by Sandy Barker
Daniel and Daphne’s date is a snooze fest. They have zero chemistry. She looks perfect, of course, having refused to wear the adventure outfit chosen for her―why should she change if they were just going to sit inside a vehicle the whole time? But as the four-wheel-drive bounces along a rutted gravel track, Daphne’s white knuckles and grimaces reveal that she’s less than impressed by Daniel’s propensity to aim for potholes. She’s also making mincemeat of her ‘squeals of delight’ and sounds like a wounded seal.
I write it all down.
When Daniel parks the vehicle outside the tasting room, there are several shots of the vehicle itself, including the badge on the front grill―product placement at its finest―and then we’re back inside it where Daphne and Daniel chat benignly about ‘their adventure’.
Seemingly out of nowhere, he leans across and kisses Daphne in a way that can only be described as ‘brotherly’. She allows it and I flash on an image of the two of them in bed together. ‘May I kiss you before intercourse, Daphne?’ ‘If you must, Daniel.’
I bark out a laugh at their expense and write it in my notebook. Jack throws me another look over his shoulder, this one accompanied by a wry smile which I return―an echo of our former camaraderie.
‘Ready, Abby?’ asks Harry. ‘Your date’s next.’
‘Right, er, yes.’ I sit up straighter, though how that will help me watch myself on this date is a mystery.
The first shot is me and Daniel walking towards the horses, both holding riding helmets. My bum really does look good in those jeans, I note, but that’s definitely not going in a recap. Each horse has a handler and one of the horses is skittishly pulling at its reins.
‘God, I hope that’s not mine,’ I say.
Daniel reaches down and grasps my hand. I’d forgotten he’d done that. ‘I’ll take that one,’ he says, which is actually quite sweet. I’d forgotten that too. When we reach the horses, the handlers ask us to don our helmets, which we do, and when I struggle with the strap, Daniel reaches under my chin to help. I smile at him and say, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says, his eyes boring into mine. ‘I’m right here.’ In the Control Room, I roll my eyes. Maybe it’s Daniel who will get offered a role on Neighbours instead of Justine. He’s certainly mastered that unique brand of soap opera intensity.
‘Have you both ridden before?’ asks one of the handlers.
‘I have,’ says Daniel, ‘I ride all the time, actually. My father owns a horse stud―thoroughbreds, of course …’ He casts an eye over the two horses and his expression sours. Ahhh, there he is! The Daniel we all know and love to hate. I scribble down the words, then read them back and cross them out. As snarky as Anastasia is, there’s an impermeable line she cannot cross when it comes to the Stag himself.
Onscreen, I’m helped onto my horse―Womble, she’s called―and Daniel expertly hoists himself onto Pudding―a silly name for a horse―and then we’re off.
And by ‘off’ I mean we commence a slow and gentle ride amongst the fruit-heavy grapevines―just as Jack had promised. When the horses clear the end of the row, Daniel suggests that we head away from the vines towards a gently sloping hill. ‘I can teach you to trot,’ he says.
‘Er, no, that’s all right,’ says Doe Abby. Real Abby wanted to say, ‘Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?’ like Tara would.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ cajoles Daniel.
Doe Abby looks off camera at Harry, where he was standing next to Tim and bites her lip. Daniel circles his horse back to mine, then proceeds to tell me the ins and outs―or rather, the ups and downs―of trotting. I took none of this in at the time, panicked as I was. Doe Abby’s eyes are pleading now, and real Abby―me, right here in this room―is suddenly quite annoyed with Harry. He could have (and should have) shouted ‘cut’ by this point.
Onscreen, Womble starts getting antsy―probably because horses can intuit when their rider is uncomfortable (or so I’m told) and this rider is definitely uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know how to trot,’ says Doe Abby. ‘Let’s just go back now. Please.’
‘Come on, I’ve taught you how,’ says Daniel, ignoring my plea. Er, no, Daniel, barking instructions at a terrified person is not ‘teaching’ them. My fear is obvious, but so is my annoyance at Daniel and watching the scene play out on the monitor conjures everything I felt at the time.
‘Why didn’t you stop it?’ I ask.
Harry taps a button on the console and freezes the image―it’s of me scowling. He turns around in his chair. ‘Sorry?’
‘Why didn’t you say “cut”? You knew I was terrified. And Jack said you’d just get a few shots of me on the horse, and that would be that. You could have stopped it before it even happened.’ Now, both Abbys are scowling.
Harry bites his lip and I note that Jack doesn’t come to his defence. ‘You’re right. And I’m sorry. It’s just that you were safe―’
‘You didn’t know that,’ I retort.
‘Again, you’re right. But I thought you were, so I let the cameras roll.’
I look at frozen Doe Abby. ‘Play,’ I command.
‘We can skip ahead,’ he says.
‘No, I need to write this up,’ I reply tartly.
He taps the button on the console and the equine horror show begins. Onscreen, Daniel goes from cajoling to bullying in three-point-two seconds. ‘Come on, Abby, you’re being absurd. Here, let me show you.’ When Daniel reaches over and slaps Womble on the arse, shouting, ‘Yah!’, Doe Abby’s eyes widen in horror, as mine do watching the replay.
Womble, bless her, takes off across the paddock, me bouncing on top of her like a rodeo cowboy on a bronco. Daniel cries, ‘Bugger,’ and takes off after us on Pudding. By the time man and horse cross the paddock, Womble has run out of steam and stops to nibble on a tuft of grass.
Although the cameras couldn’t keep up, our microphones were working perfectly and way off in the distance, Doe Abby swings a leg over Womble and jumps to the ground, a tirade spewing from her mouth―well, my mouth.
‘That will be enough to keep the censors busy,’ I think. Unfiltered, Doe Abby sounds like a longshoreman on leave and I hear a snort from Jack’s direction, which he tries to disguise as a cough. That’s my trick, so I am onto him immediately. ‘It’s not funny,’ I snap.
He responds by shifting in his chair and muttering, ‘Sorry.’
Doe Abby plants her hands on her hips, giving Daniel a full serve of ‘What the bloody hell did you think you are doing?’ and other (even more colourful) rhetorical questions.
Daniel dismounts Pudding like the experienced rider he is―elegantly―and clasping Pudding’s reins, he walks over, trying to placate me. ‘Hey, hey, you’re all right,’ he says. ‘Was he talking to me or the horse?’ I wonder. I write that down. And although Daniel’s back is to the camera, I remember the exact look of condescension that he’d plastered on that smug mug of his. ‘See? You did it. There was nothing to worry about.’
Like Womble, I had run out of steam by then and Doe Abby gathers up Womble’s reins and starts walking her towards the tasting room. ‘Abby, don’t be like that,’ says Daniel. He catches up, Pudding in tow, and places a hand on Does Abby’s arm. ‘Wait, please?’ Doe Abby stops and huffs, looking at him expectantly.
‘Was I very badly behaved?’ asks the smug twat. By then, Tim and his Steadicam had caught up to us, so Daniel’s twatishness is captured perfectly in a glaring closeup.
‘Yes!’ replies Doe Abby. I feel her pain acutely and even now I want to slap Daniel.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, though he couldn’t sound less sincere. ‘Forgive me.’ He was rubbing my arm so vigorously I thought he’d wear a hole in my sleeve. I write that down.
‘Fine, I forgive you,’ Doe Abby says curtly, walking away from him.
This is it and I hold my breath.
‘Abby, wait.’ Daniel catches up and turns Doe Abby around to face him. ‘I really am deeply sorry.’
By this p
oint, all I’d wanted was to hear ‘cut’ so I could head to the tasting room and request an enormous glass of wine―even if we weren’t up to that part yet. ‘Fine, I accept your apology,’ says Doe Abby.
‘I am proud of you, you know,’ Daniel says. ‘You did wonderfully.’ It was such a ridiculous thing for him to say, that I had burst out laughing.
On the monitor, Daniel―possibly mistaking my laughter for falling madly in love with him―stops my mouth with a kiss. It’s not terribly long―not as long as it had felt at the time and certainly long as long as the tongues-and-all kiss he’d shared with Becca earlier that afternoon―but it had caught me entirely by surprise.
Which is why I hadn’t pushed him away, but I can see immediately that it will appear to everyone who watches that I wanted Daniel to kiss me.
Everyone. Including Jack.
Chapter Thirteen
‘We put you there for a reason, Abigail, but your latest piece is banal, dull, boring, and insipid. I practically fell asleep.’
It’s perhaps the harshest review I’ve ever had (not to mention the distracting synonym overload) and believe me, Anastasia attracts plenty of trolls. My mouth is midway through forming a syllable when Roberta interrupts. ‘You’re there to enhance the recaps, not dilute them. Quite frankly, if I don’t have a vastly improved revision by tomorrow, we’re taking you off the show.’
Well, there’s nothing I can say to that. The sting of humiliation warms my cheeks and without checking, I know I’ve achieved beetroot status. I can handle criticism, I can handle a dressing down― I’ve certainly tested Prue’s patience on more than one occasion―but this is the first time I have been called incompetent.
And it’s in front of Jack.
Humiliation Level: One hundred million kajillion + one
And humming along beneath my professional humiliation is the knowledge that Jack’s potential as a love interest has just become nil. He (inconceivably) thinks I have feelings for Daniel; I’ve (literally) asked him to stay away; and rounding out the ‘steer clear of Abby’ trifecta, he’s now witnessed me receive a bollocking from Vile Demon Woman―a.k.a. his boss!
Prue’s sycophantic voice trills from the phone’s speaker. ‘I’m sure there’s no need for that, Roberta. Abigail is an excellent writer, but even those are prone to a hiccup now and then. No doubt she can bring this back around, just as you’ve asked.’
How considerate of her to speak on my behalf.
‘See that she does. Jack, are you still there?’
‘Uh, yeah, I’m here.’
‘Can I have a word? In private?’ she asks.
He glances over, sending a sympathetic smile my way, which makes me feel even worse. I study some remnants of tape on the table in front of me and pick at it the residue with a fingernail. ‘Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll call you back in five.’
‘See that you do.’ He leans over to end the call when Prue’s voice echoes around the Control Room.
‘Abigail, I’d like to speak to you privately, too. Call me in five minutes.’
Oh, this cannot be good. I lift my eyes to Jack’s and he’s making the ‘eek’ face. He presses the red button on his mobile phone and the silence is both welcome and deafening. I abandon the tape removal and stand. I have four minutes and fifty seconds to figure out what to say to Prue so I don’t get ‘fy-ahed’.
‘Abby, wait just a sec. Are you okay?’
I appreciate that he’s asked, but I have no idea how to answer. ‘Let’s see, my job at Feed Your Mind was only ever a stopgap until I established myself as a proper writer, but it’s all I have right now and I’d like to keep it if I can. And I never wanted―nor even asked―to come on this show and it has been (at best) a bizarre experience, and (at worst) a parade of awkward incidents, a mounting pile of lies, and trials of fragile friendships. And I’ve just been dressed down for doing poorly at something I usually excel at. But, yes, I am perfectly fine, thank you.’
What I actually say is, ‘I’m all right.’ I add an insipid smile―my new least favourite word thanks to Roberta―and leave before Jack can ask me anything else or worse, try to cheer me up. I slip out of the Control Room, listen for any movement from the main part of the house, and head to my hidey hole―a fitting place to lick my wounds and grovel to my editor.
In the storeroom-cum-office, I retrieve the loaned phone and laptop from the box on the top shelf, plugging in both to charge, then set up the card table and unfold the folding chair. There’s something calming about the now familiar ritual and I settle into the chair and pick up the phone. It’s programmed with three numbers―Mum’s, Lisa’s, and Prue’s―and after I speak with the latter, I am going to attempt to get hold of my best friend―secret missions be damned.
Prue picks up on the second ring. ‘Abigail,’ she says simply, though her tone of voice is softer than usual. ‘How are you?’ I have worked with Prue for seven years and never once has she asked me this.
‘Er, I’m all right.’
‘How are you really?’
Is this a trap? Am I going to confess my true feelings only to have Prue pulverise me into oblivion? But what (else) have I got to lose? If this all goes pear-made-of-a-pile-of-poo-shaped, I’ll pack up my flat, move back in with Mum, and write my exposé―better yet, I’ll write a whole book about the crime against society that is The Stag. I’ll get a publisher, crack bestseller lists across the globe, and become famous―proper famous, not anonymous famous.
Abigail Jones: bestselling author, talk show guest supreme (Hello, Graham Norton!), and ‘It Girl’ about London (If I’m aiming high, I may as well go the whole hog).
Prue is waiting patiently for me to reply, which for her is a minor miracle. ‘I’m terrible,’ I confess. Just saying those two simple words makes the spasms in my squidgy tum lessen.
‘Tell me.’
‘I really want to do a good job, Prue. You know me―my standards for my work are exceptionally high, perhaps even higher than yours.’
‘Mmm.’ Her way of agreeing with me. Or disagreeing―I can never tell.
‘But I hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to maintain a professional distance. I have no idea how undercover operatives do it―I can’t even imagine. You see, I’ve made friends here. And not just amongst the other Does―there’s the crew too.’ I will not tell her about my crush on Jack, of course, nor about our friendship-in-stasis. I’m not even sure if he and I are still friends.
‘And I see how hard Jack and Harry are working to make this a good, solid season of the show―entertaining, just what the fans want―but I’m also seeing behind the scenes and I loathe the machinations of it, how the situations are manufactured and manipulated. And I hate that the Stag kissed me. Hate it. I didn’t sign up for that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t.
‘Daniel’s a horrible person, the worst type of man―the type who tries to make you feel like he’s doing you a favour by liking you. And then there’s Becca―she’s my closest friend here in the Manor and for some reason, she really likes him. I have absolutely no idea why she can’t see through his bullshit, but that’s what this show does to a person, makes them blind to the things they wouldn’t put up with in real life.
‘I don’t know, it’s just so intense all the time. Once I knew I had no choice in the matter, I decided to make the most of coming here and I thought I would cope better. And I certainly didn’t think it would impact my writing. I’m really sorry, Prue. I know I’ve put you and Feed Your Mind in an awful spot with Roberta.’ Exhausted from my admission, I slump back in my folded chair.
After a moment, Prue replies. ‘It’s me who owes you an apology, Abigail.’
‘Sorry?’ I ask. I can’t possibly have heard her correctly.
‘It’s true. I put you in this terrible position. I was blinded by the possibilities―what this could mean for Feed Your Mind―and I didn’t properly consider the effect the experience might have on you.’ I’m having trouble reconciling the image of Prue I have in my head w
ith the woman whose voice I’m hearing. I say nothing because nothing comes to mind.
‘Do you know, when you came to interview for the staff writer role all those years ago, you actually reminded me of myself.’
‘No effing way.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I clap a hand over my mouth. ‘Er, sorry Prue,’ I say, a rather feeble apology when I’ve just insulted my boss. I realise with a start that she’s ack-ack-ack-ing at me down the line. Prue’s laughing.
‘Oh, Abigail, I so wish this were a video call―to see your face right now.’ She dissolves into more ack-acks, then sighs. ‘Oh, I haven’t had a good laugh in eons. But back to you. You did remind me of myself―that’s absolutely true. I, too, graduated with honours and hold a bachelor’s in journalism. Like you, I worked in a bookstore to make ends meet before securing a staff writer position. And like you, I wanted to be a “serious journalist”―I even had a piece published in The New Yorker once.’
I’m gobsmacked.
Prue and I started our careers in practically identical ways. Does this mean I’m destined to become Prue, wreaking havoc on young staff writers, ruling my online empire from a windowless room? Oh, Cadmus, I hope not. I’d look terrible with a chin-length bob!
‘You’ve gone silent,’ she says.
‘I … er, yes. Sorry. That’s …’
‘Surprising?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Well, I’m not telling you this to shock you, Abigail, though I should have suspected it might. I’m telling you this because you are an exceptionally talented writer and I want you to succeed. And not just at Feed Your Mind―I have no doubt that you’re destined for bigger things than our little online magazine.’
‘You really think I’m talented?’
‘Of course! That piece you did for The Guardian last year on the importance of public libraries to small communities was outstanding.’
