A Question of Love

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Oh, no, no—it doesn’t mean that at all. You’re an attractive woman,’ he added, again too quickly I thought.

  ‘She is,’ said Tom. ‘Laura’s lovely.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Adrian went on. ‘You’re very…attractive, Laura…erm…’

  ‘In a way?’ I said pleasantly.

  ‘Well, it’s just that your looks are—’ he squinted at me, cocking his head to one side—‘unconventional.’ By now I felt like the Elephant Man. ‘You’re a bit like Andie McDowell…’

  ‘Gone wrong?’ I suggested.

  ‘Well—ye-es. You could say that. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings,’ he blundered on.

  ‘You didn’t,’ I said politely. ‘Really.’ In any case I’m used to it. My sisters may be pretty but I’m what you’d politely call ‘characterful’: I’ve got Dad’s angular jaw line, and his over-long nose. The galling thing is that I was a lovely baby—I was the pretty cygnet who became a duck.

  ’But the thing I really like about you,’ Adrian went on, ‘is the fact that you have authority.’

  ‘Do I?’ I said wonderingly. This had never occurred to me, though I liked the idea. Perhaps I should have been a policewoman—or a dominatrix.

  ‘You have natural authority—which is the quality that quiz show presenters most need. They can get it in various ways,’ he continued. ‘On The Weakest Link, Anne Robinson exudes a kind of authority by being vile; Jeremy Paxman has authority on University Challenge because he’s a serious journalist, ditto John Humphreys on Mastermind. But you have authority too, Laura. I think the viewers would feel that they’re in safe hands with you and that you could probably answer many of the questions yourself.’

  ‘She could,’ Tom interjected. ‘She’s incredibly well-informed.’

  ‘Misspent youth,’ I explained. ‘Too many books.’

  ‘Plus you’ve got a fantastic memory,’ Tom added warmly. I shrugged. But, to be honest, it’s true. Facts and figures—however useless—stick to my mind like chewing gum sticks to the pavement. I only have to read something once for it to sink in. I’ve always regarded this as an oddity—a bit like having perfect pitch, or a sixth toe—but it can come in handy sometimes. No need for shopping lists, for example. Excellent recall of names and dates. No problem remembering what had rolled by on the Generation Game conveyor belt—Cuddly toy-Teasmaid-Toaster-Carmen Rollers—and, when I was nine, I won a family trip to Paris by being able to recite all fifty states of the Union in reverse alphabetical order.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Adrian went on, ‘I think the viewers would feel that you’re not just reading the questions out; and with this format—particularly with its highly unusual unique selling point—that’s what the show really needs.’

  Tom was delighted that I was to present the show. As I say, we have a good rapport—though it’s strictly professional, mind you. I like Tom; he’s clever and laid-back and very kind and yes, if I stop to think about it, he’s definitely goodlooking, and he’s got this attractive, north American voice. But I could never see him as anything more than a colleague because a) he’s my boss and it could be awkward and b) I know he once did something that just wasn’t…great.

  But, to go back to the quiz, Tom had been worried that no established ‘star’ would want to present it. But then there were serious risks. It could have been utterly humiliating for them if they were no good—they could have got a really bad press. But the thing that makes Whadda Ya Know?!! so dangerous for the presenter is precisely what makes it riveting to watch. And so, last September it went to air. Being on cable, it didn’t have a huge audience to start with—just two hundred thousand, but we were hoping to build. Then a tiny piece appeared in Time Out describing it as ‘hip’ and ‘subversive’. Before we knew it, Channel Four had poached it, out-bidding Challenge for the second series by £30,000 per show.

  So tonight is a very big night because Whadda Ya Know?!!‘s going to be aired nationwide for the very first time. And you might think that presenting a prime-time TV show would make me happy, and of course in one way, it does—but, in another way, it fills me with dread…

  There are drawbacks you see. Huge drawbacks, I reflected nervously as I turned right into All Saints Road. In one way I’m hoping that the show won’t be a success, because, if it is, then what happened to Nick might be raked up.

  I stopped at the newsagents and bought the Independent. I felt a surge of adrenaline as I turned to the TV listings. There it was, in the 8pm slot, and next to it, it said See Choice. My eyes scanned to the top of the page. Hey—Whadda Ya Know?!! Another new quiz show! But, whadda ya know, this really is one with a difference. Newcomer Laura Quick (right) looks brainy—and she’ll need to be. Riveting.

  My stomach was churning, but as I crossed the road into All Saints Mews I felt my tension recede. To me it’s the prettiest street in London; even on a cold, sleety day like today. It’s wide for a mews, and the houses are painted in seaside tones of pink and lemon and blue. Well-behaved climbers trail neatly up their exteriors twining through elegant balconies of wrought iron. I caught the scent of the white Clematis Armandii as I passed number twelve, and admired the pots of freckled mauve hellebores.

  Trident TV is half way down on the left, and occupies two white, shuttered houses that were knocked together in the seventies to make the only office premises in the Mews. Without being obviously commercial looking, the building has a pleasantly businesslike air. I shook my umbrella, then pushed on the door. There was Nerys, sitting behind the desk of our tiny reception area.

  ‘So then I said to her…’ I heard her say in a loud whisper as I folded my umbrella, ‘and then she turned round to me and said…well, no… that’s right. She has got a nerve, and so I thought, well, I’m not standing for this, so I turned round to her and said—oh just a minute Shirl…’

  ‘Good morning,’ I said pleasantly. I may not like Nerys much, but I am always polite to her.

  ‘G’morning Laura. I’ll ring you later, Shirl.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘These are for you…’ she nodded conspiratorially at a bouquet of yellow tulips, white roses and golden mimosa. She patted her hair, which was the colour of marmalade and lacquered to the texture of candyfloss. ‘They were delivered about an hour ago.’

  ‘How nice,‘ I said wonderingly, my irritation with Nerys vanishing. The vanilla-y scent of the mimosa was delicious. I unpinned the card. ‘I wonder who they’re from?’

  ‘They’re from your sister, Hope, and her husband.’

  I felt a stab of annoyance. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because she phoned up to check they’d arrived.’

  ‘I see. Never mind,’ I added briskly. ‘I’ve always thought lovely surprises quite over-rated.’

  She examined her nails. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Laura, but you did ask.’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ I explained sweetly as I took off my coat.

  Immune to the rebuke—she has a pachydermatous hide—Nerys was now staring at my top half. ‘You’re not going to wear that jacket on set are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked at her. ‘Why?’

  She cocked her head to one side. ‘Well, if you ask me, I don’t think that colour really suits you.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you, Nerys.’

  ‘Take it from me, that lime green—’ she sucked the air through her teeth ‘Ooh, no—it’s all wrong. You should wear pink,’ she added as the phone trilled out. ‘Or peach. In fact, you know what you should do—you should get your colours done. You look like a Summer to me. Go-od morn-ing—Trident Tee-veee…‘

  When I say I don’t like Nerys much, what I really mean is that I actively dislike her. So much so that I sometimes entertain fantasies about chopping her into human nuggets and feeding her to next door’s cat. I have often wondered why she has this effect on me. Is it because of the amount of time she spends making personal phone calls? That’s not my business—Trident belongs to Tom. Is it because she’s deliberately unpleasant? She may be jaw
-droppingly tactless, but she’s not. Is it the way she keeps saying, ‘You’d never think I was fifty-three, would you?’ Why shouldn’t she delude herself? No, the reason why Nerys drives me to near insanity is because she’s one of these annoying people who always know best. Whatever the subject, Nerys has the answer. ‘Take it from me,’ she likes to say, or ‘If you want my advice…’ or ‘I’ll tell you what I think…’ And because this is quite a small, open-plan building it’s all too easy for her to do just that.

  We’ll be discussing something to do with the show, and we’ll suddenly hear her pipe up from the front desk with her opinion on the matter, her conviction matched only by her ignorance. The other day, for example, I was talking to Dylan, who’s our new script editor—he’s a bit of a boffin really, perfect for the quiz. We were discussing Wallis Simpson for one of the questions; we compile them ourselves—Dylan does the science, geography and sport ones, while I do politics, history and the arts—and we were talking about the Duke of Windsor’s stint as Governor of the Bahamas.

  ‘It was Bermuda, wasn’t it?’ we suddenly heard from reception. ‘The Duke of Windsor was Governor of Bermuda wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, Nerys,’ Dylan shouted back politely. ‘It was the Bahamas.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a moment’s stupefied—and, frankly, impertinent—silence and then we heard, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Nerys. We’re quite sure,’ Dylan replied with saintly patience.

  ‘Because I thought it was Bermuda.’

  ‘Honestly, Nerys,’ I said. ‘It really was the Bahamas because a) it just was and b) Dylan and I have checked it in two reference books and on the net to make one hundred and ten per cent certain. Because that’s what we always do.’

  ‘I see,’ she replied, before adding, as if making a gracious concession, ‘Oh well then—if you’re sure.’

  In many ways it’s unreasonable of me to dislike Nerys as much as I do because the fact is I know she means well. That’s the worst thing about it—she’s genuinely trying to help. There’s nothing in the world she likes more. I’ve seen her practically mug tourists in order to give them directions to Portobello, and several times I’ve heard her give unsolicited advice to strangers in shops. You don’t want to pay fifteen pounds for that…they’ve got them for a tenner in Woolworths…yes, that’s right—a tenner…it’s not far…second left, third right, straight on for 800 yards, first right, fourth left, past Buybest, opposite the ABC Pharmacy…that’s okay, it’s a pleasure—no really…it was no trouble—honestly, please DON’T mention it.

  And that’s the other thing. Nerys thinks that everyone’s indebted to her, and basks in their imagined gratitude. She deflects our exasperated put-downs like a Sherman tank deflecting ping-pong balls; they bounce off her completely unfelt. And though she drives us all mad, Tom keeps her on for the very good reason that a) having a receptionist gives out the impression that we’re a bigger, better company than we actually are and b) she adores working for him. In the two years she’s been here she’s always turned up on time, never taken a day off and, in her own way, she does the job well. She opens up the office in the mornings. If the photo-copier breaks down, she gets it repaired. She does all the clerical work and arranges our transport to and from the studio. She changes the light bulbs, and waters the plants. Tom appreciates her loyalty; he also feels responsible for her as he says she’s so annoying she’d never get a job anywhere else. Needless to say, Nerys fancies herself as a bit of a quiz buff and is thrilled about Whadda Ya Know?!! ‘It’s a pity I can’t go on it myself,’ she often says. ‘I think I’d do rather well.’

  I went through to the office, which increasingly resembles a small library—every inch of wall space taken up with the huge number of reference books we need to compile the quiz. The dilapidated shelves groan with Halliwell’s Film and Video Guide, the Penguin Dictionary of Art; all twenty-nine volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the Complete Book of the British Charts. We have the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, the Guinness Book of Records, the Science Desk Reference and Debrett’s. Plus the Concise Dictionary of National Biography, the Encyclopaedia of Battles, the Compendium of British Wild Flowers and Who’s Who.

  Dylan was at his desk, on the phone, absently winding his bootlace tie around his index finger, while Tom hovered over the central printer, which was spewing out reams of script.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to Tom above the clattering of the laser jet. Normally Tom wears jeans, but today being a studio day—we record six weeks ahead—he was wearing his one suit—a Prince of Wales check.

  He looked up. ‘Hi, Laura.’ His blue eyes creased into a smile, the fine lines spoking out from the corners. ‘Now. I need to ask you a very serious question.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Who sent you the flowers?’

  I smiled. ‘My sister Hope and her husband—to wish me luck. Why?’

  ‘I thought they must be from an admirer, that’s all.’

  ‘Nope.’ I went to my desk. ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘Sure you do.’

  ‘I don’t, I tell you. I haven’t been on a date for so long.’

  ‘Then it’s high time you did. You’re young, Laura.’

  ‘Ish.’

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  ‘Hardly, but thanks.’

  ‘So you’ve got to get out there and…seize the day.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ A new relationship—however scary the idea—would help me move forward, and, without wishing to sound heartless here, it’s hardly as though Nick’s in any position to object.

  ‘Anyway, today’s a big day for you.’

  My stomach turned over. ‘It is a big day—dead right.’ Today, I thought, my life could change forever.

  Tom pulled out the last sheets of script and began shuffling them into order. ‘So are you feeling okay?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m feeling horribly nervous to tell you the truth.’

  ‘The critics will love you, Laura. Have confidence.’ He picked up a red stapler and began clipping the pages together.

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  The stapler stopped in mid air. ‘Oh.’ His voice had dropped. ‘Because of…Nick.’

  I nodded. Tom knows what happened. Everyone here does—but then it was too big to hide.

  ‘I feel like I’m a target, Tom, waiting to be shot at.’

  Tom looked at me, then carried on stapling. ‘Well, that’s the risk you took. We talked about it when you agreed to front the show, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I do. But at that time it was only going to go out on cable—we had no idea it would ever hit the network, let alone at peak time.’

  ‘I hope you don’t regret it.’

  ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Of course not—I was thrilled—I still am. But now that I’m laying myself open to media scrutiny, I can’t help feeling…terrified, actually.’

  ‘Well, don’t be.’ He straightened up. ‘In any case, Laura, what happened to Nick wasn’t your fault. Was it?’

  I stared at him. Your fault…‘No. No, it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘If the show’s a success,’ he went on, ‘then yes, the story might get picked up. So make sure your nearest and dearest are primed to keep schtum.’ I made a mental note to remind my sisters to stay quiet. ‘But in any case, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Laura, have you?’

  To be ashamed of…‘No. No, I haven’t. That’s right.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s a friendly little piece in The Times today,’ he said. ‘Here…’ He handed it to me. It was very complimentary about the show’s ‘unique format’—with its ‘unexpected twist’—and about my presenting skills. I showed him the one in the Independent.

  ‘ “Riveting…”‘ Tom read. ‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘Well, I think it is riveting—if I’m allowed to say that about my own baby.’ I looked at him. ‘Anyway, I’d better get over to the studio.’ He
reached for his coat. ‘Ner-ys,’ he yelled, ‘Is my car there yet?’

  I saw her peering through the slats in the blinds. ‘He’s just pulling up.’

  ‘I’ll see you there in about an hour, okay, Laura?’ Tom said. I nodded. ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll just get Dylan to run through the script.’

  I put the flowers in water, then sent Hope a virtual thank you card, and by the time I’d pressed ‘Send’ Dylan was winding up his phone call, and waving at me. He used to be a question setter on Mastermind, and is now script editor on Whadda Ya Know?!! He decides which questions should go in each show, and in what order, then he goes through them with me before we record.

  ‘Right then, Laura.’ He picked up his clipboard. ‘Your starter for ten. What is the name for an alloy of copper and tin?’

  ‘Brass!’ we heard Nerys shout from the front desk.

  ‘Bronze,’ I replied.

  ‘Correct. What is the Roman numeral for a thousand?’

  ‘C!’ she yelled.

  ‘It’s M.’

  ‘What is the capital of Armenia?’

  ‘Ulan Bator!’

  ‘Yerevan.’

  ‘It’s Yerevan,’ said Dylan, rolling his eyes. I sat down at my desk.

  ‘What is a hoggerel?’ I heard him say as I fiddled with a large paperclip.

  I looked up at him. ‘A what?’

  ‘A hoggerel.’

  ‘Pass!’ Nerys called out. ‘Anyway, that’s much too difficult if you want my opinion. Good morn-ing, Trident Tee-veee…?’

  ‘A hoggerel?’ I repeated. ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s a yearling sheep—you can accept “young” sheep. Who discovered the source of the Nile?’

  ‘Livingstone,’ I replied absently. ‘No, not Livingstone—erm…I mean—Speke.’

  ‘In which Scottish mountain group is Aviemore?’

  ‘The Cairngorms.’

  ‘What’s the traditional Muslim colour for mourning?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘In human biology what term describes the hollow ball of cells that is an early stage in the development of the embryo?’ I felt my insides shift.