The Night Book

by Richard Madeley

  Not judging by what she’d just heard. She thought he had an attractive voice – in fact, it was rather sexy – and it had been an interesting piece.

  Fascinating, in fact. She and Cameron had a two-berth motorboat moored on Ullswater and every other weekend in the summer they took it out on what was still one of the Lake District’s quieter stretches of water.

  Meriel had never learned to swim and always stayed on deck while Cameron clambered down the little chromed ladder at the back of the boat – he insisted on calling it ‘aft’ – and slowly paddled around in the lake, never moving far from the vessel. He wasn’t the strongest of swimmers, but he enjoyed these expeditions and so did Meriel. The waters seemed to have a strangely pacifying, moderating effect on her husband. He invariably emerged from them in an improved mood and generally more cordial frame of mind towards her than was usual.

  They always took a picnic lunch on board, and some wine in the boat’s cool-box. If it was a Sunday they’d browse through the newspapers on deck together, gossiping over the headlines and articles. For Meriel, these were almost like the old times with Cameron. His genial mood sometimes continued all day. In fact, the last time they had made love was after just such a trip. But that was back in the previous summer.

  It had been more than a year now.

  Meanwhile, after that last horrendous Christmas they’d spent together – one dreadful row chasing hard on the heels of another, and then Cameron getting completely drunk and trying to force himself on her in the middle of the night – she’d moved into the largest of the guest bedrooms. They hadn’t shared a bed since.

  But somehow, their weekends on the lake survived as unusual oases of compatibility. Listening to Seb Richmond’s report just now, Meriel had been reminded of Cameron’s delight in recent weeks whenever he entered the water.

  ‘Christ, Meriel, it’s warm as a bloody bath in here again!’ he’d called up to her last Sunday, as he slowly circumnavigated the boat using his habitual breaststroke. ‘What a shame you can’t swim! You’d love it. We must find someone to teach you!’

  She’d have to remember to tell him about the danger that lay beneath.

  Then, recalling the way he’d spoken to her only that morning, when she’d reminded him of this trip to London to have dinner with her agent, she changed her mind. He could do with a scare. Cameron never dived or swam under the surface so he wouldn’t be in any real danger, but he might encounter a pocket of icy water that would give him a nasty fright.

  He’d been absolutely vile to her at breakfast when she’d come downstairs with her overnight case and her evening clothes neatly folded and zipped away in a smart black nylon clothes bag.

  ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re off to, then?’

  ‘You know perfectly well, Cameron. I’m having dinner with David at Claridge’s this evening. I told you, he has a book idea he wants to talk to me about.’

  He snorted. ‘That’ll be a new outfit you’ve got with you, then. I know you. Same formula every time: we’re buggering off to London, so let’s buy ourselves a new frock. With my money. How much did that one cost?’

  Meriel managed to keep her temper.

  ‘It’s not new. I got it last year. Anyway, I earn money too. Not as much as you, but I’m perfectly entitled to—’

  He cut her off. ‘Liar. It’s new. I told you, I know you inside out. Well, not inside, not any more.’ He leered. ‘That’s David’s little treat tonight, I’ll bet. In lieu of this month’s fifteen per cent, eh? Commission in kind?’

  ‘You’re completely disgusting.’

  It was strange, she thought as she walked down the London platform towards the first-class carriages at the front of the train. Exchanges like that with Cameron used to leave her trembling with fury. Now, she’d become almost indifferent to them. Was that because of her secret, fantasy diary? Had she stumbled across a therapy that really did channel her anger into a safe, neutral place? Perhaps one day, when she had somehow found a way to escape this mess of her own making, she could incorporate it into her portfolio of advice to others.

  As she found her seat and placed her bags on the overhead rack, her thoughts returned to the new reporter. What was he called? Sam . . . Seth . . . no, Seb, that was it. Meriel rarely went into Lake District FM’s newsroom; she had a desk in the open-plan production office at the other end of the corridor where she spent two days a week, one preparing her programme with her researcher and the next on the actual day of broadcast. The show was syndicated to most of the other commercial stations around the UK and as a result Meriel Kidd was becoming that most contemporary of social oddities: a household name.

  The only time she put her head around the newsroom door was when they wanted a quote from her on something; a new report on depression, or research into eating disorders, or the latest celebrity infidelity.

  But the other day she’d overheard some of the secretaries in her office discussing Seb. They seemed intrigued and concerned for him by turns.

  ‘He’s got a girlfriend in London and she came up to see him the other weekend. Philippa saw them in the String of Horses together. Phillie says she’s gorgeous – looks like one of Charlie’s Angels, apparently. The blonde one.’

  ‘No, no, they’ve split up now, didn’t you hear? He’s ever so upset. Wants to go back to London to try and win her back.’

  ‘Really? She must be completely loopy. He’s lovely. Reminds me a bit of that bloke in Upstairs Downstairs, you know, the young lord or earl or whatever. Except he’s fairer and he doesn’t have a stupid tash.’

  ‘Well, you’d better make your move on him soon, Denise. Everyone says he’s headed for the chop.’

  Hmm. Unlikely, based on the report I just heard, Meriel thought now as her train pulled smoothly away from Carlisle station. He’s good. In fact, I must remember to find an excuse to drop by the newsroom when this Seb is on the news-reading rota. See what all the fuss is about.

  She was surprised to find herself blushing.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Meriel. I’ve worked really hard to make this happen and now you . . . well, you just chuck it back in my face. I honestly thought you’d be biting my hand off, not my head. What on earth’s wrong?’

  David Weir wasn’t the biggest media agent in town but he was getting there. Meriel Kidd wasn’t his biggest client either, but he had plans for her. Big plans. As far as he was concerned, she was the complete package. Most agony aunts were knocking on a bit, or a lot, but at thirty-one Meriel stood out from the crowd, and not just because of her relative youth. She looked a knockout, with long chestnut hair that tumbled past her shoulders, enormous brown eyes set in a flawless oval face, and a figure kept trim from regular walks among the Lake District’s fells.

  Put all that together with a honey-toned voice and a mind as sharp as a whip and you had – well, as he kept repeating to anyone who’d listen, you had the complete package. Especially in broadcasting. David Weir had all kinds of plans to grow and develop Meriel into a TV star, but he was in no rush. He was a canny agent and he knew it was important to build clients a solid base from which they could securely advance.

  Which was why he was so pissed off now.

  ‘It’s a book deal, for Christ’s sake, Meriel! A book deal! I can think of five women – clients – right this minute who’d be fighting each other off to sign up to something as good as this.’

  ‘I’m not going to work with my husband.’

  ‘But why not, Meriel? Look, maybe I put it across wrong. Let me try again. It’s ridiculously hot in here, you’re probably having trouble focusing.

  ‘The working title’s Mrs . . . and Mr. You and Cameron have the perfect marriage, but you’re a modern couple. He has his career, you have yours. He doesn’t take any crap from you, and you don’t take any crap from him. It’s a marriage of equals.

  ‘Jesus, Meriel, you know all the balls married women have to put up with about daring to go out to work! You’re helping to change that. No
one’s done more than you to champion the cause of working women within marriage. So why not explain how it works from the inside?

  ‘I see it working as alternate chapters. Cameron has his – hell, you can write them for him, who cares? – and you have yours. You top and tail it with an introduction and a postscript. Throw in some great photos of you and the old man at your rustic idyll and on the boat – Bailey will come up to Cumbria to shoot them, I’ve asked him already, he’s a mate – and Bob’s your uncle. We can tie in a spread in one of the upmarket glossy magazines, too. It’s perfect.’

  Meriel opened her mouth to speak, but Weir flapped his hands at her.

  ‘Wait. I haven’t got to the best part. I’ve got two publishers fighting like cats in a sack for this and they’re both prepared to fund a TV advertising campaign to support publication. I’m not even going to tell you what the advances they’re offering are: I don’t want you fainting on me. Meriel, please – we get a book like this away, and it’s next stop television. The book will give you the kind of credibility that money simply can’t buy. Meriel! Come on! What’s the big problem here?’

  Oh, what the hell, thought Meriel, draining her fourth glass of sauvignon blanc. I might as well tell someone the sodding truth.

  So she told him.

  David Weir was a good listener. He gave his client his full attention as she unburdened herself of the dead weight of her dead marriage. He didn’t interrupt as Meriel described the daily humiliations and accommodations she had to endure and contrive. He merely nodded occasionally, and waited for her to finish. When she finally ran out of words, he took her hand and squeezed it gently.

  ‘Meriel . . . have you told anyone else about this? Does anyone else know how awful things are at home?’

  Meriel gulped and shook her head. ‘No. You’re the first person I’ve confided in. God, David, I feel so much better for it. Thank you for listening. As far as divorce goes, I suppose I—’

  ‘Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Meriel. I don’t want to hear any more – especially about divorce.’

  Meriel stared at him in shock. ‘What? But I thought—’

  ‘Well, don’t. I’ll tell you what to think. Just be quiet. Give me a minute.’

  A waiter arrived with coffee. The agent waved him away.

  ‘Right,’ he said at last. ‘Right.’ He spread his hands, palms down, on the table, before lifting his head to stare directly at her.

  ‘Jesus, Meriel! What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Do you want to lose everything we’ve built up together over the last five years? So your marriage to Cameron is a sham, is it? Do you think you’re the only woman married to a shit? You need to get with the programme, honey, and in case you’ve forgotten what that is, let me spell it out for you.’

  The waiter hesitantly approached the table again with their coffees. ‘Forgive me, but I thought sir ordered—’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The man melted away.

  Weir continued without missing a beat.

  ‘The programme runs like this. Meriel Kidd is the acknowledged expert on modern marriage. Why? Because she’s got one. A modern marriage, that is. Meriel Kidd wouldn’t settle for anything less. How many times have you said that, when you’re telling some snivelling loser how to put the skids under the tosser in her life?

  ‘Women look up to you, Meriel. You make them realise that they don’t have to take the crap any more. This is 1976. You empower them. You lead by sodding example, for Christ’s sake.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Look. You even hint that you’ve been hiding the truth about your piss-poor marriage, and you’re finished. Your fans would never forgive you. They might feel sorry for you; hell, some would probably even feel superior to you, but they’d never trust a word you said again. Meriel Kidd. Turns out she’s just like the rest of us. Marriage fucked up to buggery and, what’s more, lying through her teeth to everyone about it . . . I mean, Christ, Meriel! It’s the kind of confession you might consider coming out with twenty years or so down the line, if you were on your uppers and looking for a last big payout.’

  There was a long silence. Meriel had turned very pale. When she eventually spoke, it was in a voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Do you think I don’t know all that, David? I live with it every single day. And yes, I manage it. Somehow I manage the whole, horrible, sordid mess. But there are some things I can’t do. Such as writing this book. It’s out of the question. I think it would send me mad, actually.’

  David Weir always knew when to give ground and he did so now. In a gentler voice, he said, ‘Yes, obviously I see that, now you’ve explained how things are with Cameron. I’ll go back to the drawing board with the book idea, come up with something else, don’t worry. But, Meriel, listen to me. Listen carefully now.’

  He glanced around them, instinctively checking that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation.

  ‘You must never, ever confide in anyone else about this. I don’t want to see one of your so-called friends popping up in the News of the Screws with a tell-all exposé on the devastating truth behind the Kidd–Bruton fairy tale. You want someone to unload on, you come to me, and only me. Understand?’

  She nodded. ‘I think I only told you because I’ve had too much wine.’

  ‘Whatever. This is our secret and I want to keep it that way. You’re right on the edge of big things, Meriel, and it’d be a tragedy to see everything you’ve achieved so far go to waste because of a prick like Cameron.’

  Meriel managed a small smile.

  ‘I reckon you’ll have your own television show by this time next year. I wasn’t going to tell you this, I wanted to wait until I had something more solid to offer you, but I’ve been in talks already with BBC1 and Granada. They both think the time’s right to move your radio phone-in format to TV. The Beeb’s even got a working title: Meriel Matters. Your name on the tin, honey.’

  She tried and failed to look enthusiastic. ‘I’m sorry, David, obviously that’s wonderful news, I’m just not in the mood to celebrate tonight.’

  ‘Sure, I get it.’ Her agent hesitated. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What are you doing for sex, Meriel? You’re only thirty-one. It’s not healthy for a woman your age to be sleeping alone every night. You must be incredibly lonely. Haven’t you been tempted to have a discreet affair? Not that I’m suggesting it. Kiss-and-tell, remember?’

  Meriel sighed. ‘To be honest, David, I seem to have switched off as far as sex is concerned. I can’t remember the last time I fancied someone. It must have something to do with living under the same roof as Cameron; he’s so unutterably dreary when he’s not busy being a bastard. He just sucks all the atmosphere out of a room.’

  Weir gave a short laugh. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say, Meriel, is be very careful. You’re only human. We all have our urges. If you do end up giving in to one, just be damn sure not to get caught out. That would be a disaster, too.’

  Meriel beckoned their sulking waiter over. ‘We’d like our coffees now, please . . . Don’t worry, David, it’s not going to happen. As I say, I’m simply not interested. Anyway, I can’t think of a single candidate for an affair. There’s no one even remotely on the horizon.’

  Her agent gave a tight smile.

  ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seb’s live report from Kendal had been the turning point, no question about that.

  The network sent a herogram to Lake District FM saying they’d prefer Sebastian Richmond to be their pointman on all future stories from the region, and his news editor received a handwritten memo from the station manager, congratulating him on keeping faith with the new boy.

  Everyone was happy.

  Not least Seb and Jess. When they returned from their assignment, the reporter insisted on taking the engineer to the pub across the road, where they both ended up getting spectacularly dr
unk. ‘You’re a good lad, Seb,’ the older man slurred several hours later as he stumbled into a taxi. ‘You’ll be all right, now you’ve made your mark.’

  Seb didn’t hear a word. He was too busy throwing up into a flower tub outside the pub’s front door.

  Next morning he was on early shift, reading the headlines during the breakfast show, and staying on afterwards to help put the main lunchtime news show together. That included presenting bulletins at the top of each hour, including the one at eleven that fed in to Meriel Kidd’s live phone-in programme.

  Meriel, who had caught the first train from London and gone straight to the radio station, waved cheerfully at him through the soundproofed glass of her studio as he entered the little adjoining news cubicle. Seb recognised her from newspaper and magazine photographs, but this was the first time he had seen her in the flesh. She was illuminated by the sunshine that streamed through the huge window that looked out onto the distant mountains away to the south.

  Seb swallowed, hard. This woman was beautiful.

  He was so distracted he made at least three verbal slips in the short two-minute bulletin, pronouncing ‘Buttermere’ as ‘Battermere’, struggling with ‘unsubstantiated’ (eventually giving up, replacing it with ‘unproven’) and cocking up the time check, telling listeners it was just past midday when it was actually two minutes past eleven.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened to you in there?’ his editor demanded when Seb returned, damply, to the newsroom. ‘Not still pissed from yesterday?’

  Seb laughed sheepishly. ‘Course not. Sorry . . . it was . . . Meriel . . . I had no idea she looked quite like that. She’s a complete knockout. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. You should have warned me.’

  The news editor grinned. ‘Ah, the comely Miss Kidd. Well, not Miss, actually – she’s a Mrs. Married to Cameron Bruton. Heard of him?’