by Penny Smith
Mind you, she had immediately bought herself a first-class ticket and enjoyed drinking herself into a stupor with a load of political hacks – one of whom, she thought, she might have bounced on later. He always greeted her as if she had. On the other hand, there had been occasions when she knew she hadn’t slept with them, but they acted as if she had. Having a reputation for putting out after a few glasses was not one she wanted. But it was accurate.
Thinking of which, now that she had lost at least a pound with her non-drinking regime, she could afford to cheer herself up on this dreadful journey with a nice vodka-tonic.
Her mouth was watering with anticipation as she left her seat to go to the buffet, past the fat family, who were now surrounded by pastry crumbs and empty packets. How come families like that always smell? she wondered. It’s like going into primary schools where children always smell of biscuity bottoms.
She negotiated her way round a smooching couple, who were oblivious to the looks they were receiving as they noisily exchanged saliva, and joined the queue of malcontents waiting for service from the thin, spotty youth behind the bar. Either he was on a go-slow, or he really did move at the pace of a slug without a destination lettuce.
Finally she was at the front of the queue. ‘Vodka-tonic, please,’ she requested.
He handed her a see-through plastic cup, with a dash of vodka in the bottom, and a tin of tonic water.
‘Could I have another, please?’ she asked. ‘You can put it in the same cup,’ she added helpfully. ‘Actually make it a double.’
‘That’ll be a triple then,’ he said, picking lightly at a crusty spot.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ said Katie, with asperity.
‘Do you want another tonic?’
‘No, thank you. But thank you for asking. I would never have thought of that on my own.’
She could feel the man behind her getting twitchy. But she had reached the age when she would not be put off by huffing. She handed over the money, waited until Wednesday for the change, because Mr Spotty Youth seemed unable to add or subtract properly, then went back to her seat.
The vodka-tonic lasted her until Peterborough. She managed to get in another triple during the interminable stop. Must be watered down, she thought, as the train crawled into Doncaster and she hadn’t got ‘the Buzz’. She’d had nothing to eat all day. Apart from the muffin she’d eaten for breakfast. And the egg-and-cress sandwich she’d grabbed on the way to the tube. She’d eaten them standing up so they didn’t count.
She made her way past the fat family, who were now almost completely obscured by food wrappers. They were surrounded by so much detritus that she wondered vaguely if someone had burst. She decided that the smell they exuded was like a Dulux paint chart. Bacon butty with a hint of cloying sweetness. Do pigs think other pigs smell? she mused. Do they have a discriminating olfactory sense? If they could smell a human roasting, would they turn to their piggy friends and say they could murder a human butty? If they call them human, and not something else. After all, bacon doesn’t sound in any way like pig. Pork doesn’t really sound like pig. Maybe they call us rosbifs, as the French do. Only they would have to be French pigs. Do all pigs speak the same language?
She walked through the carriages, past the snogging couple – she had read somewhere that other people’s saliva washing over your teeth is good for the enamel – and got to the buffet bar. The queue was so long she ended up jogging in the intersection with an occasional waft of brake fluid, which overrode the smell of stale sweat from the man in front.
What was it about men and their suits? They wear them and wear them, and never think they need to clean them. They get hot. Sweat. Eat and drop things. Possibly have sex with their secretaries in cupboards, then zip themselves up and pop themselves on tubes and trains along with other baked animals … and don’t think they might smell horrible.
‘Dry-cleaning’s the answer,’ she said aloud. And immediately realized she had. Four people in front of her turned to check she wasn’t a nutter. One was a woman who did a double-take. After a few minutes, she peered round Mr Stinky, to ask, ‘Is it you?’
‘Of course it’s me,’ said Katie, frowning at the nylon-slacks-and-floral-blouse combination. ‘Did you think I was you?’
The woman laughed, revealing a front tooth that was longer than every other tooth and lined with brown. ‘No. I mean, are you famous?’
‘Obviously not,’ quoted Katie, from a reply she remembered Barry Cryer had made to the same question.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Mrs Slacks-and-floral. ‘You’re that woman off the telly. Breakfast telly. Got sacked. Read it in the paper. Can I have your autograph?’
Katie was trapped. She didn’t want to give her autograph. But this was the sort of woman who wouldn’t give up. Grudgingly she nodded.
‘Have you got a pen?’ asked Mrs Slacks-and-floral.
‘No, I haven’t. Sorry. Shame. I’ll give you the autograph later,’ said Katie thankfully. And ended the conversation.
Only it didn’t end because, after a pause, the woman in front of Mrs Slacks-and-floral said she did have a pen. So there was a scrabble for a piece of paper. Eventually a napkin, soiled with a tea stain, was handed back to her. ‘Best wishes, Katie Fisher’, she scribbled. And, as an afterthought, put a squiggle at the end, which might have been a kiss. May as well appear friendly to the ugly beast, she thought, keep its ravening maw quiet. She handed it back.
The other woman leaned round. ‘Can you sign me something as well?’ she asked, wafting another napkin with a similarly shaped stain.
Ohforfuckssake, thought Katie, but, nevertheless, applied herself to the task and handed back the napkin. She now felt thoroughly disgruntled.
The sodding train was taking for ever to get anywhere, the drinks were watered down, she was surrounded by trolls, the heating was making her sweaty, and all she wanted was to fall into Bob’s arms and be made to feel fizzy.
She was almost at her stop by the time she finally extruded another triple vodka from the pustule at the bar and had to neck it at speed before she gathered her belongings – being careful in case they had shifted during the journey.
She staggered slightly as she got down from the train. Now, where had Bob said he’d pick her up? She lumbered through the ticket barrier and out into the car park, feeling hot, bothered and – now she came to think of it – a bit peculiar.
Must have been the egg sandwich. You can never trust a non-organic egg sandwich. Bound to have been laid by a three-legged creature in a Thai chicken shed with no windows or board games, then mixed with mayonnaise by a man who hadn’t washed his hands despite his recent attack of death.
Bob swam mistily into focus. ‘Hello, you look very handsome,’ she slurred, and sort of tripped into his arms, offering her face to be kissed.
Bob gave her a big, warm, comforting hug and took her bag as he walked her to the car. ‘Good time on the train, I see,’ he commented, with a smile.
‘No, it was bloody awful. I think I’ve been on it since Tuesday. Nothing nice to look at, and everyone smelling of cheese,’ she drawled, only narrowly making it up the ledge into his Land Rover.
As he drove, she strove to concentrate on what he was saying about the weekend and the plans he had made.
Suddenly, it was one bend too many. ‘Stop the car, I’m going to be sick,’ she declared, through tightly clenched teeth. And she was, so violently that the cow parsley was taken by surprise and launched some of it back on to her shoe.
Katie stood there, shaky and clammy. How very unpleasant. But she definitely felt better.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bob, solicitously, coming round to her.
‘Mmm. Fine. Dodgy egg sandwich at the station,’ she explained. ‘Feel better now. No, don’t come too close. Sorry. I’ll clean up a bit. Give me a moment.’
She heard him move away and bent forward to pick a dock leaf to clean off the mess on her shoe. And got stung on the face by a nettle.
How long had she lived in the country? She knew that if there were dock leaves there would be nettles too. Or that where there were nettles there would be dock leaves. She grasped another dock leaf and rubbed her head.
Bob watched the theatre from the driving seat. Bless her, he thought. What a mess. He assumed she was miserable and drunk because of the state of her career, and decided that this weekend would be about her, about making it better, about wrapping her in a big blanket of love.
Whoops. Careful, Bob, he thought. Let’s not do the L-word. Big blanket of loveliness. That’s what’s needed.
When she struggled back into her seat, the scent of vomit clinging to her, he excused her behaviour and drove carefully back to the house. Which, even if he said so himself, was looking bloody gorgeous.
The rambling roses were poking their snouts out from the foliage, the yew hedge was preening, the tradescantia was fair bursting into the sunshine … everything in the garden was glowing.
Katie fought to keep it all together. She barely noticed the tendrils of wisteria curling softly round the door, as Bob carried her bag in and dumped it on the floor. ‘Would you mind awfully if I went for a little lie-down?’ she asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Bob, looking disappointed. ‘You know where you’re going. I’ve just got to go and turn the oven down.’
Katie trod heavily up the stairs, lugging her bag. She crouched to get out her spongebag, washed the green dock-leaf residue from the middle of her forehead (‘Nice look,’ she muttered), cleaned her teeth and lay on the bed. The birds outside were discussing how you could afford to be up later to get a worm if you knew where to go. Katie snuggled into the clean sheets and swam drunkenly into sleep.
Downstairs, Bob regarded the vegetable stew to which he had added dumplings on his way out to the station. Would they go soggy if he left them in and turned the oven off? He was unusually desperate for the meal to be just right. There was a bottle of red wine ready in the decanter, which he imagined was going to be an unwelcome sight to a pair of hung-over eyeballs.
He sighed.
Over the next few hours, he kept watch over his alleged girlfriend, and his alleged dumplings. Night fell, and she slumbered on, the stew got cold and the dumplings collapsed into the coagulating vegetables.
At ten o’clock, he stood up determinedly.
Katie was curled up with her feet under the duvet, her long hair waving over the pillows in a cloud of auburn softness. He gazed at her thoughtfully, then reached out a hand to touch a curl. She woke and smiled at him. He smiled back, his heart contracting. How beautiful she was, with the light of the moon shining through the window, he thought. ‘Hungry?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, propping herself on her elbows and deliberating. ‘What time is it?’
‘Gone ten,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d better wake you or you’d never get to sleep. As it were. How are you feeling? Better?’
‘Much better, thank you. Not tip-top, one hundred per cent, but much better than I did. I’m so sorry. I have a sneaking suspicion that I may have over-imbibed on the train. I may have a headache coming on.’
Bob disappeared. He returned a few minutes later bearing two tablets zipping round a glass of water.
‘I feel so guilty,’ she said, slurping down the welcome opaqueness. ‘I seem to remember you saying something about dinner tonight.’ She couldn’t help an involuntary grimace. ‘Why don’t we go down, and you eat it?’
He studied her contemplatively. ‘I have a much better idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and turn everything off, then join you in the bed, now that you’ve warmed it up.’
Katie felt her stomach lurch in an altogether more agreeable fashion than it had been doing since its last vodka injection, and while Bob was clattering about in the kitchen, she brushed her teeth again, gave the essential bits a flannel bath and put on her blue pyjamas.
She arranged herself in what she felt was an alluring pose to await his return. She heard him bouncing up the stairs, and positioned herself so that the moonlight shone obliquely behind her left shoulder. Those hideously long, dull photo shoots had not been in vain: if she had learned nothing else, she had discovered the value of good lighting.
And it was worth it for the look on Bob’s face as he opened the door again …
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At about the time that Katie was broaching her first triple vodka, Dee was a-flutter because she had a date with William. On a Friday night. ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes,’ she sang, as she began to get ready. ‘I can have a drink. Or four. Let my hair down. And my knickers – oops, how very, very naughty, Miss Krammer,’ she berated herself, while smirking.
Legs waxed. Check.
Underarms waxed. Check.
Bikini line waxed. Fuck, yes.
Eyebrows plucked. Check.
Best underwear. Check.
Outfit to go on top of best underwear. Hell, no. There was absolutely nothing to wear in the wardrobe.
But that can be put right immediately, with a trip to Oxford Street before an afternoon nap, followed by a sloughing-off in the shower, a thorough moisturizing, a toe-and fingernail inspection and makeup application. How was she going to fit it all in?
At seven thirty, Dee decided she hated her new outfit. It was uncomfortable, wrong for the time of year, wrong with her shoes, wrong with her body. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It was as wrong as her ex-boyfriend taking Seamus up the Marmite motorway, as he probably was right now. As wrong as Christmas in California. As wrong as eating parrot.
She dragged out a pair of jeans and a long, orange, floaty item which she had bought from Karen Millen in the sale, what?, at least eight years ago. Her lipstick and eyeliner were now out of kilter, but sod it. How much did she really fancy William Baron anyway?
She pursed her lips. Actually, quite a lot. Damn.
At eight thirty, having changed into a burgundy dress from a secondhand stall at Camden Market, scraped off her makeup and applied blusher, lip-gloss and a lick of mascara, she was as ready as she was going to be. And late.
‘Hi, William,’ she panted into her mobile, as she ran to the tube, leaping over a tramp who tried to ask for money. ‘I’m running a tad late. Problems at home. I’ll explain later. I’ll be there in half an hour. Sorry. Sorry. Got to go.’
The clock had never seemed to move so fast. The tube took for ever to arrive, with the sign merely flashing up that she was on the Northern Line.
Come on, come on, she willed it, tapping her foot up and down, trying not to get stressed.
She walked into the Oxo Tower on London’s South Bank forty-five minutes late.
William stood up as she approached the table, flustered, with a slight sheen on her top lip.
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she said apologetically, aware that she wasn’t arriving as she had imagined. And probably not as he had either.
He looked at his watch. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, as if he didn’t mean it. ‘Sit down, have a drink and relax. It’s Friday night, the end of the week. What was the problem?’
‘The tube,’ she said. ‘It took for ever to come.’
‘I meant the other problem.’
‘What other problem?’ she asked, confused.
‘The problem at home,’ he stated, nodding internally to himself. Yup, she’d made it up, whatever it wasn’t.
She explained about a neighbour, a cat and a hanging basket, then noticed his expression. ‘You’re right.’ She smiled guiltily. ‘All made up. I had a crisis of confidence. To be honest, I changed outfit three times, lost my keys under the mountain of clothes, and then, honestly, the tube did take for ever to come. I really am truly sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘Normally,’ he said, ‘I would take this opportunity to say that being late is the ultimate rudeness because it implies your time is more valuable than the other person’s. But you’re excused because you look very pretty, and I’m conceited enough to think that it was extra effort for my ben
efit.’ He tipped his head on one side.
‘Cocky,’ she said, emboldened, ‘but true. And you wouldn’t have liked the first outfit, which I bought … which I bought … which I bought …’ She ground to a halt.
‘Which you bought?’ he prompted.
‘Specially,’ she finished. And laughed. ‘Enough of this nonsense. You don’t want to hear me waffle on about that. Let me tell you what happened at Hello Britain! this morning. One of our reporters, David, was doing a piece about an inaugural flight for top nobs to LA. It was supposed to be all Secret Squirrel, because we didn’t have permission to film on board … all those celebrities and everything. Anyway, he got mashed on the plane, with all the free champagne, told the guy next to him that he was filming for television. He told someone else, the captain got to hear of it, came down and said that under no circumstances would there be unauthorized film of that first flight, and confiscated David’s camera and everything. David got off at LA airport, or rather fell off, arse over tit by all accounts, got into a cab and headed for the studio. He was incapable of writing a script. The overnight producer had to send one over to his BlackBerry, which he then voiced, even though he could barely speak. He was so roundly abused on the phone that he says now he’s going to take them to an industrial tribunal for making him cry. Oh, yes, please. I’ll have a dry martini, a dirty dry martini with olives, please,’ she said, as the waitress came to ask her what she would have to drink.
‘Do I take it, then, that we’re in for a good time?’ asked William, approvingly.
‘We may be,’ she confirmed flirtily. ‘Oh, and Keera mentioned today about you doing some strand at work, so we may see a bit more of you.’
He seemed puzzled.
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No. But I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘I’m gratified to be mentioned in a conversation by top television totty.’
‘Do you think she’s top totty?’ she asked searchingly.
He spotted the heffalump trap and sidestepped it neatly. ‘Not as top and tottyish as you. But you must confess she’s easy on the eye.’