by Sandy Barker
I glance at my phone screen―it’s Prue, not Mum―and stab at the green button before it goes to voicemail and I have to grovel through a return call. ‘Hello, Prue,’ I say, a little breathless.
‘Abigail,’ she states, like I don’t know my own name. ‘I thought I was going to have to leave a message,’ she adds peevishly. It’s only now that I look at the clock. 7:18am. On a Saturday. And not that she knows this, but I was up late last night researching the positive impact of pets on people in aged care. Yet she’s the one who gets to be peeved.
‘So sorry, Prue. I was, er …’ I’d rather tell her I was on the loo than the truth. Knowing Prue, she thinks it’s a professional weakness to require sleep. She probably doesn’t even need sleep, as I half suspect she’s a vampire. She certainly could pass for one―her look is rather dramatic.
Pin-straight, jet-black hair in a blunt bob to her chin, a severe fringe, pale, luminescent skin, blood-red matte lipstick (always, even right after she’s had her morning coffee), winged black eyeliner and lashings of mascara, and a wardrobe that’s predominantly black with the occasional smattering of stark white. Think Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction, only nearing fifty and without the dance moves. I haven’t seen Prue’s skin sparkle in the sunlight, but that’s probably because I’ve never seen her outside of her windowless office.
It turns out I don’t need to lie about being on the toilet because she cuts me off. ‘Have you seen the feeds?’ she asks, her public-school accent lingering on the long ‘ee’ sounds.
She means my Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook feeds. Well, Anastasia’s social media feeds, in any case (practically no one follows Abby Jones). They must be blowing up for her to call this early―on a Saturday. And no, I haven’t checked them because I’ve been asleep.
‘Er, not yet. I was just about to―’ The only thing I was just about to do was order an imaginary ice cream. And even if I were wide awake and it was a Tuesday, I rarely check those feeds. I don’t even contribute to them―they’re run by a pimply teenaged intern that Prue hired.
All right, that’s not fair―they’re probably perfectly nice and I have no idea if they have pimples or not. They are, however, fantastic at their job, saving me from buying SEO for Dummies and allowing me to focus on writing high-impact clickbait.
‘They are on fire,’ she says, pronouncing ‘fire’ as ‘fy-ah’. ‘Your latest piece on The Stag―just superb. One of your best, Abigail.’
‘Oh, er, thank you.’ Compliments are rare in Prueland―take ’em when you can get ’em.
‘Mmm.’ Prue speak for ‘you’re welcome’. ‘Anyway, I’ve received an email from the executive producer.’
‘The producer? Of The Stag?’ Oh god, this cannot be good. Did I cross a line? I’ve always worried this would happen, that I’d take it too far and get sued or something. God, I hope I don’t get fired. Or, as Prue would say, ‘fy-ahed’.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ My stomach lurches and I instantly regret the pot noodles I doctored with sriracha last night. They may just make a reappearance.
‘They loved it. Absolutely lapped it up like kittens slurping from a giant bowl of cream.’ Before the disturbing image can take hold, my mind starts screaming, ‘Oh! My! God!’
‘Really? So, I’m not in any trouble or anything?’
She barks out a laugh, a sort of ack-ack-ack that sounds remarkably like a smoker’s cough. ‘No, no, nothing like that. On the contrary’ ―yes, she actually says things like that― ‘they are thrilled with the buzz it’s generating. They think it may just be their most watched season ever―largely due to your piece.’
I am staring open-mouthed at the pattern on my duvet, a swirling grey squiggle, when she drops an even bigger bombshell. ‘And they’ve asked if you will go on the show.’
What. The. Actual. Effing … What?
‘Sorry, I didn’t, er … they want me to be on The Stag? As what, a guest host or something?’ My mind flits from one image to the next of me dolled up like Effie Trinket from The Hunger Games and running the Does through their paces.
‘No,’ she replies―it’s obviously the most idiotic suggestion she’s ever heard. ‘They want you to be a contestant. Undercover. Get you behind the scenes so your recaps will be particularly juicy.’
This is bonkers. There’s no way this is real. Prue is having me on and any moment now, she’ll say, ‘Just joking,’ and ack-ack-ack at me again. Only she doesn’t. ‘And I haven’t even told you the best part, Abigail. Next season, they are filming in Sydney―Australia.’ She needn’t have added that last part; I know very well where Sydney is. It’s been on my bucket list since I learnt what one was.
Something occurs to me. ‘They’re flying sixteen Does and the Stag to Australia?’ I ask, incredulous. I’ve always thought they must have a sizeable budget for The Stag but that will cost a mint!
‘Actually, no. There will only be twelve Does for the Sydney season―and half will be antipodeans. Now,’ she continues as my mind struggles to grasp all of this, ‘they want to meet you, of course―to see what they’re working with, that sort of thing. I’ve already mentioned that they’ll want to consider a makeover―an extensive one.’ Well, thank you, Prue. I roll my eyes, grateful she can’t see me. ‘So, be at my office first thing on Monday morning.’
This conversation is like being on a whirligig, but I finally come to my senses. I am definitely not going on The Stag as a contestant. Worst nightmare. Way worse than missing out on an imaginary ice cream. Me? On camera? As a contestant on The Stag? No. No. No. No. No.
‘Er, Prue, I think I’ll need to decline.’
There’s silence―perhaps the most pregnant of all pauses since the dawn of time―and I send a silent plea to Cadmus, the Greek god of Writing, hoping he will somehow rescue me from what I know is coming.
‘Abigail,’ says Prue, her exasperation turning my name into a puff of air with consonants, ‘you seem to be under the glaring misconception that this telephone call is to ask you if you will appear on a highly rated television show to, one―establish a partnership between my magazine and a television network, and two―boost our reach and, therefore, our readership, potentially ten-fold.’
Cadmus, you traitor.
‘I assure you, that it is not. This is me calling to share some excellent news and to tell you that you absolutely will appear on the Sydney season of The Stag as a contestant. If they don’t take one look at you and run screaming for the hills, that is.’
Ouch. That last part was unnecessary, but particularly Prue-like and an indication that I have irked her more than usual.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Er … yes. Yes, of course.’ I hear myself say.
‘Excellent. So, Monday. 9am―sharp. And Abigail?’
‘Yes, Prue?’
‘Dress to impress, will you? Or at least do your best.’
‘Will do,’ I say weakly. The line goes silent; she’s hung up without saying goodbye―another Prueism.
I drop my phone into my lap and glance at the clock again. 7:26am. Eight minutes ago, I was asleep and now I’m going to be a contestant on The Stag. Well, possibly. As Prue said, they may take one look at me and run for the hills―‘screaming’ she’d said.
Or I may come to my senses and tell them all to sod right off. It’s not like I need my job, right?
Oh, Cadmus, I am absolutely screwed.
‘Hiya, Abs,’ says my best friend, Lisa, as she opens the door to her flat. After my call with Prue, I waited until a reasonable hour―that’s at least 10am for Lise―then texted to say I needed to see her. She invited me for brunch, so I’ve shown up with a paper bag brimming with croissants from the bakery downstairs. When Lisa invites me over for food, I have to bring it with me. ‘Come on in. I’ve just put the kettle on.’
She pads into her kitchen-lounge-dining room and I follow, dumping the croissants on the bench, then seating myself at her table for two. ‘You’ve tidied up,’ I say, looking about her flat. It’s
considerably larger than mine but is essentially two rooms―this one at the front of the building, which overlooks the high street, and her bedroom at the back of the building, which has a rather charming view of the bakery’s industrial bins and an alley. Sandwiched between the two rooms is a tiny but modern bathroom that runs the length of the hallway.
It’s a rather nice flat―a little noisy sometimes―and if it weren’t for the fact that Lisa is (what can only be described as) an utter slob, it would be lovely. When I said she’d tidied up, I meant that she’d washed her dishes and there were no takeaway containers littering her coffee table.
We’ve been best friends since I arrived at St Mary’s College on a full scholarship in sixth form. Unlike me, she’s from money―serious money―though you probably wouldn’t know it if you met her. She has a (supposedly unassuming) job with the government, which I know nothing about and secretly suspect it’s because she works for MI5 or MI6―probably the former as she doesn’t travel much.
Though, whatever Lisa’s job actually entails, it’s not what her parents had in mind for her. Their little darling was supposed to be a barrister, or a Harley Street consultant, or the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, not a ‘lowly public servant’, as they say.
She’s also chiselled some edges into her born-and-bred plum-in-the-mouth accent, giving it more of a contemporary London flavour. This is either part of her cover, or it’s to disguise the fact that she’s titled and grew up in the type of house where her father had a valet.
I called her ‘milady’ once. It did not go down well.
The only clues to her ‘former life’, as she refers to it, are her list of Facebook friends and the incredible fashion cast-offs she receives from her favourite aunty―Lisa’s wardrobe is practically brimming with last season’s designer wares. And, just quietly, if I had an aunty who lavished me with expensive gifts, she’d be my favourite too.
But to me, she is just ‘Lise’, a brilliant and lovely person―albeit a messy one―who, for some reason, decided on that fateful first day of school, we would be best friends. While others were carving a wide berth around me in the St Mary’s dining hall as I looked about for somewhere to sit, she hooked her arm through mine and steered me towards a table in the corner. That’s where I met our gang, the friends we had all the way through to sitting our A-levels. We disbanded after that and, though I am still connected with them on Facebook, we only catch up every now and then.
Lise, however, is my person, the sister I always longed for. I love her more than anyone else in the world, besides Mum, but I will never ever live with her. I value our friendship too much.
She plonks a mug of tea in front of me and it sloshes onto the table. At least the mug looks clean. One time she served me tea and right as I was about to take a sip, a mouldy blob floated to the surface. I didn’t drink tea for at least a week after that.
She’s back in the kitchen now, bustling about―probably looking for a clean plate for the croissants. I’m wrong. They arrive on the table still in the paper bag, which she rips open. ‘Only my best serving platter for you, Abs,’ she says, then laughs to herself. I sip the tea while she searches for some jam in her mini fridge.
‘Strawberry or plum?’
‘Bring both.’ She does, along with her tea and finally sits down. That’s the other thing about Lisa―once she’s awake, she never stops moving―boundless energy. Like a puppy with purpose.
‘Right, what’s your news?’ she asks through a mouthful of croissant.
‘I’m going on The Stag, as a contestant.’ I decided on the way over here that, just for fun, I’d come right out with my news. No preamble, no context. My plan backfires when she splutters and coughs, showering the table―and me―with chewed-up croissant.
I leap up and pat her on the back, but she shoos me away so I go to the kitchen to get something for the mess. I’m wiping down the table with a Nando’s napkin when she says sternly, ‘Abby, leave it. Just tell me what’s going on.’
I sit and the whole tale tumbles out, unedited and including my impression of Prue, which (as always) makes her laugh. By the time I wrap up with, ‘And dress to impress, will you? Or at least do your best,’ delivered less like Prue and more like Ursula the sea witch from The Little Mermaid, Lisa is in fits and I feel marginally better about this ridiculous situation.
Me on The Stag. Hah!
‘So, speaking of,’ says Lisa, ‘what are you going to wear to this meeting?’
Right. Terrific question. I work from home and my social life is hardly what you’d call exciting―or even existent. I have precisely one decent pair of black trousers (thank you, Marks & Spencer), which are a little worse for wear and probably due for an upgrade, but they might do. But what to wear with them? A quick mental catalogue of my ‘bargain bin’ tops―Prue’s patronising words echoing in my ear―brings me up flummoxed.
‘What about that dress you wore to Pip’s wedding?’ asks Lisa. Pippa is her cousin. I’ve only met her a few times over the years, but Lisa insisted I go to Pippa’s wedding last summer as her ‘plus one’. I’d splurged on an extremely over-the-top dress―far fancier than anything I’ve ever owned or would buy again. And with the loan of matching shoes, clutch, and hat from Lisa―the accessory trifecta―I at least looked the part. Even so, I spent much of the wedding―from arriving at the church for the ceremony right through to the posed photographs and the reception―feeling like an imposter.
‘You don’t think it’s too much? Too … er … posh?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘There’s no such thing as being overdressed, only underdressed. Besides, you look great in that dress and you want to make a good impression, right?’
‘Or―and stay with me here―I show up looking like the dog’s dinner, they realise they can’t possibly make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, they send me packing, and I’m off the hook. How does that sound?’
‘Like you’ve used your quota of idioms,’ she teases. I expel a sigh. ‘Stop moping. This could be a brilliant opportunity for you.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Well, you won’t know until you show up―looking your best―and find out what they have to say. Wear the dress. You can borrow my matching shoes.’ I frown at a croissant, picking at it and grinding flakes of the pastry into smaller flakes between my thumb and forefinger. ‘And stop that. You’re making a mess.’
My eyes lift to meet hers. She’s smirking at her own messy expense and we both start sniggering. ‘All right,’ I say eventually. ‘I’ll go to the meeting and I’ll wear my fancy dress with your fancy shoes. But I still hope they won’t want a bar of me. Just the thought … Honestly, if I have to go on that wretched show, it will be my worst nightmare come true.’
‘That’s the spirit, Abs.’ When I roll my eyes and shake my head, she just laughs.
Chapter Three
It’s Monday morning! I’ve added the exclamation point, not for emphasis, but to distract myself from the growing terror that has seeped into every pore, every cell of my body.
I may be dressed up, but I am still me and this morning, I’d been left to my own devices when it came to hair and makeup. I could hardly expect my best friend to get up extra early on a Monday, get herself ready for work, then come over and doll me up―all before 8am. Right? Actually, I had expected that―or at least hoped―and then I’d remembered who my best friend is.
So here I am, squished into the lift with a dozen other people, wearing an OTT (now) slightly-too-tight and (in retrospect) definitely-too-short silk dress with billowing sleeves and Lisa’s matching shoes (which I secretly love, and hope she won’t miss too much when I ‘forget’ to return them).
My belongings―a pocket-sized packet of tissues, a Burt’s Bees lip balm, my Oyster card, and my wallet―currently reside in my other loan from Lisa, an enormous handbag that would have cost more than a month’s rent, gifted to her by that favourite aunty.
I’ve washed and dried my slightly wavy, mousy-brown hai
r and pulled it into a low ponytail, and I’m wearing as much makeup as I’ve mastered, which is practically none―mascara, cream blush, and the lip balm.
I will do.
The lift pings its arrival at my floor and I push through the tightly knit crowd, murmuring increasingly louder excuse-me’s as I try to get to the door before it closes. How do people still not know how to let others out of a lift? By the time I reach the doors, they are starting to close and I shove my arm in the way to stop them. Only they don’t. They close on my arm and I have a horrifying thought that I am going to be dragged up to the next floor, arm out and soon to be decapitated. An arm can be decapitated, right? Or is that only for heads?
A moment later the doors rebound off my arm, popping open long enough for me to retrieve it, but when they close again my stupid billowing shirtsleeve is caught between the giant jaws of death. Oh, my god. If this lift starts to move, my sleeve still trapped between the doors, my dress is going to be torn off me in front of all these strangers and they’ll see me for who I really am―an average-looking woman in a six-year-old ill-fitting bra and a greying pair of knickers!
I hear someone stab repeatedly at a button, his voice permeating the thick crowd behind me (and I mean both dense and stupid, as they are all doing absolutely nothing to help me). My rescuer adds swearing to his efforts, ‘Come on you bloody thing,’ and―thank god―the doors finally slide open. I stumble out of the lift, double over, and blow out a heavy breath. Now is not the time to have a panic attack―well, I mean, it is. If one is prone to them, like I am, this is exactly the time one would be attacked by panic―but I am due to meet the producers of The Stag in a matter of minutes.
A pair of suede sneakers pops into view and I raise my gaze to see that they’re part of a casual ensemble worn by the person I presume is my rescuer―slim-cut dark-denim jeans, a brown T-shirt that says, ‘I aim to misbehave’ (Oh, do you now?), and a canvas cross-body satchel. I right myself and my presumed rescuer smiles at me, a concerned look on his face. It seems as if he’s about to pat my back in a ‘there, there’ sort of way, but he pulls his hand away and stuffs it into his pocket instead.
