by Adam Carter
“He’s always tired,” Sam said, “and he works late.”
“Presumably,” Marie said, “he’s always tired because he works late.”
“Presumably,” Sam echoed. There was something to her tone, but neither her sister nor her mother could understand just what it was. “So he works late and he’s tired,” Sam continued, “and he’s happier now, just not around you.”
“Because he’s tired,” Marie said quickly.
“Because he’s tired,” Sam agreed, even though she didn’t. Her mind was still racing. “Would it be right to say he’s cold with you nowadays, Mum?”
“Cold?” She thought about that a moment. “No, no I wouldn’t say cold. More ... I don’t know, like he’s got something else on his mind. Probably his work,” she laughed.
“So he’s not cold?” Sam asked.
“No. More ... vacant.”
Sam closed her eyes. That was not the answer she had wanted, but it was the one she knew she was going to get.
“You all right, dear?” Marie asked.
Sam opened her eyes and managed a smile. “Yeah, fine. Sorry, just ... head’s pounding. That’s all.”
“Oh dear,” Marie said. “We should stop off at a chemist and get you something for that.”
“Sure, Mum. Let’s get these presents sorted out first, yeah?”
The remainder of the shopping trip did nothing for Sam’s spirits, for she knew something now she had not before, something she had not even suspected before. She knew something she did not want her mother or her sister to know. She was not aware of the specifics, but she had a pretty good idea about them. She would have to sort this before it got any worse. It was all her fault and now she had to put it to rights before anyone she loved got hurt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was Christmas Eve. Just twenty-four hours before the big day, both at home at with regards to the show. Jack Corsac was as excited as a schoolboy on his first date. This show, this live performance, would make him a real star. To be aired on Christmas Day itself was one thing, to be aired live was quite another. It was the day everyone sat at home huddled around the TV and he knew he would have to make the best of this. And, being live, everyone would be watching for the mistakes. Corsac had planned a few minor ones already; nothing to make him or the show look incompetent, just a few gaffes which would liven things up and make people at home laugh. Which was, of course, his job. If he was careful, he could make goofs where people at home would be asking one another, “Was that staged? I think that one was staged.”
It would be a glorious experience and he intended to make the very most of it.
Kissing his wife goodbye, Corsac headed outside to breathe in a healthy lungful of the crisp frigid air. They were predicting snow around Christmas this year. Not on Christmas Day of course, that would have been weird. Spring yes, but not Christmas any more. He always felt sorry for the poor sap who had to stand on a roof in London somewhere watching for the first snowflake of Christmas Day. As soon as he saw it, he could declare it snowing and go home; otherwise he had to stay there until midday. Of course, it was probably all done by computers nowadays, but Corsac was old-fashioned and liked to think there was still a man up there. Assuming the whole thing was not just an urban myth.
There were some jobs Corsac would not have liked to do on Christmas Day, but he hoped that if this year’s show was successful he would be working Christmas Day for many years to come.
It amazed him to think he was so resolved to stay with the show. Only a handful of months ago he was thinking of throwing it all in, had been seriously considering it, in fact. And now things were different. His life was different. He tried not to think about morality any more, it always got him down when he did, but his life was different and he was happy.
He just wasn’t that sure he had any right to be.
Corsac had just got to the end of the road when a car pulled up beside him. He recognised the car: it was red and that was all he knew about it. The window was rolled down and Sam leaned across to him, unlocking the passenger door, beside which he had stopped. “Get in,” she told him.
“Sam?” he asked, leaning towards the window. “It’s not like you to give me a lift to work.”
“Just get in, Dad.”
He frowned. “What’s up?”
“Look, would you please just get in the car? I didn’t pick you up outside the house ‘cause I didn’t want Mum thinking something was up, but people are gonna start to stare if you stand there much longer.”
“Sam,” he said, serious now, “what’s this about?”
“I think you know what it’s about, Dad,” she said icily. “Now please get in the car. I don’t think either of us wants Mum finding out about this.”
Corsac felt oddly cold and hot at the same time. He was sweating and clenched suddenly clammy fists. He did not know what Sam knew, how much she knew or what she thought she knew of everything else, but there was no sense in debating this on the street.
Corsac got in the car.
“That’s a shame,” Sam said, “since that just proves it.”
“What proves what?”
“You getting in the car without a fuss, and I think you know what it proves.”
Sam pulled away and drove towards the studio. Neither spoke for several minutes, both collecting their thoughts and trying to work out what they should say, what they could say given the situation. Eventually it was Corsac the elder who broke the silence.
“How long have you known?”
“Found out yesterday. It’s Liz, isn’t it?”
Corsac nodded.
“How long has it been going on for?” Sam asked, then quickly added, “Actually, I don’t want to know. In fact, don’t tell me anything about it. God, sometimes I wish you had a son; then I could put all of this onto him to do. Girls shouldn’t have to go to their fathers and tell them to keep their pants on at work.”
Corsac shifted. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Sorry? About what? About the affair or about being caught?”
“That I didn’t end it a long time ago. That it happened at all, I guess.”
“OK, that ‘long time ago’ part was one of the things I didn’t want to know. You do realise she’s been using you, right?”
“Using me?”
“The same way Crotcher used to. God, Dad, we’ve had this conversation once already, ages ago. She’s latched onto you, or I should say your fame. She knows she’s onto a good thing and doesn’t want to let go. Heaven help her if you ever did decide to leave the ... Hold on a minute, that’s why you stayed, wasn’t it? Liz changed your mind, that’s when you started ... seeing her.”
“I ...” He hung his head. “Yes.”
“And that doesn’t tell you something? She’s afraid for her job, the best job she’s ever had, so she gets as close to the fame as she can. And that fame is you, Dad. You make that show and it would be nothing without you. She knows that, and that’s what she’s after. A bit of your fame.”
“She’s not like that, Sam.”
“I don’t much care what you think she’s like,” Sam said angrily. “At this stage, Dad, I don’t much care about anything you say. Just end it. Today.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today.”
“But I ...”
“Don’t want to hear it, Dad. You end it today or I swear to God tomorrow I’m gonna get in my car, phone her up and tell her to meet you somewhere; then I’m gonna go run the cow over.”
“Sam!”
“I mean it, Dad.” She stopped the car suddenly, for they had arrived at the studio. Corsac almost careened through the windscreen. She turned to him and stared icy daggers. “End it today, or I’ll end it for you.”
“Sam, you wouldn’t ...”
“Oh I would,” she warned, cutting him off. “You have no sons, Dad, and I know this is down to me to sort. But I’m letting you have a chance to do it yourself.”
“Sam, I just want
you to know ...”
But Sam held up a hand. “Don’t wanna know. Out of the car.”
“Sam, I ...”
“Out!”
Corsac got out. He didn’t know what to say. “Sam, I ... thanks for not telling your mother.”
She snorted derisively at him. “Didn’t do it for you, Dad. And whatever that slag says when you tell her, she’ll try something.”
“Try something?”
“Yeah. When she tells you she loves you or gives you some sob story about she was abused as a child or something. Whatever it is, just ignore it.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t ...”
“Whatever, Dad. Past caring. Just sort it,” she said as she reached across for the door, “or I will.” She slammed the door and screeched away, leaving Corsac a very confused and frightened man indeed.
He didn’t go straight into the studio. He couldn’t. First he had to get his head around everything that had happened. It had all come upon him so fast he wasn’t sure he was even taking it all in properly. So far as he could determine, Sam was the only one who suspected him. Marie knew nothing and Sam had said nothing of Louise. Corsac had no idea why the thought of Louise finding out worried him more than the thought of his wife discovering his secret. Louise was his little girl. She thought the world of him and always had. If Sam shattered all that by telling her, he didn’t know how he would ever be able to look at Louise again, much less talk to her as someone she could respect.
For a single fleeting instant, Corsac blamed Sam for everything. Sam was the one who was threatening exposure, surely it was her fault. But Sam had every right to be angry, and when the moment passed he knew he could not blame her for anything.
The more he thought about it, the more his mind was sorting itself out. He realised Sam was not threatening exposure at all. That was in fact the last thing she wanted. She wanted to protect her mother and didn’t want her to find out. And the more Corsac thought about it, the more her words made sense. He was fifty-six now, he was by far old enough to know right from wrong. And what he was doing with Liz was wrong. Sam had told him to end it and he knew he would have to. Sam was right, he decided at last. He would have to end it and he would have to end it today.
Happy Christmas.
Corsac strode purposefully through the studio, searching for Liz. He bumped into the floor manager Diana Troupe, unusually happy, who offered him a thumbs-up. It was Christmas and he supposed she must really like Christmas. He returned the gesture. Pressing on, he met Bob from the lighting people. He asked whether he had seen Liz, still jealous of that night Corsac would never forget, and Bob cheerfully directed him to the pyramid.
“Bob,” Corsac chanced asking, “why is everyone so happy around here?”
“You kidding me? The live show’s tomorrow, Jack. This is big stuff for us. Plus it’s Christmas.”
“Yeah, but we’ll all be working.”
“Only the morning. And I’ve worked Christmas all day before, so it doesn’t bother me.”
Corsac accepted this and headed onto the studio floor where the huge pyramid of letters dominated the far end. It was designed to draw attention and that was precisely what it did. Liz was gazing up at it, clearly contemplating something. She was not dressed in her Deadlock attire, since there was no recording today. Everything was being prepared for tomorrow and that took some time. Both Liz and Corsac had been asked to come in; not to film but to rehearse. Presently was Liz wearing a tight T-shirt and short jeans. She always wore tight clothes, it was the kind of person she was. Her long hair was tied back and she wore knee-high boots. Her arms below the elbows and her legs between her boots and her jeans were bare, the skin glistening. Corsac could name on one finger the number of people he knew who would wear such clothes during the dead of winter.
He paused behind her, half willing himself to bottle this, but he knew it had to be done. He also knew this would have been much easier had she been covered in clothing appropriate for the weather.
“Liz?”
“Oh, hi, Mr J.” Liz glanced his way before turning her attention back to the pyramid, hands on hips. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“The pyramid?” Corsac asked, momentarily confused.
“Twenty-six letters and we can make so many words from them. Language is an entirely fictitious concept, a construction. The written language is made up of nothing real, it’s all false. Yet it rules our lives.”
“Uh, I guess.”
“That’s why I could never understand Tourette’s. I mean, if language is a human construction and words are only taboo because that’s what someone before us decided, how come some people can’t stop swearing?”
“It’s a mental condition isn’t it?”
“My point is why swearing? I mean, why not words like happy or power? For that matter, who says words can’t be interchanged? Happy means happy because we say it does, not because it does. If happy was a taboo word which meant sexual intercourse, people with Tourette’s would be going around saying ‘Happy me’ and ‘I can’t happy believe this.’ But they don’t. It’s weird.”
“Liz?”
“Clever though, huh?”
“Liz, we need to talk.”
Liz faced him, her expression of fascination down-turning into a frown. “J, you look worried about something. What’s eating you?” She reached out to place a hand upon his cheek, but he brushed her aside. He was not even meeting her gaze now. “OK,” she said, “now you’re scaring me.”
“We have to stop.”
“Sure. We have to stop what?”
“Seeing each other.”
“Bit difficult. We work together.”
“You know what I mean.”
He looked at her with a modicum of determination. He wondered whether it was more than she had expected. She had probably known all along this day would come; if Sam was right about her, she would have hoped to have got herself somewhere by the time it did.
Making a show of sighing, she kept her hands upon her hips so her chest was thrust forward and in full view and said, “So, what’s brought this on?”
“Sam knows about us.”
“Oh.”
“We have to stop, Liz.”
“Happy me. I can’t happy believe this.”
Corsac shook his head. “This isn’t a joke, it’s over.”
Here she actually laughed. “Over? Just like that it’s over?”
“Would you keep your voice down?” he hissed.
“Oh, so I’m good enough to screw but I’m not good enough to tell anyone about it?” She crossed her arms. She was angry and she wanted him to know it.
“Can we talk somewhere?” Corsac asked.
“We’re talking here.”
“No, we’re not.”
Liz thought a moment. “My dressing-room.” Corsac knew she could see the indecision in his eyes and that she still had him.
“No,” he said.
“My dressing-room or here,” she said with a haughty air. “Your choice, personally I don’t care where we have it out.”
Corsac feuded within himself for several moments, then grabbed her by the arm and stormed off.
“I can walk by myself, thanks,” she said but could not shake free his hand.
They reached her dressing-room quickly and thankfully there was no one else there. Corsac pushed Liz inside and closed the door, locking it.
“Careful,” Liz warned, sitting on the back of a chair, “people will talk.”
“This isn’t a game, Liz,” Corsac snarled.
“Strange, I’ve had fun.” She raised one arm so she could rub the side of her neck. “Thought you had too. Seemed to me like you had fun, Mr J.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what I mean, I’m serious here.”
She could see he was, or at least he hoped she could. What he could himself see was that she was frightened that it was all over. She looked lost, yet there was still a de
termination not to give up until she absolutely had to. And right now she could tell he was still in two minds about his apparent decision. Or Sam’s decision, to give it its proper name.
In her mind, she still had time to play her hand. She still had time to win. Corsac just had to be strong enough not to let her.
“Fine,” she said. “This is me being serious. Speak your mind, say what you have to say. Let’s get this sorted, Jack.”
“There’s nothing to sort,” Corsac said, relaxing now that she was being reasonable, “it’s over.”
“Just like that.”
“I’m not Tommy Cooper.”
“Not gonna happen. That’s your catchphrase, isn’t it? Sums up our little situation nicely, I should think.”
“Not at all. I’m serious, Liz. It’s over.”
“So you keep saying,” she said whimsically. “I’m just trying to figure out whether it’s me you’re trying to convince.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Good for you. Shall we see whether we can change it?” She ceased leaning upon the chair and pulled her T-shirt out of her jeans, drawing it quickly up across her chest. Corsac grabbed her by the arms, just above the elbows, and prevented her from raising her shirt any further. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it,” she warned.
“Taking your clothes off isn’t going to change my mind, Liz.”
“Sure it is. Come on, the door’s locked, we have at least twenty minutes before we’re missed. Plenty of time, Mr J. Plenty of time to remind you just why it was we started this in the first place.”
“I started it because I was confused. I’d reached a stage in my life I didn’t want to face any more and I turned to you because you were handy. That’s why I started this, what about you?”
“Me?”
“I’ve made you famous, or at least I’ve made your backside and your cleavage famous. That’s what you love, isn’t it? The attention, the stage light focused upon you. You saw me as an easy trip to the big time.”
“This is from Sam, I take it?”
“This is from me,” Corsac said angrily.
“Excuse me if I don’t believe you. Look, we can sort this out. There’s no need to get all uppity and change everything. Not now we have something so good, Mr J.”