Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve, before asking, ‘Do you still think it’s worth investigating?’

  Annie gave a nod. ‘It’s funny, I was asked to be part of a committee brought in to consider options for curtailing crime, which ended up not happening. I’d never have imagined this initiative as one of the options.’

  ‘Crikey, that sounds high-flying. When were they supposed to have it?’

  ‘Not that long ago, maybe a year. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to participate, anyway – having to be careful with professional political neutrality – ’ Annie smiled – ‘which was a potential relief. I wasn’t sure if it would be productive or dreadful. I imagined it would be all the usual suspects that take part in those sorts of things, that I was there to round out the numbers, be a token thinking woman.’

  ‘Theo Fletcher’s pretty tip-top on equality though, isn’t he? Even if so many things feel backwards, with the Repeal.’

  ‘He is, yes. Some of the others though… whatever strides are made, they can still only see a woman’s role as being to pretty up the proceedings. I encounter more of them than I expect, still stuck in a timewarp. It’s astonishing.’

  ‘This country, stuck in a timewarp?’ Eve laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Annie. ‘Let’s get back and have some lunch.’

  *

  There was something quite funny about being in another television studio canteen with Annie Morris. Eve thought about Simon graffiti-ing the table, all those years ago.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ said Eve. ‘It really is a treat to be here.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘And I appreciate your encouragement. It means a lot.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Annie reached into her bag. ‘I found something I thought you might like to see,’ she said, producing a paper wallet branded with the logo from a high street camera shop. ‘Some photos from my early broadcasting days. Try not to laugh – some of the clothes and hairstyles are really awful!’

  Eve opened the wallet and took out the pictures. She laughed and held out one where Annie, wearing a zebra print jacket, her relaxed hair lacquered firmly in place, glanced up from her notes. She was in the studio where Eve had made her birthday visit.

  Annie groaned. ‘I tried to wear that jacket on air! They weren’t having any of it.’

  In another, Annie and her husband were on a boat, the Statue of Liberty behind them.

  ‘On that trip,’ Annie said, ‘I’d been flown over for a job interview, to be a news anchor on one of the networks.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Eve.

  ‘I know, it was exciting. We’d decided we really wanted to start a family – though actually I didn’t fall pregnant with Robin until a while after that – plus Robert had a good job he was enjoying, so it didn’t seem like the right time. That was one of those situations where you think, well, if I’ve been offered this now, it could come round again…’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘No.’ Annie shrugged.

  Eve studied the picture – the blue sky, Annie’s skirt blowing in the river-crossing breeze. Hats off to Annie, she thought, for being so at ease about what might have been.

  When Eve had finished scanning through the snaps, she looked over at Annie, who was re-reading that night’s notes for the news analysis show which she presented.

  ‘Do you get nervous about doing interviews?’

  ‘A little, of course. What if something goes wrong… what if the interviewee is difficult. But I try to overdo my research, so I’m prepared. Being a pre-record is less nerve-wracking, too. It’s the live ones that give me palpitations!’

  Eve tried to imagine what it would be like if she were about to interview, say, Theo Fletcher. What would she ask? How would she try to subtly squirrel information out of him? And how would anyone become such an eloquent, effective interviewer that they could tease the responses they wanted from their subject, like charming a wary, wily snake from a basket?

  ‘I’m sure I would’ve been a disaster at it, but I really wish I’d tried to do what you do.’

  ‘Really? But what you do is so joyful.’ Annie paused. ‘What’s particularly appealing about it, do you think?’

  ‘Telling stories.’

  ‘You do tell stories.’

  ‘Important stories. Sharing things that are worthwhile.’

  ‘I’d say you already are. It makes me happier, having Say Fantastique! to brighten my mornings.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eve, awkward with the compliment. She was wondering how things might have been different, between that previous TV canteen moment and this one.

  With her fork, Eve pronged a couple of pasta shells and a mozzarella ball.

  ‘What’s the prime minister like?’

  ‘Theo Fletcher? As you might imagine, really. He’s always been decent, I think,’ said Annie.

  ‘Charming?’

  ‘Yes. A lot of people think he plays on that, I know, but I don’t think so. I find him quite earnest. And – I could be wrong, but – from my experiences of spending time with him, I’d say he’s not much different in person to how he is in private. Though obviously his family and friends might disagree.’

  ‘What does he do outside of being PM, do you know?’

  ‘I’m not sure… he always gives the impression of being absolutely committed to the job. Rather consumed by it all.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he? As though if he had any down time, instead of playing golf, or lazing around in his pyjamas watching telly, he’d be sitting gazing out of the window thinking about economic strategy, or something.’

  ‘Quite!’

  ‘I wonder if he’ll ever get married?’

  ‘He may well be exceptionally good at keeping his private life private, but he doesn’t appear to have time for that either.’

  ‘The drinks receptions and fundraisers he goes to must be a hoot, then, mustn’t they? Women lining up trying to nab Britain’s most eligible bachelor.’

  ‘From the times when I’ve seen him at those events, yes. It’s made me feel a bit sorry for him, though.’

  ‘I wonder how much of an impact his fiancée’s death really had on the Purple Scheme.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Annie. ‘I’ve wondered that.’

  A mozzarella ball fell off Eve’s fork, splashing back into the tomato sauce. Eve glanced down at her blouse – no rogue red stains. When she looked up, she could see a handful of people gathered around one particular table, laughing and fawning in a way that implied they had an audience with a particularly notable celebrity. Though given that the canteen had a healthy smattering of them eating their lunches in peace, including renowned TV chef Abigail Hitchcock, some of the Victory Way cast, and a legendary actress best known for a Technicolor musical which was always shown on Christmas Day, it was hard to think who’d caused a stir. As the people began to move away, Eve caught a glimpse of the figure responsible for the furore: Carla De Lora.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ Annie asked, her back to Carla’s table.

  ‘Carla De Lora.’

  ‘Oh,’ Annie said, without turning round. ‘She doesn’t strike me as someone you’d be impressed to see.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I think she might know something.’

  ‘About what?’

  Her focus on Carla’s table, Eve said, ‘Do you mind if I hop over there and try and speak to her, before another crowd descends?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Annie, slightly surprised, before turning again to her notes.

  *

  ‘Miss De Lora?’

  Carla was as striking as she appeared in pictures, despite being make-up free and low-key, dressed in a simple cotton top, a delicate silver locket swaying gently against it, and her hair-care millionaire mane tied back – about as incognito as she managed to be, Eve guessed. She looked up, wary, but ready to charm.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m a, um, big fan
of your work.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Carla, with perfected politeness. ‘Thank you. It’s just standing about in posh frocks, really!’

  ‘I’m Eve Baxter, I write for an agency called Say Fantastique!, we write fun news stories.’

  Eve could see Carla was unsure how best to process this; her expression had hardened a little at Eve’s mention of writing – journalist alert – but eased again at the word fun. Carla would most likely be calculating this to equate Eve with being harmless.

  ‘This is a bit of a silly question, but we were writing a piece about funny tanning stories, and we found a press release for InTan – this is ridiculous, I know, but it sounds amazing! I really wanted to try it, but apparently its release is on the shelf now… I’m still desperate to know though, how does it work?’

  Carla cocked her head to one side, considering Eve. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but while it’s on hold I can’t talk about that.’

  ‘Really? Rats!’ said Eve. ‘Not even a clue?’ She gave a sisterly smile.

  ‘It’s a drag, I know,’ Carla apologised, ‘but I’m duty bound to keep my lips sealed, I’m afraid. To some it may seem like a little bit of bronzing, but to others it’s a secret to be guarded like a Pharaoh’s tomb!’

  Eve had once seen a travel programme where Carla was on a Nile cruise. You wouldn’t need InTan there, she thought.

  She sat down in the chair opposite Carla. ‘I really need to find out how it works,’ she said, ‘and I would be incredibly grateful for any details.’

  Carla tilted her head again, her ponytail swinging behind her. ‘It’s funny, you don’t look like the sort of woman who tans a lot.’

  Apparently Eve’s scarlet lipstick and pale skin, a complexion more Snow White than golden goddess, had given her away.

  ‘I haven’t found the right product,’ said Eve, both of them now knowing Carla didn’t buy this line of questioning in the slightest. ‘Can you just tell me – nod, wink, whatever – how it’s administered? Is it a pill, is it—’

  ‘I can’t talk about it, I’m sorry,’ Carla insisted. ‘It’s just a tanning thing, truly not that exciting.’

  ‘Please,’ Eve pleaded. ‘I know it seems bonkers, but—’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but you need to move away now.’

  ‘All I want to know is how a tanning product works…’

  Out of the corner of her eye Eve could see Carla’s companion arriving back at their table, ready to intercept this exchange.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Eve heard him ask.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Magnus,’ said Carla.

  Eve was quite certain her heart had stopped. She turned, momentarily silenced at the shock of seeing him.

  ‘Eve,’ he said. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  ‘You know her?’ Carla asked.

  Magnus didn’t respond, and Eve wasn’t sure whether to interpret this as his not wanting to acknowledge their acquaintance, or being distracted and not listening to Carla. Instead he was looking at Eve with astonished confusion.

  Eve couldn’t think where to begin, and her brain was scrambled with horror; all she could think was this was far, far worse than Simon graffiti-ing the table. And then she remembered: it could yet be more mortifying, as Annie was here too. Eve daren’t look over to see if she had witnessed this debacle. Utter humiliation.

  ‘Eve,’ said Magnus. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘She was asking about a product I did some promotion for,’ said Carla.

  Magnus looked surprised, and relieved. ‘A product?’

  ‘A tanning product,’ said Carla, nodding her head.

  ‘I had a question about it,’ said Eve.

  ‘Really?’ he now looked slightly bemused. ‘You were never one for tanning.’

  ‘That’s what I said!’ Carla exclaimed.

  ‘I think how it works could be important.’

  ‘Important to what?’ Magnus asked.

  What should Eve say – a little, a lot?

  ‘I’m looking into something for a story…’ Eve could have cried. To be so shamed in front of Magnus, of all people.

  Then she noticed Annie approaching – scanning the group, trying to read the situation.

  ‘Hello, Carla!’ she said brightly. ‘I’m Annie, I wanted to come and say hi. I see you’ve met my friend Eve. And you must be the infamous Magnus Jones.’ Annie extended a hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘It’s great to meet you, too,’ said Magnus, then, with a question directed to Eve: ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘Ah yes, I’m a big fan of Eve’s work. Just call me Pam Fox-Jones!’ Annie intercepted, with a laugh.

  ‘You write that?’ said Magnus.

  Eve nodded. She turned to Carla. ‘I’m so sorry to have upset you. I’m just… trying to solve a puzzle and thought you might be able to help. I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.’

  Then she looked at Magnus.

  ‘Magnus, I… this isn’t as loony as it seems, honest.’ She attempted a small laugh. He was gazing straight at her, clearly baffled by this bizarre episode. She glanced away, thinking of their last encounter, all those years ago. How could she explain this, and that?

  ‘I…’ Eve took a breath, and thought of the four hundred and one things she wanted to say to him – that for so long she’d wanted to say to him – things that were now jumbled in her brain like socks in a tumble dryer.

  Magnus tipped his head forward, sweetly waiting.

  ‘I…’ Eve faltered, wondering how she could say anything of significance, right here, right now, concisely, and in front of Carla and Annie. She swallowed.

  ‘I should get back to lunch.’

  Oh Eve, you idiot, she thought. You half-wit of prize-winning proportions. Magnus must have been mystified (again). He nodded, and gave an affable smile that only made her feel worse.

  ‘Lovely to meet you both,’ said Annie.

  She and Eve returned to their table.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Annie asked.

  White as a sheet, or red as a beetroot?, Eve wondered, trying to recall when she’d ever felt so humiliated. Possibly the only other incident where self-combusting on the spot would have been more preferable was the last time she’d clapped eyes on Magnus. Feeling faint, she pictured their doorstep embrace, and then the one Magnus had later found her in with the gobby Globe bloke; their final encounter. Her current mortification would have been more pronounced – woeful wailing, rubber-faced gurning at the gobsmackingness of it all – had she not wanted to avoid further letting herself down in front of Annie.

  ‘What a flailing, embarrassing fiasco, I’m so sorry,’ Eve said. ‘And of all the people…’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ said Annie. ‘Plus, a not-so-talkative model is hardly the end of the world. What was she being so reticent about?’

  Quietly, Eve said, ‘She might be the one person who could shed some light on a Purpleness lead. Well, bonkers but hopefully possible lead. And there I was, just saying what a disastrous journalist I’d make…’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Annie. ‘Now, why don’t I show you around the studio. And if it helps, we can mull over your investigation.’

  Eve nodded, trying desperately not to look at Magnus as she followed Annie towards the door.

  *

  Eve was back at Duncan’s, and almost ready to disembark today’s rollercoaster. She re-read the letter, written and re-written in scribbled biro on the train, but now on a glowing screen, ready to scurry through the Portal’s virtual postal pipes.

  *

  Dear Magnus,

  Um, hello. So, it was a wholly unexpected treat to bump into you today, though you can possibly imagine how red-faced I am. If I’d ever imagined we might meet again, I certainly wouldn’t have anticipated today’s encounter – yikes. I’m so sorry for any weirdness, and I do hope Carla doesn’t think too badly of me.

  I should explain. I’ve been trying to look into one of the aspects of the Purple init
iative. I find just how folk are being Turned particularly perplexing. I know everyone has the bigger picture in mind, either for or against, but it does seem odd that there’s not more questioning about that – who’s doing it (which I had presumed to be the police), and how, physically, the change is administered. A friend had a suggestion as to that (which may be a remarkably astute hunch, or completely bananas) which I wanted to investigate, but initial research has thrown up a block, which I think Carla may be able to help with, though obviously, and understandably, that potentially puts her in an awkward spot. If this seems at all intriguing, perhaps we can have a chat or a cuppa (and needless to say, this is confidential).

  I should probably add a note here of what I’ve been up to in all these years: was bobbing on the peripheries of proper news, before being invited to New York to set up (as Annie mentioned) the somewhat jollier news bureau, ‘Say Fantastique!’. Not sure if that’s been keeping me in or out of mischief (!), but I’ve been there a while now, and love it. It’s been funny being back in Blighty – if all goes well I’ll be returning to NYC soon, but in the meantime seem to have embroiled myself in this Purpleness, and have some unfinished business with it.

  Anyway, I hope all’s well with you. Having spotted you during your recent telly/rally/newspaper appearances, all appears well, and exceptionally busy. You’ll be achieving world domination next (I told you so!).

  Best (sheepish) wishes,

  Eve

  *

  What must he think? What would he say? What if he didn’t respond at all?

  Before she could convince herself otherwise, Eve pressed Send.

  *

  Duncan was just out of the bath, his skin scented with lavender while his pyjamas smelled of white musk.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ he said, glancing at Eve’s wrinkled nose.

  ‘You are very… fragrant,’ said Eve.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  Duncan turned, pretending to be miffed, but sat down on the sofa and leant back against Eve. He seemed comfortable, and after the horrifying encounter with Magnus – the reminder of her romantic failings – Eve appreciated the feel of him, a human touch.