. He hated staying over, much preferred it if she came to his, and would doubtless forget something. On her desk were the layouts for the next issue’s Quiz: WHO’S IN CHARGE OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP? YOU OR HIM?
‘Hah,’ said Kate, putting her heels up on the desk as Sean’s phone rang. She swung herself round to look out of the window again, and caught her reflection in the glass. That was her, that girl in the grey suit with the smooth hair and the office. How weird. She sighed with something like happiness, waiting for Sean to pick up the phone, and gazed out across the river. The spring view of the city from her office window really was lovely.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next morning, the day of the wedding, Kate climbed back into bed, handed Sean a cup of tea, and said happily,
‘It’s going to be a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky, it’s already warm and it’s not even eight!’
‘So why are we awake then?’ Sean grumbled, putting his mug of tea on the side table, turning over and pulling the duvet over his head.
Kate sat up in bed and sipped cautiously, testing the heat of the tea, letting her cold feet warm up a little under the duvet. She hooked a foot over Sean’s leg and took another gulp of tea.
‘Aaah,’ she heard herself say, as if she were sixty and not twenty-seven. ‘Ah.’
There was silence.
‘Sean, is your shirt ironed?’ she said, tentatively.
‘Yes,’ Sean rumbled, deep underneath the duvet.
‘Because I could always just run over it again with the iron.’
‘It’s ironed,’ Sean said. ‘Shh.’
Kate wanted everything on her side to be perfect. She was Daniel’s daughter, she had to keep the Miller family end up. She didn’t want people looking at her and smiling, whispering to each other: ‘His daughter, the one who had the mullet and was obsessed with Sylvia Plath – she really did turn out rather strange, didn’t she?’ No, she wanted her father, all his many friends and colleagues, and all of Lisa’s family, to be proud of her. Briefly the thought crossed her mind: what if she’d had to go on her own, single, or go just with Charly, Zoe and Steve, what if she didn’t have Sean? Truly horrible to have to go to that alone, your father’s glamorous second wedding to the mother of his new child. Thank god for Sean, she thought again, and she put down her mug and snuggled down next to him.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, pulling the duvet up and around her. ‘I’ll let you sleep.’ She was tired, too; her new job was exhausting, juggling it with everything else. She put her arm around Sean, but he was snoring lightly and even though she wanted to sleep again too, she couldn’t. Instead Kate lay there for another hour, blinking, staring up at the ceiling from underneath the duvet, thinking.
After a while she started to hear strange noises, banging, clattering, furious muttering, coming from the sitting room and the kitchen, and she winced every time one was particularly loud, not wanting it to wake Sean. It grew louder, and louder, as the hour wore on. Charly was up, and getting ready. It was a big operation, requiring a lot of noise, and a lot of equipment, at the end of which (Kate always thought, but never said out loud) Charly looked exactly the same, only more terrifying, and less sweet-faced than she looked when she was in her pyjamas, wolfing down toast, and swearing at the TV, or in hysterics over a video, or lounging around chatting on the phone. That was when Charly was at her most beautiful, Kate had come to see, but Charly had no idea.
There was a loud bang and a muffled, expletive-laden rant began.
‘What’s that?’ said Sean, blearily, turning towards Kate. She pushed herself against him, hoping he’d pull her into his big, warm, morning embrace, but his arms were crossed on his chest and he was still half-asleep.
‘Only Charly, sorry,’ said Kate. ‘She’s so noisy. Don’t worry. You should be getting up soon though …’
‘She’s doing it deliberately, stupid cow,’ Sean said. He rubbed his face. ‘Blaghh.’ And with that, he dozed off again, and Kate sighed. Of course she wasn’t. Probably …
Because Charly couldn’t stand Sean. Kate tried her best, but it was too much like hard work after a while, too awkward.
‘I just don’t get you,’ Kate said to Charly later that morning, after Sean had gone out to pick u
p Zoe and Steve, and the two flatmates were left to get ready. Anticipation, and irritation, made Kate bolder with her than she would normally have been. ‘Do you really think he’s that awful?’
Charly was sprawled out on the sofa, which was covered with an old batik cloth. She was dressed from head to toe in black, even black boots. It was the height of summer. Her long, tousled caramel-coloured hair hung over the arm of the sofa. Kate looked at her in the mirror, as she was drying her hair. Charly’s perfect, tilted nose wrinkled.
‘Look, Kate darling,’ she said, in her husky, Cockney voice, ‘I know he’s not the Devil. Or a kiddy-fiddler. OK? I just don’t like him. Got it? I don’t bloody have to, do I?’
She lit another cigarette and roughed her hand through her hair.
‘But why,’ Kate said in a small voice, still holding the hairdryer in her hand.
‘I just don’t.’ She exhaled, and then turned to look at her. Her voice softened. ‘Look, darling. I’m sure he’s fine. I just think … he’s … well, he’s such a fucking boy.’ Her voice was contemptuous.
‘A boy?’ Kate said, thinking of how big Sean was, how he dwarfed everyone and everything, how small she felt when she was with him, in his arms. ‘Are you mad? He’s the size of a house, for starters. He rowed for his college!’
‘I’m sure, babe,’ Charly said. ‘But he’s still a little boy.’ She paused, and looked at Kate from under her lashes, obviously considering how far she could go, whether she’d already gone too far. ‘That’s what I think, anyway.’
‘So you think he’s a bit childish,’ Kate persisted, hoping that now she’d got her talking, she’d tell her more. ‘Has he pissed you off? Was it when he came as a baby to our fancy dress party?’
The Love of Her Life Page 18