Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  Louise recognised the woman instantly, although the two had never met. Liz Henderson was her father’s assistant. She was openly pleasant, possessed of a heart-warming smile and exuded nothing short of perpetual happiness.

  Louise hated her already.

  “Lou,” Corsac said, “allow me to introduce you to the brains and the beauty behind Deadlock.”

  “Charmed,” Louise said as Corsac made the introductions. The two women shook hands limply. Liz’s smile lost its edge, of which Louise was insatiably glad. “Nice duds.”

  “Thanks,” Liz said, awkwardly uncertain whether Louise was being sarcastic.

  “I don’t remember many game shows these days having assistants,” Louise said. “Must be a throwback to the eighties.”

  “Countdown does,” Corsac offered helpfully.

  “Right,” Louise said dryly. “My mistake.”

  “Your father’s told me a lot about you,” Liz said, trying to recapture a modicum of respect in the conversation.

  “Not really much to tell,” Louise replied, rising. “Look, Dad, I’m gonna let you get on, you obviously need to get back to work.”

  “Sure,” Corsac said. “You staying around for the filming of the final?”

  “I have to be somewhere.”

  “Steve?”

  “Daaad.”

  “Sorry, I’ll try not to judge.”

  “You do that. Thanks for lunch.” Louise kissed her father and said something polite to the half-dressed woman before moving for the exit.

  *

  Once she was alone again with the comedian, Liz exhaled slowly. “I sense she doesn’t like me much.”

  “Lou? Don’t be silly, Lou doesn’t dislike anybody.”

  “Right,” Liz said dryly. “My mistake.”

  They headed back to the studio together although neither spoke, for they were lost in their own thoughts. Both were thinking of Louise. Liz didn’t understand why it was Louise had been so openly hostile, even if her father couldn’t see it. Did Louise feel that she was trying to take her place? Liz worked with Corsac, she certainly didn’t want to be considered his daughter. Besides, no self-respecting father would allow his daughter to wear what Liz was wearing, let alone work alongside her while she did so.

  The rest of the shoot progressed without any problems and the filming began to wind down. Corsac knew they would both be needed for reshoots and close-ups, and while the studio floor was being cleared he headed over to a chair to take off his shoes. His feet were killing him and it was a godsend just to be able to stretch his toes at last.

  “Getting too old for this,” he griped as Liz took a seat beside him.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, drinking from a bottle of water before handing it across to Corsac. “Best years ahead of you yet.”

  “Nice of you to say so, but I still wish I could do this thing sitting down.”

  “You could always ask whether they’ll change the format.”

  “Might wait ‘til I’m indispensable first.”

  Diana Troupe came over to have a few words with each of them, nothing major, and left again to try and sort out some new camera angle. Apparently the director had had an idea and Troupe was trying to accommodate despite it being more likely (her words) that Jesus would come on stage for them and perform the fandango.

  “How many kids do you have, Jack?” Liz asked while they were still waiting.

  “Two. Lou and Sam. Sam’s the eldest.”

  “No sons?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Me what?”

  “Kids?”

  “God no, far too young for that.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you feel old or anything.”

  “No problem. Back pains make me feel old, having to take my shoes off between shoots and wanting to be able to ask for a chair makes me feel old. Having daughters ... now that’s something that makes me feel young.”

  “Proud of them, aren’t you?”

  Corsac smiled. “They’ve both done well for themselves, and they’re nice people. What more could a father want?”

  “I, uh, couldn’t help overhearing before. You don’t talk to the other one much?”

  “Sam? We have differences of opinion, that’s all.”

  “And you don’t talk to her because of it?”

  “I don’t not talk to her. Hey, she got me this job.”

  “Good. It’s not nice when kids don’t talk to their parents.”

  Corsac could sense sadness to her tone but he didn’t press. It wasn’t that he respected Liz and didn’t want to pry, since he was sure she would share if he asked. It was because he had only just begun to sort out his own problems and didn’t want someone dumping a whole new load on him. Liz was a good kid, she was fun to be around and was helping to make his transition to television relatively painless, but he really didn’t want to become her agony uncle.

  The remainder of the shoot went fine and they wound down for the day while there was still some light outside. Liz asked him whether he wanted to go out that night but all Corsac wanted to do was head home. He was exhausted after the day’s shooting, after so many days shooting in fact. He just needed to get home and put his feet up. Not that he would have said any of that to Liz, however, for she was young and sprightly and everything else he no longer was.

  Corsac didn’t phone Sam when he got in. He meant to, but he was tired and he forgot. He remembered only when he was almost asleep. “I’ll ring her tomorrow,” he said to himself in a sleepy daze, but knew he didn’t mean it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Tangerine. Satsuma. Onion, banana ... uh ...”

  “Come on,” urged Corsac helpfully. “Sour yellow fruit.”

  “Nectarine. Oh, lemon, yeah.”

  The gong sounded and was accompanied by the jovial voice of Jack Corsac. “And that’s deadlock!”

  The player seemed relieved the final was over, despite ‘fruit and vegetables’ being a (Corsac considered) relatively easy subject. In fact, potentially the easiest he could have been given. The contestant’s name was Dan and he was a loser. That much was clear just by looking at him, although of course Corsac would not have been foolish enough to say so to the man’s face, or to the cameras.

  The producer made a quick count up of the correct answers Dan had provided and spoke through Corsac’s earpiece. “By my count,” he said (which of course it wasn’t), “you’ve provided seventeen correct answers. One hundred pounds per five correct answers means you’ve just earned yourself three hundred pounds!”

  There was a cheer from the studio audience, mainly because they were told to cheer at that point. Corsac could not help but liken game shows to Nazi Germany. People were told to applaud, they would applaud; they were told to groan, they would groan; they were told to salute, they would no doubt salute. Or else be evicted. Corsac didn’t much like the analogy, since he realised who that would make him, and promptly forgot he ever thought it.

  “Three hundred pounds,” Corsac replied, wishing they could give away proper money like on the other shows. “Nothing to be sneezed at there, Dan. What are you gonna spend it on?” Not ‘Will three hundred pounds change your life?’ because that would have just been stupid.

  “Take my girlfriend out, I think,” Dan replied.

  “That’s quite a night out,” Corsac replied, all the while thinking ‘Like you have a girlfriend, loser.’ He looked back to the camera. “And that’s all from us. So I’ll leave you with this thought. We all complain about paying tax, right? But we only most of us work an eight-hour day, which is a third of the day. Tax is roughly a third of our pay, so we’re really only working for one third and we’re getting paid for two.” He smiled briefly to let that sink in. “Coincidence? Night, all!”

  Of course, it wasn’t night, but Corsac had got into the habit of saying that and it had stuck. He knew Castle was hoping it would become a catchphrase, but Corsac had his doubts. The thought of the
day at the end of each episode had been Corsac’s own idea. It allowed him to get some more jokes into his performance and also enabled him to have the final say on things. Hopefully more people would stay watching right up until the end if they thought they were going to get a joke or two more out of their viewing. Many shows adopted this strategy, but it was while he had been watching Have I Got News For You? that it had come to him. He’d run it past Castle and the director had been more than happy to accommodate. “This is your show more than anyone else’s Jack,” he had said. “Just shows to go why it was a good idea hiring you. Any little touches you can add to make people remember that, they’re all fine with me. Just don’t forget to run ‘em by me first, yeah?”

  Corsac replied that he would. The jokes had been added and seemed to be going down well so far.

  Walking from the set, Corsac met Liz, who offered him a water flask and an encouraging smile. “Halfway through, Mr J. Just two more shows to do and that’s us for the night.”

  Corsac nodded. This work was more exhausting than he had thought it would be. They were showing five episodes a week but filming up to four a day. Most days they filmed only two, but today the quota was four. This allowed for Corsac and Liz to take holidays, Castle had explained, and for the show to still air five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Corsac had enquired whether they were considering a special Christmas episode and Castle had confirmed that an idea was certainly on the cards. There was even talk of them moving to Saturday as well, for the show had proved highly popular. Corsac didn’t know what that would mean to his schedule, but in all honesty he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “You heard the news?” Liz asked as Castle drank from the offered canteen.

  “News?”

  “Well, rumour actually. We might be going to evenings.”

  “Evenings?”

  Liz nodded. Presently they were being allocated the midday slot. It was scheduled for homemakers, people on holiday and general layabouts, but the real viewing figures would be found later in the day. Half fourish would have been fine, but there were even more popular shows airing at eight or half eight.

  “How much of that is confirmed?” Corsac asked.

  “None of it. That’s why it’s a rumour.”

  “Would mean more prize money,” Corsac reflected glumly.

  “Would mean more money for us, you mean.”

  “That too.”

  “You know,” Liz said half-teasingly, “sometimes I think you care more about the show than you do yourself, Mr J.”

  “Maybe I just want to be remembered, Liz. You get to my age, money doesn’t mean much any more and you just want people to like you.”

  “Again with the age thing.” She crossed her bare legs and Corsac tried desperately not to look at them. He glanced across, was met with her cleavage (and what lovely cleavage it was) and settled on staring at his flask. “You’re only as old as you feel, Mr J. Or as old as you act.”

  “I’m turning into a grumpy old man.”

  “You don’t have to be old to be one of those. Trust me, I’ve dated a couple of those myself.”

  “No, seriously. Out there, I was ripping apart that poor guy. Don’t know why, I just had it in for him.”

  “Who? Dan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can see why. Loser. Oh, I’ll take my girlfriend out.” She imitated Dan’s voice to perfection and clucked her tongue. “As if the guy even has a girlfriend.”

  “Weirdly, that’s just what I was thinking.”

  “Three hundred quid? You don’t take your girl out with three hundred quid unless you’re dating a royal or something. I mean, loser!”

  “He’s not still around is he?”

  “Like I care? And did you see the way he kept staring at me?”

  “No. What way did he keep staring at you?”

  “Like that.”

  “Sorry.” Corsac had only been staring at her for comical effect, or so he told himself. Still, she did have wonderful cleavage. “Speaking of girlfriends, you met anyone else yet?”

  “Why, you offering?”

  Corsac laughed. “If I was forty years younger, maybe.”

  “Mr J, if you were forty years younger you’d be fifteen and I wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Which makes no mention of whether you’re interested now.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Seriously though,” Corsac said, “you OK?” Liz had told him all about her bad experience with her last man, or at least some of it. He knew the guy’s name was Richard, but that was about it. He knew some of the details, but Liz had said very little about the situation. Whether Richard was the person Liz was arguing with when Corsac had first met her in the pub he still didn’t know. Nor had he asked.

  “Me?” she asked, too quickly. “I’m fine. Never better. I’m seeing someone now actually, if that’s what you mean.”

  It was precisely what Corsac meant, although he couldn’t piece together how she knew it was what he meant. “Good,” he said. Then coughed. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was silence between the two of them for several minutes. Around them the various studio hands bustled about their chores, getting the set ready for the filming of the next edition of the show. The pyramid was polished (they’d abandoned the computer pyramid in favour of a seven-foot physical one – if nothing else, it gave Liz something to do since she had to spin the letters around as they were called out to show everyone a blank side). There were far too many people around with brooms for this to be natural, and all the while Diana Troupe was directing her army as though they were her own private empire. Corsac could see the next two contestants through an open doorway. He knew they were being told the procedures, what they could and could not do. Corsac had seen the process several times already and had no desire to waste time spying on them.

  “You know,” Liz said after that lengthy pause, “I think I may be turning into a grumpy old man, too.”

  “You?”

  “We both pulled apart that guy Dan. What does that tell you?”

  “That the guy deserved to be pulled apart.”

  “Or maybe we just let ourselves get annoyed by everything.”

  “I don’t know, Liz, the world is pretty annoying at the best of times.”

  “Maybe people don’t mean to do things to annoy you. Maybe they just think it’s normal.”

  Corsac laughed.

  “And who’s to say what’s normal?” Liz continued. “I mean, if we all conformed, the world would be a boring place, right?”

  “Speaking as a comedian, conforming is never a good idea, Liz. Makes people see you as ordinary, when a good comedian needs to be extraordinary.”

  “And maybe we’re just too hard on people.”

  It was at this point that Corsac realised Liz wasn’t hearing a word he was saying; nor were they even having the same conversation. Corsac was making small talk, but Liz seemed to be revealing something she never had before: something to do with her past. Corsac thought of Richard, tried to bring to mind everything he knew of the man, which was very little. If there was a reason in Liz’s ramblings to explain why she split up with Richard, maybe she would talk about it without meaning to. Of course, Corsac had always claimed he didn’t care one way or the other whether Liz wanted to open up to him, but the truth was he was curious. Just as every human being was curious to know the affairs of others, so too was Corsac.

  Corsac recalled the tale from the Arabian Nights where a man had the ability to talk to animals but should he ever reveal that ability he would die. His wife nagged him to reveal it and he almost did, until he overheard his cockerel laughing at how the man was ruled by his wife: ruled by the human race’s insatiable appetite to know one another’s business.

  “It’s Richard, isn’t it?” Corsac asked and instantly Liz was back with him. Her stare was more a glower without actually being
hostile, but her face softened within moments and she shook her head even as she averted her gaze.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I was too rough on him.”

  “So you left him?” Corsac asked, merely for conformation.

  Liz nodded. “Rich is ... I don’t know what the word is for it, but I know there is one.”

  “Weird?”

  “In layman’s terms. But it’s more than that. He has some form of ...” she shook her head again. “I really don’t like talking about it.”

  “Up to you. Just let me know if you ever change your mind.”

  “Thanks.”

  “‘Sokay.”

  “No, I mean it, thanks.” She laid a hand upon his knee and offered it a squeeze. She attempted a smile as well, but that didn’t work out so well.

  “Jack! Liz! You’re up.”

  “That’s us,” Liz said, rising at the sound of Castle’s voice. “Places, Mr J.”

  Corsac remained seated for several moments, watching her go. More particularly watching the gentle and natural sway of her hips as she trotted back to her position. Tearing his eyes from her, Corsac admonished himself, blamed the drink he hadn’t had in far too many years, and rose, brushing himself down and heading off to his own place. His make-up people would come to touch him up shortly. For that one fleeting moment, however, Corsac wished there would be different hands touching him up after the show.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Marie wasn’t home. Corsac found a note attached to the fridge by a browning banana magnet (even banana magnets turned brown eventually) saying “Gone out with the girls from art class. See you soon. Dinner’s in the microwave.”

  Art class. Corsac had forgotten she had started that up again. Marie was in her sixties and had been selling her paintings for at least twenty of those years, yet she still felt she needed to go to evening art classes. There’s always something new to learn, she’d say. It was something of a motto, although Corsac didn’t believe it. He firmly believed everyone would reach a point in their lives when they would clam up their minds and refuse to take in any new information. With some people it happened when they were six years old, with some sixty: in the main he’d always figured it happened when people hit thirty. Marie just hadn’t reached that point in her life yet, but as soon as she did, he knew she would have one hell of a shock.