by Isabel Wolff
‘No. Because if it went to court he’d have a record, which would hardly help Gina—or Sam, poor little boy. But he’d better not try it again. It’s embarrassing though, because I’ll be in Cannes next week and I don’t want everyone thinking I’ve been brawling. I’ll have to wear sunglasses.’
‘Well they’ll all be wearing sunglasses, so I wouldn’t worry—anyway it’ll be much better by then.’
‘And how’s your ex?’ he asked. ‘I mean, Luke’s.’ I told him about the kimono. His good eye widened in horror, then he shook his head. ‘So she’s a Scissor Sister.’
I smiled wearily. ‘It was vile. But a couple of days later we sat down to tea and now the plan is that we’re all going to become best friends and live happily ever after.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t know. That’s what Luke wants.’
‘It’s a perfectly honourable objective.’
‘But I’m not sure it’s achievable. The problem is that Luke’s got these friends who are desperately civilized about it all—Sunday lunch together, shared Christmases, that kind of thing—in other words, the dream scenario—and he wants us to be like that too. He’s got this fantasy of the perfect blended family; but I suspect that Magda’s idea of blending me into her family would involve a large Magimix. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I’m going to go on the record with the press. I’ve just agreed to an interview in the Sunday Semaphore because I can’t stand this tabloid crap about me any longer.’
‘Well, I think that’s a good move. As long as the journalist’s kosher.’
‘He seems sympathetic. His name’s Darren Sillitoe.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Nor had I—but we had a good rapport over the phone.’
‘Check him out with Channel Four first.’
‘I might do, but I feel fine about it because I managed to get copy approval. He’s just put it in an e-mail.’
‘Then there’s no downside—you might as well go for it.’
The interview was the following Thursday afternoon. I’d thought Darren would want to meet me in a club or hotel, but he’d said that I’d appear more sympathetic if I was interviewed at home rather than in some glamorous eatery. I was touched by his concern that I should come across well. The Channel Four Press Officer had asked me if I’d like her to be there, but I said I felt I’d be fine on my own.
The photographer arrived first and quickly fired off two rolls of film.
‘Don’t you want me to smile?’ I asked him as he pointed the lens at me.
‘Not really—the journalist said they’re looking for “gravitas”. That’s it. Just nicely serious…’
At four-thirty the buzzer went again, and there was Darren. He’d sounded fortyish over the phone, but looked twenty-five. He was tall, bespectacled, and slightly weedy—his school-boyish appearance being in stark contrast to his confident, urbane voice.
‘How long have you been a journalist?’ I asked him as I made him some coffee.
‘About a year and a half.’
‘Do you take milk?’
‘Cream, if you’ve got it. And I don’t suppose you’ve got a biscuit have you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I missed lunch.’
‘Well would you like a sandwich? I could make you one.’ He shook his head, so I put some chocolate digestives on to a plate. ‘And what were you doing before?’ I asked him as I put it all on a tray.
‘I worked in the City. Then I went into venture capital. But I thought journalism would be more fun.’
‘And is it?
‘On the whole, yes.’
I asked him who else he’d interviewed, and he said that he’d been doing stuff for the sports pages and that this would be his first major profile for the feature pages. So that was why his name hadn’t meant anything—plus I rarely read the Semaphore.
As we sat in the sitting room he said he’d like to have a brief off-the-record chat with me first, and would only switch on the tape recorder when we were both ready to start. He expressed surprise that I lived in such an ordinary little street, given the huge success of the quiz. I explained that I’d been unable to move.
‘Would you like to upgrade from Ladbroke Grove?’
‘I don’t know how about “upgrade”, but I’d leave it like a shot. Not because I don’t like the area—it’s marvellously cosmopolitan—but because it’s got bad vibes for me now for obvious reasons.’ He nodded sympathetically. ‘Plus my neighbours drive me nuts.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because of the gossip—it’s a small, curtain-twitching sort of street. They’re nice people, but I would love to live somewhere where I can be a bit more anonymous.’
‘There’s not much evidence of your husband about the place is there?’ he said glancing around.
‘I put all his stuff away. I couldn’t bear seeing it any longer.’
‘You wanted to wipe the memories?’
‘No—but it was time to move on, and the physical reminders that he had lived here were holding me back emotionally.’
‘I understand. So it must have been a relief.’
‘It was. It was liberating actually, although it made me feel a bit ruthless; but I needed to try and free myself from the past.’
Darren quickly ran through his list of questions with me, and asked me to give him a rough idea of what I’d say to each. First of all, he wanted to know how the quiz came about, and about what makes a quiz work; then he wanted to know what I thought of the other quizmasters—Anne Robinson, for example. I said that I wouldn’t be answering that question as I wasn’t really a fan and didn’t wish to say anything negative.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘The Weakest Link is pretty dire, isn’t it?’
‘Well…it’s just that the questions are rather low-grade. But it’s still very popular, so she’s obviously doing something right.’
‘And what do you think of Jeremy Paxman?’
‘Well, he can seem overbearing and impatient, but at the same time he has this humorous authority which I find very appealing, and of course he’s terribly clever, so…no, I don’t mind talking about him.’
‘The one I can’t stand,’ he suddenly confided, ‘is Robert Robinson on Brain of Britain. He’s pretty grim - don’t you agree?’
‘Well…I must say, I do rather.’
‘His naked astonishment when a female contestant gets a correct answer!’
‘I know,’ I giggled.
‘Oh well done, Mrs Smith! That is the right answer! How incredible!’
I rolled my eyes in agreement. ‘To be honest I can’t listen to it, otherwise I’d have to chuck the radio out of the window.’
We chatted in this light-hearted vein for a bit longer then Darren asked me if I was ready to begin. I nodded. He pressed the red button on the tiny tape recorder and pushed it towards me.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go then. Your starter for ten…’
I’d never been interviewed before, but the Channel Four press officer had advised me to keep my replies short. ‘When you feel you’ve said what you want to say, then “zip the lip”‘, she’d said. ‘Don’t try and be “helpful” by filling the gaps—gaps can be traps.’ It was sensible advice, but at the same time I recognized that Darren needed good, vivid copy in order to have an interesting article. I decided to strike a balance between a friendly openness and natural circumspection.
He asked me about Cambridge, and about my early career at the BBC and about meeting Tom there, before I went to work for him; then we talked about the quiz, and how I came to present it. He didn’t ask me about the other quiz show hosts, which I was relieved about. We talked about Luke and I was able to set the record straight about his personal circumstances and about the timing of our relationship. Then he came on to Nick. I told him about his work for SudanEase, and about our marriage. He asked me why there was so little of his stuff on show.
‘I decided to put it all away,’ I explained again. ‘I’d waited three years and felt it was finally time to move on. I wanted to start living again.’
‘Who could blame you?’ he said. ‘Three years is a long time. But could you tell me about the day Nick disappeared? How it all unfolded?’
As Darren sat there, nodding sympathetically, I recounted it in detail, down to the month I’d spent searching for Nick, to the two silent phone calls which I believed had been my last ever contact with him. Once or twice I had to stop and compose myself, but I was proud of the fact that I managed not to break down. I didn’t want to be portrayed as a victim.
‘What’s been the hardest part of it for you, Laura? Apart from Nick’s actual absence?’
‘The false sightings—there were a few of those at the start—and then the milestones have been very hard. When I realized that Nick had been missing for a thousand days, for example—that was very painful; when it was his birthday; or mine, or our anniversary. Our tenth wedding anniversary is coming up in early May so I’m bracing myself for that. Christmas is always hard of course, as is New Year’s Day because that’s when it happened.’
‘When you heard from the Missing Persons’ Helpline that Nick was okay, but that he wanted no contact with you, how did that make you feel?’
‘Well…crushed of course. And terribly hurt.’
‘And surprised?’
I stared at him. ‘Yes of course. Of course I was surprised. Very surprised.’
Then Darren asked me about the tabloid coverage, and I told him how hard it had been, having to read so many lies about myself.
‘Lies—and innuendo,’ he added. ‘The innuendo that you had…I don’t know…in some way been responsible for your husband going missing.’
I didn’t answer for a second. ‘That’s right.’
‘That you might somehow have caused it.’
‘Yes. That’s been the subtle suggestion in some quarters.’
‘But how could you have done?’
‘I don’t know…I suppose they think that I might have…’ I looked out of the window. ‘That I treated him badly I suppose…or that I hurt him…or that I drove him away…That’s what they’ve tried to suggest.’
‘Is there any truth in that?’ I felt my face heat up. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you,’ he quickly added. ‘But I’m only doing it so that you can deny it.’ I looked at him.
‘There’s no truth in it whatsoever,’ I said. ‘No truth at all.’
‘So you don’t feel guilty then?’ he added quietly.
‘Well…I do feel guilty—but only because anyone in this awful situation does. It’s natural, because your partner’s gone and you don’t know where.’
‘Or why?’
There was a pause. ‘Or why. So you feel…’ I sighed, ‘that you…might have let them down in some way. So, yes, of course there’s…guilt.’
‘Even though it’s not your fault?’
I felt shame and regret flood my chest. ‘Yes.’
‘So you sit there wondering whether it was something you said, or did—or failed to do?’
I shifted on my seat and sighed. ‘Yes. You pick over your conversations again and again—quite obsessively.’
‘If it was your fault then—’
My eyes strayed to the skirting board. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘But if it had been, then how would you feel?’
‘How would I feel?’ I looked at him. ‘Well how would anyone feel? Just…awful, of course. Absolutely devastated. But as I say, it wasn’t my fault.’ I zipped the lip.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ Darren went on after a moment, ‘that you’re a quiz show presenter, and yet here you are with this huge, unanswered question in your own life.’
‘That irony hasn’t escaped me,’ I said.
‘And has the media frenzy taken you aback?’
‘Totally. I knew there might be some interest in me once the papers got hold of the story, but I never expected that there’d be so much.’
‘Can you understand people’s curiosity about you?’
‘I suppose I can. If it wasn’t actually happening to me, I guess I’d be curious. If I read that, say, Carol Vorderman’s husband had been missing for three years, then every time I saw her on TV or read an article about her, I’d probably wonder where he was and how he’d been living, and what she’d done to try and find him, and whether she’d ever see him again.’
‘And why he’d gone?’ He looked at me. ‘Wouldn’t you wonder that?’
‘Well…I don’t know…’
‘Surely you’d wonder what had caused him to do it? What the story was?’
‘Perhaps, although…’
‘You’d wonder what might have gone on between them?’
‘Look, it’s obviously very complex. People who go missing have all sorts of reasons for doing so. Don’t they?’
‘But they must be unhappy and confused. Was Nick unhappy and confused?’
‘I…I don’t know. I guess…yes…perhaps…’
‘Otherwise he wouldn’t have done what he did?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And why do you think he was unhappy and confused?’
I stared at Darren. ‘I don’t…know. His father had died not long before. I think that was part of it.’
‘But had anything else happened?’ Zip the lip.
‘No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe you could ask me another question now.’ There was a slight pause, then Darren asked me a few more things about the quiz, so I told him about the second series which would start in September, and about the programmes we were developing, thanks to the success of Whadda Ya Know?!!
‘So the company’s on quite a roll.’
‘Yes. The format for the quiz has just been sold in eight countries—including the States—which means that we can expand. We’re currently recruiting new staff, we’re having the building refurbished. Trident’s doing very well.’ I felt a burst of pride.
Darren leaned forward and stopped the tape.
‘Well, I think that’s it, Laura. Thanks very much. I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough now and I don’t want to keep you.’
‘That’s okay. And you’ll show me the quotes?’
‘I will. I’ll either fax them to you or read them over the phone.’
‘And when do you think that’ll be?’
He was rummaging in his briefcase. ‘Not for a couple of weeks because we’ve decided to run it on Sunday May 1st as that coincides with the start of National Missing Persons’ Month.’
‘Oh that’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘It’ll help hugely with the fund-raising. I’ll let the charity know that’s what you’re doing.’
I went to show him out, and as I lifted my hand to the latch, the front door was pushed open from the other side, and there was Cynthia, with two bags of shopping.
‘Hello Laura,’ she said wearily. In the weak sunlight she looked exhausted and suddenly frail. Then, as she noticed Darren, I saw her face redden.
‘Cynthia, this is Darren Sillitoe.’ She flinched. Then she gave him a tight little smile, unmistakable in its hostility. I saw a look of surprise cross his face.
‘Do you know her?’ I whispered as she went upstairs.
‘No. I’ve never laid eyes on her.’ How curious. On the other hand she can be quite odd.
‘Well thanks for coming, Darren. I hope it’s not too hard to write up.’
‘I don’t think it will be.’
As he walked down the steps, I heard Cynthia’s door open again.
‘Has he gone?’ I heard her hiss in a theatrical whisper.
‘Yes.’ I turned round. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ she said as she came downstairs. ‘The problem is—that he’s a fucker!’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That young man is a fucker,’ she repeated vehemently.
‘That’s a bit rough, Cynthia. He
seemed all right to me.’
‘Well he isn’t. None of those fuckers are.’ She obviously meant journalists. Her bêtes noires. But…how did she know he was a journalist given that I hadn’t told her? Perhaps there was something to this psychic business after all.
‘They are all disingenuous creeps,’ she added. ‘Darren Sillitoe indeed!’
‘Well—that’s his name, Cynth.’
‘It isn’t. He was lying. His real name’s Darren Fucker.’ I looked at her non-comprehendingly. ‘Fucker. F, a, r, q, u, h, a, r,’ she enunciated contemptuously.
‘Oh.’
‘And it’s a great pity you didn’t tell him to Farquh off when you had the chance. So he’s just interviewed you has he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh dear.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Oh dear.‘
‘What do you mean—“oh dear?” He seemed perfectly okay—nice even.’
‘He would do,’ she said. ‘But he isn’t, he’s a little…’
‘Cynthia,’ I said, panic rising in my chest. ‘Would you please tell me what you’re talking about? You’ve got me worried.’
‘All right. I will. Come with me.’
I followed her upstairs to her flat. It was the first time she’d invited me in. The furniture and furnishings were in good taste but it was clear that, like Cynthia, they’d seen better days. The Chinese brocade on the chaise longue was badly frayed, as was the silk shade on her standard lamp. The velvet cushions on her sofa had bald patches, and the fringes on the large Persian rug had been pulled. On the mahogany sideboard were about eight silver frames all containing black and white photos of Cynthia in her younger days. As she made a pot of tea, I glanced at them. She was glamorous enough now, but she had been a true beauty. A British Claudia Cardinale.
‘Darren Sillitoe, my eye,’ she muttered as she brought in the tea tray. ‘His real name is Darren Farquhar. Sillitoe is his mother’s maiden name.’
I felt my stomach turn over. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because…’ her hand trembled as she lifted the silver pot, ‘I know his father. We had a long…association.’ Suddenly Hans appeared and began winding herself in and out of Cynthia’s legs.
‘Who is his father?’
‘Sir John Farquhar.’