by Penny Smith
Her mother looked up from the strip of beetroot peel she was contemplating to contemplate her daughter instead. ‘I assume you have a new beau?’
‘Yes, there is a new beau to my string,’ she quipped.
‘Hey,’ her father interjected, ‘that really wasn’t too bad. The break’s obviously done you a power of good.’
‘Thank you so much for that,’ she said, pretending to sound annoyed. ‘But, seriously, thank you very, very much for putting up with me. And, yes, I’d like to come back fairly shortly so that I can continue seeing the aforementioned person.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t I deserve a nice flirtation, Mum? And you wouldn’t want me to be discomBobulated when I next come up, would you? Yes, I know he’s Ben’s friend,’ she said, putting up a hand as her mother opened her mouth to speak, ‘but I’m sure Ben won’t mind. In fact, I’ll have a word with him. How can he possibly object?’
‘Actually,’ said her mother, wiping the brush absentmindedly on her dress because she had forgotten to put on her smock, ‘I wasn’t going to say anything about Ben. I was going to say it would be difficult to carry on long-term with Bob if you’re going back to London permanently.’
Her father, in the middle of squashing a garlic clove, turned round to give her one of his special looks. ‘Lynda,’ he said warningly.
‘It’s OK, Dad, I got the hint. I’ll be going home tomorrow, and if I come back, it’ll be for flying visits. Honestly. I’ve booked the afternoon train. Bob did offer to drive me, but it’s probably more sensible if I go on my own. And, also, we’re not talking wedding bells here. It’s whatever it is, and if whatever it is is supposed to continue, it will. Wherever we end up.’
She went to pack. The sun was out and all of a sudden her heart felt lighter. Did it matter what the papers printed when she had Bob and his delicious chest to rest on? She had a good feeling in her waters, as her mother would have said. Everything would end up all right.
She would call Steve Nighy at London Talks radio station. They had worked together many years ago on the newspaper and he had always been keen to work with her again. And she had always liked doing radio. You didn’t have to dress up, and somehow it was easier to concentrate when you were wearing flat shoes and no makeup.
By the time she came down for dinner, she was positively humming.
‘Thunder flies,’ muttered her mother, swatting at them ineffectually.
‘Oh, I didn’t think I’d put on that much weight, Mum,’ said Katie, helping herself to a strip of carrot.
‘What?’ her mother queried, hand in mid-air.
But her father was smiling as he handed her the cheese-crusted halibut.
The dinner was delicious and devoid of any pointed remarks from her mother, who was desperate to have the house back to normal.
She didn’t think she was an unnatural parent, but as soon as the children had left home, she had thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted and without any interference from anyone. She didn’t count her husband. He was the cleaner/chef/mechanic. She only noticed him when a meal was late or he wasn’t there when she sat down to watch a television series they’d been enjoying.
And she was glad she wouldn’t have to take the empty bottles to the bottle bank. She could swear the neighbours had been looking at her in a funny way. Actually, they had. Not because of the empties, but because on her last visit to the recycling bins, she had been wearing a pair of Jack’s old underpants, a T-shirt, her painting smock and a pair of wellies in case it rained.
Jack Fisher loved having his daughter around, but she always rubbed his wife up the wrong way and he’d be pleased not to feel like an emergency fire blanket, constantly on hand to put out the embers.
Kent, the producer, had been thrilled that morning to be asked by Keera if he wanted to go for breakfast with her after the show. She was so beautiful, natural and friendly, and today she was adorable in a halter-neck top, jeans and a little pair of white sandals. They went down to the canteen for a cappuccino where they chatted for ages about work, workmates and what the future might hold for them.
Kent couldn’t have been happier. He told her about the tired and emotional reporter who had been given a ticking-off after wining and dining the head of spin for the Labour Party, and who had fallen asleep during an interview Katie had done with the new foreign secretary just before she left. ‘Which wouldn’t have been so bad,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘but while the foreign secretary was talking down the line from Bournemouth, you could quite clearly hear Dave snoring. Apparently he was supposed to be taking notes so he was sitting in the corner with his notebook but he keeled over and ended up stretched out on the carpet with his head virtually under the Minister’s feet. It was brilliant. He was carpeted when he got back. And carpeted when he was there, actually,’ he added wittily.
He sipped his cappuccino.
‘And you know that the news editor’s in secret talks with Channel 4 to take over their new afternoon politics show? Big heavyweight interviews and such stuff. He’s haggling over the price at the moment. But it would be quite a step up. I know it’s daytime, but that’s where the battleground is at the moment,’ he continued self-importantly, keen to impress Keera with how much he knew about the goings-on in Telly Land. ‘And he’d be editor. Have his own train set to play with. Employ his own presenters.’
He gazed out of the window. ‘Hey,’ Kent said suddenly, ‘is that something you’d fancy? A politics show?’
Keera peeped at him from under her eyelashes and smiled slowly. ‘No, I don’t think so. Although you never know. Do you think it’s worth me speaking to Colin about it?’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure whether it’s common knowledge about the job yet. I heard it from a friend of mine who works in the next office. I can ask him.’
Keera leaned forward and accidentally-on-purpose brushed his leg with hers. ‘Well, thank you for keeping me informed,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Anyway, I really ought to go. I’ve got an interview to do today with GQ to go with a photo shoot I’ve done. You’re my favourite producer, you know,’ she said, as she stood up. ‘Thanks for being so helpful.’
And silently she thought how very helpful. Money-in-the-bank helpful. Things really were going her way. She almost felt sorry for Kent. But not sorry enough not to make the phone call, after the interview. She thought she’d conducted it all rather marvellously. Flirty, sexy, but a hint of ambition to let anyone reading it know she was on the way up the ladder, big-time. If they wished to furnish her with her own show.
Katie had finally got through the mountain of post, answerphone messages and general maintenance at the flat and was lying on her sofa trying to decide how to tackle the looming cash-flow problem.
It wasn’t as serious as she’d first thought. Two rather attractive cheques had bounced out of envelopes – payment for an article for one of the national newspapers she’d written months ago, and a personal appearance she’d forgotten about.
She had left a message for her agent, saying she was now available for weddings, bar mitzvahs and children’s parties. She had left messages for her two singleton friends, Dee and Kathy, asking if they fancied a drink. She had left a message for Andi, asking if anything at all was going at Greybeard Television. She had left a message for Steve at London Talks. And she had left a message for Bob, which was less message than random pornography. And then, because she wondered whether anyone was in anywhere, she dialled Mike.
She could hear the television on rather loudly in the background, and he sounded a bit distracted, but he promised to phone the BBC the next day to check on how the search was going for a co-host. ‘I’ll tell them again that it should be you, although I’m not sure there’s much more I can do,’ he said, and put the phone down.
Mike’s wife looked up from OK magazine. ‘Who was that?’ she asked, as the soap-opera stars shouted at each other in hideous close-up.
‘Katie,’ he explained.
�
��But I thought you’d suggested that other woman as your co-presenter on the BBC show? That Saskia Miller?’
Mike eyed her with distaste. ‘I’m going out to the wine merchant,’ he said. ‘Do you want anything in particular?’
‘No,’ she said, and returned to the article about ultra-thin celebrities and their dogs, checking whether they showed small signs of the cellulite she had noticed that morning in the bathroom mirror. She was pleased to see that one appeared to have crinkly thighs, until she read that the marks were attributed to a wicker seat. She peered closer, and sighed. It really wasn’t cellulite.
Instead of heading to the wine merchant’s, Mike got into the car and headed to a small back-street shop in Euston. He parked round the corner, checked that the coast was clear, and walked in quickly through the black-painted door.
Ten minutes later, the same door was opened by a small, bald man in a grey shirt and trousers. He looked up and down the street, then stood back to let Mike out.
Dee was in the taxi on her way to her date with William when she picked up Katie’s message. She phoned her to bring her up to date and promised to call later with all the news. ‘If I’m not busy.’ She smiled into the receiver.
William Baron, she thought, as he came round to pull out her chair in the restaurant, is a very handsome man. He was wearing a dark suit and a dusky pink shirt. He smelled intoxicating – a mixture of spice, black pepper and frankincense. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of champagne. You don’t have to drink it, but I thought it might be a good way of starting what I hope will be a long and, er, satisfying relationship.’
Dee felt her lower stomach tighten with excitement. ‘Mmm. Yes. No. That would be lovely,’ she said. And didn’t say much more for quite a while because William was witty, interesting and talked for both of them.
She ordered soup and a salad, thinking it would show William she was only carrying extra weight because she had the fat gene they were talking about in the news the other day. Some people got fat on virtually nothing because of their genetic makeup. Nothing to do with a Cornish-pasty problem. Which he couldn’t possibly know about. Could he?
And while she was having her internal conversation, she missed his question. ‘What?’ she said, trying to tuck a bit of frisée lettuce into her mouth.
‘I was wondering if you wanted to come to a première with me next week? I’ve got two tickets. I helped one of the guys in the film to shed some weight and tone up. It should be good. It’s an action movie where this guy, Dom, is a computer geek who saves the world in a kind of Batman meets Superman way. He needed to look more sleek than geek so that one of the aliens would fancy him.’
‘So it’s a sci-fi rom Dom romp?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘He’s not the lead but, yes, it is science fiction in the comic-book-hero mould. Do you fancy it? A week on Wednesday.’
Dee tried not to choke on the lettuce, which appeared to be unfurling in her oesophagus as she was trying to breathe. ‘Can I let you know? It’s just that I’m not sure what I’m doing next week,’ she asked, eyes watering, knowing full well that her diary was as empty as her fridge after she’d spent a day home alone.
What a result! William Baron! Sexy, handsome William Baron! Asking her to a film première! God, she couldn’t wait to tell Katie.
She managed, with a supreme effort of willpower, to say no to pudding, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek to thank him for buying dinner, as he put her into a taxi, his hand on the small of her back.
She skipped into the flat and phoned Katie. ‘I am in lust. Big, big lust. He’s gorgeous. And we’re going to a première a week on Wednesday. Have you got anything I can wear?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The head of Wardrobe was holding his breath as he steamed Mike’s suit. Why Mike had to take so many of them home every day so that they never had a chance to be cleaned he didn’t know, but it was like ironing a sumo wrestler’s pants. Although the windows were open, the stench was on the verge of making him sick. As if getting up at three o’clock in the morning wasn’t bad enough, he thought, this smells like he’s been on the nest all night.
Keera went past, waving breezily. ‘Like the bloody Queen,’ muttered Derek, as he put down the steamer and followed her to her dressing room. ‘So what’ll it be today, then, princess?’ he asked, slightly ironically.
‘I’m in a pink mood,’ she said, as she rummaged aimlessly through her suits. ‘Actually, I saw one of the newsreaders on Sky in a gorgeous suit that would be fantastic on me. It had one of those necklines like this …’ she indicated a sweetheart neckline ‘… and it came in here at the waist and then who knows? Couldn’t see because of the desk. Do you think you could get me one?’
‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Madame.’ He bowed.
Keera was too busy perusing her outfits to notice the mock-deference.
After five minutes, she turned, gave him one of her aren’t-I-pretty? smiles and said, in her girly voice, ‘Can you find me something? Vanda’s waiting for me, and she wants to do something different with my hair.’
As she headed off to Makeup, Derek surveyed the collection of outfits. Puce, he thought meanly. That’s what you should be wearing.
Keera was in a very good mood. Today she had managed to snaffle the top interview from Mike. The minister for Education had announced he was resigning to spend more time with his family. There was a distinct possibility that this explanation was a euphemism for bad behaviour. He was an attractive man, with a frumpy wife and a flubber of a child.
Richard, the producer, had gone through her questions with her, and written them down on autocue to make sure she didn’t forget them. She was excited that it might be picked up by PA or Reuters, with her name quoted as the interviewer. And Vanda would make sure she looked her best in case there were any ‘takes’ of her on air in the papers. That was why she wanted pink – it always stood out in a photograph.
She was getting her microphone and earpiece sorted out when Mike stomped past on his way to Wardrobe, with a face like a bag of smashed crabs. He had gone ballistic in the newsroom, shouting at all and sundry that he would be damned if he’d sit by and watch ‘Minnie Mouse make a pig’s ear of this fucking interview’. And then he had cast aspersions upon their parentage, and told them that there would be repercussions. ‘Don’t you worry about that, you bunch of useless tossers.’
He would have spent longer haranguing them, but since he had come in with only ten minutes to air, he had to get down to Makeup.
Keera was already composed on the sofa by the time he stalked in. ‘Oops,’ said one of the cameramen. ‘We’re in for a bumpy ride.’ Mike was renowned for making life as unpleasant as possible if he was in a bad mood.
The director had already been warned about Mike’s filthy temper today, and the reason for it. ‘Morning, Mike, looking good,’ he said jauntily, into the earpiece.
Mike nodded brusquely.
And the show started.
Mike refused to look at Keera during the two shots, even when she addressed a comment directly to him.
But nobody mentioned the frosty atmosphere.
You could have heard a pin drop in the studio. The guests were wheeled in in silence and none of the crew spoke unless spoken to.
Mike treated a man whose holiday had been ruined by a forty-eight-hour wait at Gatwick airport as though he was personally responsible for global warming and had possibly melted the icecap single-handedly with his foreign trips.
And then the big interview was upon them. In the gallery, they were holding a 50p-a-go sweepstake. Everyone had signed up to a selection of minutes before the eruption/interruption from Mike. Richard thought he was in with a strong chance on two minutes fifteen seconds. The autocue operator was quietly optimistic that she would be going home a few quid richer with her choice of one minute thirty seconds. As it was, nobody had gone for less than fifteen seconds, which was all it took.<
br />
Keera read the link. ‘The Education minister has stunned Parliament by saying he’s going to resign to spend more time with his family. The prime minister says he will be sorely missed and wishes him well with his future projects. And the Education minister joins us now.’ She turned to him, pen in hand, her head on one side, and asked him, ‘So, are you going to resign?’ Mike couldn’t help himself. His ‘Phagh’ could have been heard by whales foraging for krill off the south coast.
The Education minister was clearly confused. ‘Yes,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Erm, actually, I did make that announcement yesterday.’
Keera was pleased. She’d got that sorted. Now to ask the questions Richard had written for her.
In the gallery, they weren’t watching the interview. They were watching Mike on the preview camera. Not even Grant the director, a big Keera fan, could excuse that first question.
Mike’s face was the colour of a bilberry with suppressed rage. And Richard sympathized with him. If he wasn’t so knackered from five nights on the trot, he would have been shouting down the earpiece. But he’d got to the point where he felt like the dung beetle trying desperately to push his ball of dung up the hill. He had his head in his hands. As long as she stuck to the rest of the bloody questions, and didn’t decide to throw in any more of her own, he’d be able to get through the morning meeting.
The vision mixer was wondering if he’d won the sweepstake with his thirty seconds since no one else had come up with anything shorter.
Resembling a small thundercloud, Mike read a link into the break about the weather. And as the adverts started, he stood up abruptly and strode purposefully past the cameramen. No one dared tell him that there were only two minutes on the break, and it was his item next.
They heard his entry into the gallery, but were disappointed when the microphones were cut on Mike’s orders.