Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  “That’s just it, Liz,” Corsac said in exasperation. “It isn’t good, it just feels that way.”

  “So it feels right but it’s wrong?”

  “You’re not going to confuse me so don’t even try.”

  “Oh, right. I can see just where this is going. It’s my fault, is it? All of it. Course, couldn’t possibly be your fault.”

  “We went down this road before, Liz. Fool me once and all that.”

  “OK, let’s stop and think a minute. Sam won’t tell Marie, right?”

  “She doesn’t want to upset Marie, and quite rightly too.”

  “Sorted then. You tell Sam you’ve broken it off with me and everyone’s happy.”

  “I am breaking it off with you.”

  “On Christmas Eve?”

  “Don’t even try that with me.”

  “Try what with you?”

  “The sad-eyed card.”

  “I’m not trying a sad-eyed anything,” she protested. “Just saying it’s a lousy Christmas present, is all.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s still over.”

  “Bit late for that, Mr J.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m pregnant.”

  Corsac’s eyes widened. He almost collapsed but caught himself in time. Liz stood angrily before him, her arms folded once more across her breast. She was waiting for his reaction, for his answer. “How?” he said at last.

  It wasn’t exactly what she had expected. “How?” she said. “How? What do you mean how?”

  “I know how,” Corsac snapped. “I meant how?”

  “Oh, clears it up no end.”

  “You can’t be pregnant.”

  “Sure. Tell my doctor that, would you?”

  “How do you even know it’s mine?”

  She slapped him. Hard. Nor was there any pretence about the strike. It was a single, vicious, venomous burst of pure and naked aggression and Corsac felt his mind reeling.

  “You pig,” she spat. “You ... you ... you ... pediculous, flagitious pig!”

  “How should I know what you get up to?” Corsac replied, rubbing at his sore face. “And, just so you know, I have no idea what you just called me, but I’m sure it wasn’t very nice. What about the lighting crew that time?”

  “What?”

  “The lighting crew.”

  “I did that to make you jealous,” she said, ire dripping from her tongue.

  “It worked.”

  “But I didn’t sleep with them. Of course I didn’t sleep with them.”

  “Why not? You’re not married, you’ve no reason to stay attached to me. Do you have a conscience suddenly?”

  “No. But I love you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “How do you know what I feel?”

  “Because I’m not so sure you feel much of anything.”

  Liz’s temperament softened oh so slightly. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  “No,” Corsac admitted. “But I just can’t keep my hands off you. And that’s why we have to end this. Doesn’t matter who’s found out, that’s why it has to end.”

  “Not much chance of that now.”

  “Now that you’re pregnant?” Corsac asked. “Sam warned me you’d try something like this. That you’d make something up. This is what she meant.”

  Liz seemed on the verge of giving him another slap but after a long pause said instead, “Fine. I’m pregnant, I’m not pregnant. But it doesn’t really matter.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because if I’m in this for the money, like you seem to think, what I’d do if we did split up is obvious. I’d go to the press, sell my story for as much as I could get. It’d make great news for the show, probably get us higher ratings as well. ‘Game show host in deadlock with glamorous assistant’. I can see it now.”

  “God, you are a shallow cow, aren’t you? All you care about is yourself; I think your last boyfriend was lucky to be shot of you.”

  She took another swing at him but Corsac caught her fist and twisted her arm about her back, kicking the back of her leg to make her fall to her knee. She cursed him again but he held onto her arm firmly. He spoke softly behind her, making sure she was taking in every word. “Do whatever you want,” he told her seriously. “I don’t care any more. You’ve got no evidence and Sam would provide me alibis for any dates you’d care to claim we were together. She’d even be able to produce documentation to prove it. So do your worst, Liz, because I just don’t care any more.” He shoved her as he released her arm and she rose to her feet, rubbing at her sore arm. He imagined she was rather hoping it was going to bruise.

  Liz looked upon him with careful eyes: those of an alley cat which had spotted the neighbourhood dog giving it the evil eye. “What about the show?” she asked at last.

  “The show?”

  “Well, I’m not going.”

  “Nor am I. It’s my show.”

  “Then we carry on working together.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “And sooner or later you’re going to crack and we’re gonna end up in bed again. Or in here, or somewhere else nice and quiet.”

  “No.”

  “We will, I promise you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Liz,” he said, unlocking her dressing-room door.

  “What about rehearsals?”

  “I think we’ve practised enough. Everything we have to do, we have it down pat. I’ll tell Castle I need to work through some new jokes and that I have to do it at home. With my wife.”

  “Don’t you dare get high and mighty with me, mister.”

  “Mr J to you.”

  “You’ll be back,” she shouted after him. It was a weak argument, but it was at the time all she could think of to say. She was hurting and she didn’t want him to know how much. She had said she loved him and there was a small part of him which accepted she was telling the truth. “You’ll be back,” she repeated.

  Corsac did not even turn around as he called back, “No, Liz. Not gonna happen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “And a very warm welcome to you all on this, the most festive of days. We’re coming to you live from the Deadlock studios and we’ll be with you for the next hour or so, which should lead you all right up until dinner.”

  Christmas Day had come and Corsac was on the set. He had gone home to prepare, just as he had told Liz, and had returned to the studio in good spirits. He had his jokes ready, which was good since the show was going to be around an hour and a quarter today, allowing more time for talk, comedy and general festive cheer. Troupe was still happy, and even Castle had given him a hard pound upon the back when he had walked in. If Corsac was more cynical, he would have thought Castle was surprised to see him. It made the comedian wonder just how much Castle knew about his affair with Liz and how much he may have orchestrated it himself; but none of that mattered. This was the Christmas special, and Corsac would make the most of it.

  He had seen Liz backstage but she had not met his eye. They had not spoken: Corsac had no idea what he could have said even if he had wanted to say something. She was dressed in more festive attire. Her usual cotton/feather-looking frills were replaced with garish tinsel while her ordinarily white or pink bodice was now scarlet. She wore a thin black belt, tied far too tight about her waist to be comfortable, and a red Santa’s hat, white around the headband, with a furry white bobble on the end. Her boots were knee-length and red, with white fur about the top.

  Corsac only glanced at her. He could already feel his heart pounding just being this close to her – and she smelled so good today as well – that he knew he could not chance actually talking to her. This seemed fine with Liz, since she stood there positively fuming. Corsac could not understand why she was the one who was so annoyed. After all, she could not possibly have expected the affair to carry on indefinitely and it had been a miracle it had remained undiscovered this long, considering how much the two of them were in the press lat
ely.

  Corsac himself was wearing what pretty much amounted to a Santa suit. He wasn’t especially pleased that they’d made him wear extra padding, although supposed that at least it meant they didn’t think him fat enough. He’d dressed up as Santa before, for his kids, so he’d already performed in the garb before a live audience. Today, he could feel, was going to be far different.

  Calls were made from the stage and Corsac waited for his cue. Liz brushed past him, walking onto the stage first as usual so that she could explain the basic principles of the game. In the early shows, this had been Corsac’s duty, but having Liz feature most prominently in the opening of the show meant any men watching at home would be there from the beginning. All Corsac then had to do was keep them there until the end.

  He watched her from the side as she gesticulated at the pyramid in order to punctuate her words. Her smile was dazzling, reminding Corsac why he had fallen for her in the first place, and there was no air of falsity surrounding her. Even Corsac was having difficulty in seeing that she was actually angrier than he had ever known her before.

  She gave him his cue (“Now let’s welcome our host.”) and Corsac walked onto the stage, made his introduction and told everyone at home they were live. He looked about the audience while he was doing this and immediately saw Louise. She was sitting in the front row, her eyes sparkling like the girl on Christmas morning she would always be to him. She clapped along with everyone else and left her hands clasped as though she was praying. Corsac smiled her way and immediately noticed Sam seated beside her. Sam was also clapping, although half-heartedly. She mouthed ‘Merry Christmas’ to her father, yet by her sour expression he could see she was still angry with him.

  By the end of the show, he aimed to win her over. For this was it for him. He had started his life on Deadlock because he had announced live on stage he was quitting the comedy clubs. Now that he had been given a live edition of Deadlock, he fully intended to go the same way. It would cause a storm and would either kill his career or propel him to complete stardom, but he didn’t care. Corsac was a man fighting to save his marriage, not his career. He knew he could not trust himself around Liz (even now he wanted her, even now he could feel her presence behind him), and if he could not trust himself around her the only thing he could do was leave. If he never saw Liz again, Sam would keep what she knew to herself. Liz could do what she wanted, go to whatever newspaper she liked, because at the end of the day they would not believe her. It would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that she was attempting to salvage her own career. The press would realise instantly that without Corsac the show would die and that she was just trying to spark up some publicity so the attention could be focused upon her.

  Liz would go back to whatever she was doing before, or whatever she wanted to do next. In a few years’ time she’d probably be so forgotten she would be more than qualified to appear on those celebrity has-been shows which Corsac despised. He would never see her again, he had already made that promise to himself.

  He returned Sam’s glower with a smile. A smile which she recognised, for she knew now he was up to something. She knew he was going to make sure his affair was thoroughly ended; and perhaps she even had an inkling as to just how he intended to do it.

  “Now,” Corsac began, slipping easily and comfortably into his role as comedian. He had been an entertainer since birth, but it was his comedy which defined him, “as it’s Christmas, we’ve decided to put a bit of money into the show. Note the tinsel around the pyramid. Now that’s spending for you.” It was a cheap quip at the show’s expense, but he didn’t care. The best way to promote something was often to slate it. He had only just been able to stop himself from making a snide comment about how Liz was dressed. For one thing he didn’t want to give her any ammunition for when she went to the papers afterwards (they might pick up on his aggression there), but mainly he didn’t really think he should have been using words like whore and slut on live television.

  Live minus the ten-second delay, he should have said.

  “Thought it might snow today,” he said, then paused. “They always say to start an act with your best joke and I think that was it, folks.” He knew that, unlike all the other shows he had filmed, there could be no editing later. If he told a weak joke, he may well lose his viewers. The audience before him were told when to clap and groan and whatever, but it was the viewers he was focusing on. He needed to get this right first time or there wasn’t any point in doing it.

  He immediately went on to mention the man in London who had to sit there watching for snow. It was a thought he’d had recently and one he knew would make for a good laugh here today. As with many comedians, most of Corsac’s repertoire came from either watching people or when gathering his own thoughts. He would be discussing something with himself or with someone else – something seemingly trivial – and it would inflate into something comical. Then he would write it down and repeat it on stage. The more he could repeat something word for word, the funnier it would be. Real life was funnier than comedy, and if his act could mirror reality as far as possible, he knew he could not go far wrong.

  “So let’s give a wave to that poor guy,” he finished the joke by saying. He waved in the air. “To the man who has possibly the worst job in the world. Mainly because he’s unemployed for three hundred and sixty-four days a year and if he ever did wake up Christmas Day and find snow everywhere he wouldn’t get paid at all. Still, let’s hope the pension scheme’s a good one.”

  He waited a moment. “Now, as it’s Christmas we’ve decided to have some festive questions. Not that there are any questions on this show, actually. To be honest, I’m surprised we’ve come this far asking people to name a colour or an animal you might find in a zoo.” He could visualise Castle tearing out what little remained of his hair, but Corsac loved to keep the man on his toes. “We’d like you to play at home, amongst yourselves of course,” Corsac continued. “Wouldn’t want any of you phoning in, after all. We know how well that sometimes ends on other live shows.

  “But enough from me, it’s the show you folks have come to see. So – if everyone knows the words by now – I’m here, you’re here ... so let’s play Deadlock!”

  The music sounded and this time it was the music actually played in the show. Usually they would add the music in post-production (What d’ya know, Corsac had learned a new word), but being live they had been forced to play it now. He was surprised by the change and supposed he probably should have come to the rehearsals more often if he wanted to know these sorts of things.

  He introduced the contestants. For the Christmas show, the decision team had gone for a young woman and a young man. Both were in their early twenties and both were nothing short of stunning. Corsac had questioned the selection process and had been told that certain other game shows had a far more stringent filter than they did. Some shows (no names mentioned) would ask such prying and personal questions that it made potential applicants feel as though they were being psychoanalysed by a professional. Game shows, it seemed, were like pop stars these days: expertly moulded and utterly fake. Or at least that’s what Sam had said when he had mentioned it to her, and she should know.

  He glanced towards Sam and saw that while she still retained the glower, she had begun to enjoy herself. It helped that her exuberant and Christmas-loving sister was sitting right next to her, pointing and whispering and being more amazed here than during her first time at the circus twenty-odd years ago.

  Corsac returned his attention to his work. The two contestants were also garbed in festive attire. The male contestant, whose name was Thomas Rankin, was dressed in a green shirt and matching hat and he was wearing a rather good set of plastic ear extensions from make-up. Beside the elf stood the female contestant, Sarah Barnes, who was wearing a white suit with round black buttons, a bowler hat and a cute little carrot attached to her nose. She was, Corsac had to admit, the slimmest, most attractive snowman he had ever seen.

  Snow
woman? Snowperson?

  He decided he wouldn’t win that one. He gave up.

  “Thomas Rankin from Dorset,” Corsac was saying, making the pretence as ever of reading from his cards. “A schoolteacher, it says here.”

  “That’s correct, Jack,” Rankin replied with a smile.

  Corsac smiled himself. “You do realise having worn that elf suit today your new term’s going to be torture.”

  “Not if I win the big money, Jack.”

  “Well, ‘ere’s to your good elf, sir.” He moved on. “Sarah Barnes from Hopton. Tell me, Sarah, where is Hopton exactly?”

  “Great Yarmouth, Jack. By the sea.”

  “By the sea? Well, let’s hope you win enough money today to take a holiday from all that sunshine and go somewhere a snowman could really enjoy herself. Like the Antarctic.”

  Neither was his line, they had been written for him. Most of the introductory lines were written for him, in fact. He had been tempted to change them, but he knew the contestants had already been made aware of them. If he started making his own jokes, they might not know how to respond and the last thing he wanted on the live show was two confused people playing the game. As host, it was his job to place them at their ease, not distress them unduly. Besides, he had plenty of time to insert his own jests as the show wore on. The length had been extended for just such a purpose, after all.

  “Before we begin,” Corsac said after the music brought the cameras back to him, “just a quick note about the money today. For this special edition, all money has been doubled. So, in the final, every correct answer is worth two hundred pounds and if all twenty-six answers are found, the lucky contestant will be taking home a very nice package indeed. A whopping ten grand.” The audience released a cued “Whoo!” and Corsac waited for it to die down before continuing. “And, for this show only, as it’s a special day, we don’t want either of our contestants leaving unhappy. Wouldn’t want either of them to have to cross any bridges on their way home in a sorry state. There’ll be a special prize for the runner-up today. The person who comes second in a two-runner race. Or the loser as we generally call them. More on that later, but for now let’s get on with the show!”