Coming Up Next

by Penny Smith

  I will move my hips a little more – like this. And now I flick my head – so. And look how my shirt gapes, with that excellent cleavage. She glanced into a shop window to see her reflection – and in the next, she got a horrible shock.

  No.

  Katie Fisher was on the front pages again.

  She bought the Sun and the Daily Star.

  But as she read the articles while she drank her skinny decaff cappuccino, she realized, with relief, that it was bad news for Katie. The world is smiling on me, she thought. I’m going to have a handsome boyfriend by this evening. And we will be photographed looking beautiful together.

  She flirted a bit with the waiter as she handed over her cash.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but I do think you’re marvellous on Hello Britain!,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘Thanks. Of course you can say that,’ she said, peeping up at him through her silky, silky fringe with her limpid blue eyes. ‘Very nice coffee. See you again.’ She stood up, threw her leather handbag over her shoulder and sashayed out. Only another month before she was on the cover of GQ with her panther. She shivered with anticipation, and almost caused a collision between two men who had been gazing at her like pigeons faced with a fresh sprinkling of breadcrumbs.

  Dee was having a miserable Saturday. She had been buoyed up for a marathon rematch with William and been cancelled at the last minute because ‘something’s come up’. She hadn’t been able to get hold of him to find out more details – or to arrange another dinner. Her only hope was that one of the K Club would come back to her with a plan.

  She had been blissfully unaware of Katie’s predicament until Carina texted her back: ‘Can’t do tonite. R U kidding? Still got hangover! Anyway, we have dinner party. Have you seen the Sun? Do we think Katie is in trouble???’

  Dee went out immediately to her newsagent, bought three papers, a Twix, a Bounty for later, and a scratch card. She ate the Twix on the way home and did the scratch card. How come other people always won money? Her luck was shit. People like Mike landed in shit and came out smelling of roses. She landed in shit and smelled of shit. Or worse, landed in shit, and got Weil’s disease.

  She sat on her sofa, and ate the Bounty while addressing herself to the newspapers. Oh dear, she thought. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. And she couldn’t help but smile. Katie was having an even worse day than she was.

  She peered closer at the photograph. The guy Katie had got off with was really very attractive. And Katie didn’t look too bad in the Friday-morning photos, considering she’d slept the night in a police cell.

  At which point, Dee’s luck turned.

  Kathy phoned to say she was feeling up to another night out – as long as it didn’t involve any alcoholic beverage since she was never drinking again.

  ‘Dinner and a film? Or film, post-film snack and glass of water?’ asked Dee.

  ‘Or could we get tickets to that play at the Royal Court? It’s only fifty minutes long, apparently, and has had really good reviews?’

  They arranged to meet up in the early evening.

  Dee’s mood had completely changed. She hummed as she hunted through the chaos of her flat to find her favourite mug. Whoops. It was so furry, it resembled an installation at the Tate Modern. She lobbed a bit of bleach into it and left it on the side to soak, precariously balanced on a pile of dishes.

  She’d treat herself to a taxi.

  She spent an hour composing a text to Katie, which offered a shoulder if she needed it. No point rubbing salt into the wound with references to TP, she thought. And then, because the day was all clean and new-minted, she walked up to Camden Market for a dose of grime and people.

  Her hair shone in the sun and more than a few men checked her out as she swung past. She noticed, and did a surreptitious check to make sure she didn’t have buttons undone, or her skirt tucked into her pants. Or a spot coming.

  She could do with a table lamp, she thought, as she meandered through the old-stables area, hunting through the bric-a-brac. Dee considered herself one of the world’s foremost collectors. It was only a matter of time before one of her finds turned out to be worth an absolute fortune. There were those who scoffed – Katie, for example, called it tat. But she loved her disparate treasures. Her cornucopia of clutter. Her puppets, ornaments, dolls, boxes, vases, pots, papier-mâché masks. And, as everyone knew, Katie was head of the Church of Minimalism. A ridiculous tidy freak, who would never suddenly discover that she was a millionaire, that something she had bought for peanuts was now worth a king’s ransom.

  Katie had listened to this diatribe once, then tried to pick up one of the alleged treasures to find it stuck to the table with what looked like cheese fondue. Dee’s excuse had been the lack of a cleaner. ‘I’ve tried to get one but they don’t know what’s precious. They throw away the wrong things and they clean some of the others, and break bits off them and don’t tell me. So what am I supposed to do? And I don’t have time,’ she had wailed, as Katie had given her one of her special looks.

  Well, she thought, how many minimalists would be lucky enough to find a half-eaten packet of Quavers in the bed when they were feeling peckish after watching ER last night? Eh? Eh? Put that in your pipe, which you would have tidied away, and smoke it.

  She picked up a faux Tiffany lamp with the perfect combination of lilac and orange, and began to haggle. She was sure they hadn’t realized it was genuine.

  Mike couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the pictures of Katie. He had bought the papers to see if there was any mention of his new project for the BBC with Saskia.

  Katie really did have an admirable kamikaze streak. Which reminded him – he really must sort out the meeting between Keera and his ‘friend’ from the Met. He’d had another email from him, reminding him of his ‘obligations’. He sighed. It pissed him off right royally having to do it. He was enjoying being peevish with Keera. He’d have to get it over and done with on Monday so that he could return to peevishness for the rest of the week. Meanwhile, he took the opportunity of his wife’s absence at a three-hour Pilates session to sort out his box of tricks. He wanted to throw away a few things that had perished, and check what else he needed. Saturday was always a good night for nocturnal activity. And he wanted it ready for the off immediately they came back from the charity ball.

  Charity begins at home, he thought, opening one of the deep drawers in his bedroom and removing the sizeable box from where it was buried under a thin layer of little-used jumpers. He should get a bloody gong for the amount he did for charity – he was constantly giving his time to help the ruddy aged, buy buses for ruddy children, drill water for ruddy parched people, in places he’d never heard of, who should just bloody move. At least it looked good in the photographs, and sometimes you made useful contacts. The last one had resulted in the radio show, in which he was able to indulge in an occasional rant against some of the people he interviewed on Hello Britain! It was, perhaps, a little like biting the hand that fed him but, in the knowledge that he was the best thing that had ever happened to breakfast television, he felt no compulsion to temper his comments.

  Having said that, perhaps it wasn’t his wisest move, saying that the gay lobby had hit a bum note with their campaign to out celebrities.

  Right. He delved into the box. Where was his favourite item?

  Katie ordered a cab to take Bob to the station.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said honestly.

  ‘I’m missing you, and I haven’t gone yet,’ he said, with a wistful smile.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘I ought to tell you something.’

  He looked at her expectantly. ‘Well? Is it a nice something?’

  ‘Not really. No. Not really, at all. The thing is …’

  ‘The thing is … ?’

  ‘The thing is … You know that piece on the news?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s why I came down, if you remember?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway. Can we sit do
wn?’ She led him to the sofa.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What have you done? Is there a body somewhere?’

  ‘Bob,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Katie?’

  ‘The thing is …’

  ‘You’ve said that already. What on earth’s happened?’ He started to look worried.

  ‘That night I was very drunk.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And when I’m very drunk, I get a bit amorous.’

  He moved slightly away from her on the sofa, and she felt his arms tense.

  ‘No. It’s all right. I didn’t, erm, well, you know. Do anything major. But I did kiss him. And they did take photographs. And they’re on the front of the papers. But it didn’t mean anything. Honestly,’ she finished, watching him for his reaction.

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Really,’ she reiterated. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘But you couldn’t wait until you next saw me to feel amorous?’ he asked, sounding wounded.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said, as tears welled. ‘He was there. And I was drunk. I’d had so many Cosmopolitans I barely knew which way was up.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, withdrawing his arm from her shoulders and sitting forward on the sofa.

  The intercom sounded.

  ‘Why did you leave it until now to tell me?’ he asked, as she went to answer it.

  ‘Yes. He’ll be down in a few minutes. Thank you,’ she said into its phone. She turned. ‘I didn’t want to ruin everything.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t think you’d have to tell me and now that the pictures are on the front pages you had to. Coward,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, all right. A bit of that,’ she said, through the tears that were making her voice thick. ‘Yes, I admit it was cowardly. But it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t…’ She went to get a tissue to blow her nose.

  He stood up. ‘I need to think about this,’ he said. ‘I hear what you’re saying about the drink. But I need to think.’ He went to pick up his bag. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thanks for a wonderful night, ruined somewhat by this revelation. I’ll let you know.’ And he went out of the door without saying goodbye.

  Katie burst into proper tears. But a small part of her was annoyed that he considered kissing other people such a big deal.

  However.

  Whatever Bob wanted to do, she would stand by it.

  Definitely, most assuredly, she’d miss him if he chose not to continue their relationship.

  Most definitely, and assuredly, she’d be very happy if he made the opposite choice.

  She looked outside at the cloudless sky. I need food, she thought. A bagel will make me feel better.

  Bob jumped on to the train with minutes to spare, grateful that he didn’t have to wait for the next one. As it was he was only just going to make his goddaughter’s party. He closed his eyes and listened to the conversation going on opposite.

  ‘So I says to him, I says: “If you want me to have the meat delivered round the back door, you’ve got anuvver fink coming.” And you know what he says?’

  He says, thought Bob: ‘I’m the Bishop of Southwark, and this is what I do.’ And he smirked. Not that he had smirked as he read the papers he had bought on the station platform.

  He had studied the photographs. He had read the story, his stomach lurching unpleasantly. He had revisited the pictures. He was sufficiently a man of the world to know that photographs could be subtly altered. But he could see no way round the fact that his girlfriend, the woman he had come to consider a possible partner for life, appeared to be passionately kissing another man. It made him feel sick. It made him feel like an idiot. He’d rushed down to comfort her, and had this thrown in his face.

  He opened his eyes and sat looking out of the window at the English countryside slipping past him in a slide of Whistler green. He thought of his friends. Of his mother. Of what they would advise him to do. After many hours of deliberation, he made his decision.

  He drove home from the station with such a tight jaw his teeth ached. Yesterday he had gone to London full of promise. Today he was returning with shattered dreams. He gave himself a mental shake.

  He drove straight to Harry and Sophie’s.

  ‘Hello, Squidgy Bottom.’ He smiled as Elizabeth opened the door, with Sophie behind her.

  ‘I don’t take kindly to being called Squidgy Bottom,’ said Sophie sternly.

  Elizabeth giggled. ‘But it ith, Mummy,’ she lisped, poking Sophie’s bottom with a dirty finger.

  ‘Whereas you,’ said Sophie, ‘have a peachy, edible bottom.’

  ‘Why thank you, kind lady,’ said Bob, bowing at the waist.

  ‘She meanth me!’ shouted Elizabeth, running off to a gaggle of small girls smelling of angel cakes and Smarties.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Sophie. ‘She’s been excited about seeing you. And I know you had to cut short a weekend in London. How was it?’ she asked, giving him a searching look.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, not smiling. ‘How’s the birthday girl?’

  ‘Full of sugar and bouncing off the walls. So we’re very grateful for the space-hopper you gave her. She can bounce off safely. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A bit tired, that’s all. Long train journey.’ And he went through to join the party.

  Later, helping to clear away the pink, fluffy, trodden-under-foot mess, he asked Harry when his weekend to Kerry was happening.

  ‘Not a satisfactory trip to London?’ asked Harry.

  Bob made a face. ‘That obvious?’

  Harry paused, his hand on the snout of a lilac pony with its mane missing. ‘Pretty obvious,’ he said. ‘Considering that I saw you yesterday on the way to the station in radiant good health, with “Off For A Shag” tattooed on your forehead.’

  ‘Have you seen today’s papers?’ asked Bob, and when Harry shook his head, he described what was in them. ‘Consequently,’ he said, ‘I’m not feeling tip-top, as they say. Actually, you know what? I don’t want to talk about it. When’s that weekend?’

  Keera rang her contact to tell him that she could be found that evening at the Ivy, dining with a man whose name was William Baron, a lifestyle guru. ‘We’ll be arriving at eight, and leaving at about … Oh, who knows what time we’ll be leaving?’ she simpered.

  The contact put her name on the list of that evening’s possibles.

  The planets were aligned in her favour. No major stars were elsewhere in the constellation that night so Keera’s wish came true.

  William was delighted. ‘How awful,’ he said, through the flashguns, as he guided her into the restaurant. ‘We should have chosen somewhere more discreet.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I should have thought … But then again, we’re single, aren’t we? So it’s not as though we’re doing anything illegal.’ She smiled up at him, the smile she had perfected through hours in front of the mirror from the age of eight.

  He smiled back, the smile he had practised every day in the bathroom mirror since he could stand on tiptoe and see more than his fringe.

  He ordered consommé and grilled fish, with a side order of steamed spinach. Keera admired his choices and opted for a green salad and half a dozen oysters, with a side order of peas and carrots. ‘Should we go mad and have a glass of wine?’ she asked, looking up through her impeccably mascaraed lashes.

  ‘It is Saturday night,’ he murmured. ‘We could go utterly insane and have a whole bottle.’

  ‘But that would be insanity on a grand scale,’ she averred.

  ‘I see a perky little pouilly fumé,’ he said, his eyes gesturing to the wine list.

  ‘As long as it’s white wine,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is. There’s also a sneaky sancerre. Or a sincere sauvignon.’

  ‘They all sound very enticing,’ she said, and selected an enticing posture from her vast repertoire of poses.

  The waiter waited, th
en told them he would come back for their wine order.

  The evening flew by.

  They discovered they were kindred spirits.

  ‘Books are generally not worth the paper they’re printed on,’ proclaimed William.

  ‘Although I did love The Road Less Travelled,’ said Keera.

  ‘But that’s a self-help book. Those are the only books worth having.’

  ‘And what’s your favourite film?’ she asked.

  ‘I liked Lord of the Rings, couldn’t get enough of those Orcs,’ he said.

  ‘Ooo. And Sean Bean as Aragorn,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, I don’t think it was him. It was a Danish guy. Scandinavian anyway. But, yes, he was brilliant. Well, they all were. What film would you choose for your desert island?’

  She thought for a minute, putting her head on one side and choosing ‘winsome’ from her Rolodex of expressions. ‘I think,’ she said, taking the minutest sip from her glass of sauvignon blanc, ‘that my favourite would have to be…’ She tailed off. Think, think, think, she thought. Which one should I pick? ‘My very favourite would be … You know, actually I love films like Finding Nemo. Films with a heart. And it’s funny. Obviously it’s not my favourite film,’ she added, seeing his slightly disbelieving expression. ‘That would have to be – erm – Life Is Beautiful,’ she said, with a flash of inspiration. She had been early for dinner, and had stopped to read the offerings at an art-house cinema round the corner.

  ‘A fan of the foreign film, eh?’ asked William, with renewed interest.

  Whoops! She hadn’t realized it was foreign. ‘Mm-hmm.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘What about your favourite actor and actress?’

  And on it went.

  Apart from the minor blip with the foreign film, Keera felt she had acquitted herself well. She had drunk an adequate amount to prove she was no prude. She had eaten sparingly so that her stomach had not distended. She had been witty and entertaining.

  William was also feeling quietly confident. The sofa queen was much higher status than the weather bimbo. She was also a careful eater, unlike Dee. And – it was a big and – she knew you had to be on time and not have stains on your clothing before you had even started eating. He wondered if it was too early to suggest a nightcap.