by Penny Smith
She remembered the heavenly kiss. She remembered flashes of dancing. And she definitely remembered the photographer getting right up her nose. She didn’t remember the woman getting hit, except that there had been a struggle and it wasn’t her fault.
At seven a.m., she was let out of the cell, and given the opportunity to make a statement. ‘I need to make a phone call before I do that,’ she said, and rang Jim Break.
He wasn’t thrilled to be woken up, even less so to discover why. ‘All right. I’m on my way,’ he said, snapping into action. ‘I’ll get a lawyer en route. Don’t say anything – and I mean anything – until we get there.’
The process was interminable. Endless policemen and-women seemed to be involved (most, she found out later, would have come in for a gawp), but eventually it was over and she was charged with assault occasioning actual bodily harm and released on bail.
A clutch of photographers and reporters had arrived to witness her leaving. Jim had organized an emergency delivery of makeup, but Katie was hardly looking her best. In fact the night on the tiles, followed by sleep deprivation, meant that she looked like death eating a sandwich.
‘I feel like a bag of spanners,’ she said, as they walked to the doors. ‘I should have asked you to bring me some other clothes to change into. A crumpled dress and high heels is not the look I generally aim for when I need a new job. Now, do I do the “Here comes the skateboarding duck” face? Or the serious “Thousands of dogs to be put down” face?’
Jim suggested a smile. ‘No point in looking like you think you did it. And, after all, no one’s died.’
‘My career?’ she queried, as they stepped outside to a barrage of clicks and flashes.
‘I’m not allowed to tell you anything,’ she replied, to the shouts directed at her by the reporters.
Jim led her to the car as the photographers tripped over themselves to get their shots, thrusting their cameras right up against the car’s windows as it drove away.
‘Well, I think that was a very successful evening’s work,’ said Katie, cynically.
‘Yes,’ said Jim, turning to look at her in the back seat. ‘Not much more you could have done, really. Incidentally, you mentioned you were on a girls’ night out and that you left with a man called Krishnan Casey. What happened to him? Do you have his number? He might be quite useful in terms of backing up your story.’
‘Rather foolishly I forgot to get it. I didn’t think I’d need it. I wasn’t planning on a long relationship and marriage.’
‘So that’s something else they can write about, as if they haven’t got enough. I’m assuming he’ll be in the pictures?’
‘Well, they can’t show those, can they?’ asked Katie, horrified. ‘Aren’t they sub judice?’
‘I’m sure they’ll get round it. What were you doing with this bloke when the photographs were being taken?’
‘Kissing?’ she ventured, and paused.
‘And?’ he said.
‘And I think I fell over and he helped me up.’
‘Excellent. This couldn’t be better, really. Not. Let’s hope he rings up and offers his support in your court case – if there is a court case, the best scenario being that the woman decides not to press charges.’
‘Or press charges against the real culprit,’ said Katie, waspishly. ‘You may be forgetting that I’m the injured party here. I was minding my own business when I was assaulted. It was his camera that bashed her. Wielded by him.’
‘Only he wasn’t plastered. Plus he hasn’t just been released from his post on Britain’s foremost breakfast-television show,’ Jim stated heavily, looking out at the lunch-time traffic.
‘Oh, so I’m guilty because I’m famous?’
‘Something like that,’ he replied. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You know as well as I do what the police are like in cases involving celebrities. You’ll get the book thrown at you even if you only had one fingernail on the “blunt instrument”.’
Suddenly Katie had the most ghastly thought. If the pictures appeared of her and Krishnan, a landscape gardener in Yorkshire was going to be about as happy as Rik Waller at a salad bar. And her brother would tear her off a strip. Several strips. Possibly using his surgical tools. Flayed so close, she’d be able to sunbathe in her bones. Oh, well. Can’t do anything about it. It’s in the lap of the gods, she thought. I am never drinking again.
‘Do we cover it?’ asked Colin, Hello Britainl’s news editor, at the morning meeting.
The editor, Simon, smirked. ‘I think we do. After all, she doesn’t work for us any more. There’s no obvious Monday angle, but if you, John,’ he said, nodding at one of the reporters, ‘can work on it. Maybe we do something about binge drinking. Check through PA and Reuters, see if there’s anything we can peg it to. And we can get a commentator on it, and show the shots of her leaving the police station.’
Keera was the last out, and turned with her hand on the doorknob. ‘Simon,’ she smiled at him, ‘I wondered if I might have a word about a strand I think would be really good for our viewers.’
He assented, and she sat down, letting her thighs part gently so that he had a nice view.
Twenty minutes later, she had been given the green light to have William Baron ‘stripped’ across five mornings.
She emailed him the good news immediately, and suggested a dinner meeting.
William was in a bit of a quandary. Keera’s email couldn’t have been more obvious. This was dinner with a hint. A hint as obvious as Hagrid at a party for dwarfs. She was after him. And she was definitely a prize worth having. Did he need to put the brakes on Dee before he had dinner with Keera? He liked her well enough, but she wasn’t as high profile. And, come to think of it, she ate like a horse. And she’d got stroppy with him when he’d been explaining his theory on porkers. Anyone would think she was fat. In all truthfulness, she was a muddle round the middle. But more of an issue was the tardiness … the muddle in the brain.
Where Keera was as trim and toned as a racing snake.
For half an hour, he mulled over the pros and cons. Then he sent an email to Keera. ‘Carpe diem,’ he wrote. ‘Whenever and wherever. Look forward to it.’
The response was swift.
She had looked up carpe diem in the Internet dictionary. ‘Tomorrow night?’ she wrote. ‘The Ivy?’ She knew there would be a snapper outside to witness the moment. Particularly if she made sure of it. And the deed was done.
He pursed his lips. Now to get rid of the weather girl. He checked his watch. Mid-morning. She’d be asleep. He phoned her mobile and left a long message: something had come up and he had to cancel their dinner tomorrow but would be in touch to reconvene. If he was lucky, he thought, she’d get to hear from Keera where he’d been and not bother him. He hoped she was the type with too much pride to grovel. He stood in front of the mirror, flexed his biceps, turned sideways and jutted out his jaw. ‘Which way’s the beach?’ he asked his reflection. And stretched out one long, sinewy arm. ‘That way, ma’am.’ He gave himself a satisfied smile. ‘You,’ he pointed at himself in the mirror, ‘are on your way to fame, fortune and a happy future with a beautiful assistant. I am Dr Who. Conquering stars. With a star. If that isn’t too complicated?’ he asked himself, and gave himself a wry, devastatingly handsome nod.
The BBC press office had put out the information about their new show to be presented by Mike Dyson and Saskia Miller.
The producer, Kuldeep, bumped into Sam on the way to the canteen. ‘Have you heard the news about Katie Fisher?’ she asked him.
‘Yes. That was a lucky escape,’ he commented, moving aside as an audience stampeded past for an early recording in studio six. ‘Although on the basis that all publicity is good publicity … there will, no doubt, be a lot of it about. And there’s always the distinct possibility that she’s not guilty,’ he said.
‘Whether she is or isn’t, she may be a bit busy for the next few weeks. Not what you want with a new show. Sorry, the presenter can’t be
here. She’s up before the beak.’ Kuldeep laughed.
‘Suppose so. Are you after coffee?’ he asked, as they reached the counter.
‘Caffè latte, please,’ she answered. ‘Double espresso caffè latte. Soya milk.’
He reached forward to take a croissant off the shelf and put it on his tray. ‘God, life was so much easier before. Coffee or no coffee,’ he said.
‘Blah-blah-blah,’ said Kuldeep. ‘When men were men. And women knew their place. And children were seen and not heard. And when, as an Indian, the most you could aspire to was a corner shop. It must be awful to have to remember so many words when ordering a coffee…’ She smiled at him to take the sting out of her words.
There was a pause.
He said, ‘I hate to admit it, but I’ve forgotten what you wanted. Double espresso with soya milk … erm, latte?’
‘Exactly. Thank you. And I do think we’ve made the right choice with the presenters. So does everyone else on the programme.’
Katie got home, showered, washed her hair, spent a long time cleaning her teeth, flossed, ironed some clothes to put on, blow-dried her hair, and when she had run out of things she could tell herself were imperative, she phoned her parents. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she said. ‘Can I speak to Dad, please?’
Her mother harrumphed slightly, but carried the hands-free phone to her husband, who was in the middle of boning an organic chicken.
‘Hold on a minute, Katie. He’s just washing his hands. How are you?’
‘Fine, Mum. I need a quick word with Dad first.’ She heard her mother chivvying him, and then he was on the line. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘I’m in a spot of bother, you’re not to worry, and I didn’t do it. And now I’ve said that, I’ll start at the beginning. Do you need to sit down while I tell you?’
‘No, no,’ he said, sounding concerned. ‘I’ll stay in the kitchen. Got to keep an eye on the chicken – you know how Hercules likes to have his lunch cold, uncooked – and first. So, what have you been up to?’
And Katie told him, including the Krishnan bit, but leaving out the kissing. No point in making things worse, if it wasn’t necessary. But she needed him to be on her side if Ben had a go at her. So she stressed how many Cosmopolitans she’d had – and that all the other girls had been in a similar position. It wasn’t only her.
‘It’s already been on some of the early news bulletins apparently,’ she told him, ‘but obviously the usual rules apply. Don’t talk to anyone about it. Even if they don’t say they’re a journalist. That way it’s safer. You can say you’ve spoken to me about it and that you know what happened, but you can’t speak about it. I think that should be all right.’ She stopped. ‘And if you see Bob. If you see Bob …’ she trailed off. ‘Do you think you will see him? Do you see him often?’
‘No,’ her dad smiled at the other end of the phone. ‘No, we don’t. Your mother’s finished the painting of the wilting wisteria, or whatever it was supposed to be. It’s up in her “office”, looking remarkably like a combination of an autopsy and Fungus the Bogeyman.’
‘Nice,’ remarked Katie. ‘Well, if you do see him, say … say … say … could you say that I left a message for you and you haven’t spoken to me yet?’
‘If I must,’ said her father, ‘but you know I’m not very good at lying. Shouldn’t you talk to him now, if it’s so important?’
‘I will. Not just yet, though. I need to be a little more compos mentis. And at the moment I feel like compost. Full stop. With a T.’
‘That’s probably what you need – a nice big cup of strong tea. Anyway, we probably won’t see him. Don’t worry. And you honestly think you won’t end up being charged?’
‘Highly unlikely,’ she said, crossing her fingers.
‘Well, I’d better get back to my chicken.’
‘I bet it’s trying to get to the other side, as we speak,’ responded Katie.
‘What?’
‘Chickens. They’re always trying to get to the other side of the road, aren’t they? It’s a joke, Dad.’
‘If you say so. Hercules, stop that! Katie, I’ve got to go. Hercules.’
Katie heard the noise of dog claws scraping along the floor and imagined Hercules being dragged away from the chicken by the scruff of his neck.
The phone went dead.
Katie wandered round the flat, trying to work out how she was going to broach the subject with Bob. It had to be done. But she would tidy another section of her wardrobe first – things were so jam-packed in that the day before she had discovered an unworn, new dress squished behind some of the hangers.
The day before.
The day before the wretched incident.
If only.
She pulled the phone plug out of the socket, and put her mobile on silent. For an hour, she was able to lose her brain in the mindless pursuit of cupboard tidiness. How therapeutic was chucking things away? With each toss of a dress, she felt better. Every jacket that hit the pile made her situation less hideous. Finally she got to the other end of the wardrobe.
Excellent, she thought. I can see what I have. I only have that which fits me or makes me look nice. I no longer have size-eight items that I cannot – and never could – get into comfortably. I have ejected that which is of a colour unfashionable or of a cut unflattering. I have rejected those things that are wretched and embraced those that are harmonious. Blessed are the weak, for they will inherit the wardrobe.
Although it would have been better if they’d been weak in an area of life other than the demon drink.
Damn. I must phone Bob.
She looked at her watch.
She’d do another twenty minutes.
She set about putting all the jackets in one section, dresses in another, skirts by the trousers, then colour-sectioned them.
If it hadn’t been for the doorbell, she would have spent the entire afternoon in the cupboards.
She stood stock still. Looked at her watch. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Was she? The buzzer went again.
She went to the intercom and stood there uncertainly.
It sounded again, making her jump.
‘Hallooo, who eees dat?’ she said, in a bad impersonation.
‘Katie, it’s Bob,’ he said. She could hear him smiling, even through the crappy intercom phone.
She hesitated. Could she pretend it wasn’t her? No. He knew. And what else did he know?
Did he know about the arrest?
About Krishnan?
She buzzed him in. Rushed to the mirror to check herself, then went to open the door.
He looked utterly gorgeous, blond hair rumpled, blue shirt undone a few buttons to show the deliciously hairy chest. And he was carrying flowers. He smiled at her, and crushed her in an embrace that made her head spin. ‘I heard the news and thought you might need cheering up,’ he breathed on to the top of her head.
‘Who told you?’
‘I happened to be listening to the local radio station when it was mentioned. You as a famous local person and all that. I got straight on the train. If I’d stayed I’d only be worrying about you. Are you all right?’ He moved her slightly away from him and gazed at her with concerned blue eyes.
‘Fine. Ish,’ she said, and moved to take the flowers from him. ‘I’ll put these in water. Do you want anything to drink?’
‘Cup of tea? I’m desperate. The buffet queue was so long. Although,’ he said, as he followed her into the kitchen, ‘now I come to think of it, I could leave the cup of tea for a short while.’ He put his arms round her and kissed her so hard that she wondered if one of your actual faints was coming on.
He pulled back, a sun god in her kitchen, with his tanned arms and a spectacular bulge in his jeans. She raced him through to the bedroom, staggering a little over the clothes on the floor, and tumbled on to the duvet.
She wouldn’t tell him about Krishnan. Or should she? When should she? She stopped thinking, as what was happening consumed every inch of her brain.
The
next morning brought a call from her brother, among the umpteen others she had had about ‘the incident’.
‘You are in big shit, Katie,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Thank you for asking,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. And I’ll think you’ll find it was an accident after a few too many drinks. It’ll blow over within a week. Tomorrow’s fish and chips.’
‘I’m talking about the photographs in the papers today. Obviously drunk. And with your tongue down some bloke’s throat.’
She should have told Bob. This wasn’t going to look good. ‘I was drunk,’ she interjected feebly.
‘Like that’s a sensible excuse,’ said Ben. ‘But you’ve put me in a bloody awkward position. I never minded what you got up to in the privacy of your own home … but it just screams that you’re a – well. Whatever. I mean. At least dump Bob before taking up with someone else. He’s a friend. What can I say? It’s out of order.’ He stopped. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m still here,’ said Katie. ‘But I’ve got someone with me right now,’ she said, in a pointed fashion. ‘Can I call you back later?’
‘Is it that bloke who’s in the picture?’
‘No. I’ll call you back.’ She put the phone down.
This, thought Katie, is like a bad farce.
‘Who was that?’ asked Bob, as he came out of the bathroom after a shower, a towel wrapped loosely round his muscular torso.
‘Jehovah’s Witness. Told them I was polishing the satyr’s hoofs and could I call them back,’ she said. She bit her lip pensively, then made a decision.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was Saturday, the big night out for breakfast-television presenters, and it was going to be a big night out for Keera. She was going on a date. And it was going to be in the papers. Oh, yes. She swayed down the road, her long black hair swishing gently about her shoulders, thinking of how she looked.