by Ali McNamara
Sean’s face softens again; he walks over towards me and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Scarlett, as long as you’re happy I don’t mind what you find yourself obsessed with next. As long as it’s legal, of course,’ he adds with a wink. ‘Now I have to go to work. Have fun with Oscar at the gym, won’t you? Don’t work out too hard – you’re just a beginner, remember.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind, thanks, Sean,’ I reply, trying to sound aloof. But as Sean scoops me up into his arms to kiss me goodbye properly, as always, I melt at the feeling of his lips on mine. Some things never change.
We both head downstairs, and as Sean opens the front door to leave the house Oscar is already standing on the doorstep, about to ring the bell.
‘You must have sensed I was coming, darling,’ Oscar announces, flamboyantly swishing past Sean into the hall.
‘Yes, I thought I could feel my retinas beginning to burn,’ Sean says, pretending to shield his eyes from Oscar’s bright clothing. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and chat, Oscar, as always, I have to go to work. Bye, Scarlett, have fun working out those noses of yours.’
Both Oscar and I grimace at him as he closes the door.
Oscar and Sean have never seen eye to eye. Mainly because, some years ago, Sean used to date Oscar’s sister, and when they broke up, quite bitterly at the time, Jennifer went to live over in the States.
‘Oscar, you look …’ I search for an appropriate word as I gaze at the abundance of neon Lycra positively throbbing before me in the hallway ‘… resplendent,’ I decide.
‘Do you think?’ Oscar says, pirouetting around on the tiled floor. ‘I thought it might be a tad over the top. But as I always say, if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it to the absolute limit!’
‘You’ve certainly done that. Perhaps …’ I hesitate as I think about the hip and trendy private gym we’re going to be entering today.
‘Perhaps what?’ Oscar scoots over to the wall and scrutinises himself in front of the mirror. ‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ he wails. ‘I knew it. It will have to go.’ He carefully removes a shocking-pink towelling headband. ‘There, what do you think now – better?’
I try not to look at the rest of his ensemble – his electric-blue Lycra leggings with emerald-green leg warmers, or his matching blue singlet with a bright pink tick across the chest. ‘Much better, Oscar,’ I agree. ‘The headband was a bit OTT.’
‘Fabbo! Now, are you ready to get going? We’ve got to drop this at the TV studios on the way, you know?’ Oscar holds up a zipped suit bag containing one of the vintage outfits from his shop.
‘Yes, I haven’t forgotten.’ How could I? We were going to a real TV studio! I was so excited. But I was trying to act cool and calm, like it was an everyday occurrence. ‘Will we be OK to get in looking like this, though?’ I glance down at my gym gear.
‘Are you kidding, Scarlett, this is TV! Anything goes behind the scenes. It’s only onscreen that there are rules and regulations.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, they don’t want you wearing big stripes because it interferes with the screen, or something, and if it’s morning TV there’s no black, it has to be bright and breezy.’
‘So if one of us accidentally ends up on air today, then you’ll have no worries, Oscar.’
Oscar tosses his head. ‘There’s as much chance of that happening as one of us dating Bradley Cooper. Too much security, darling; it’s like Colditz getting in and out of there.’
We set off for the TV studios in a black cab. Oscar won’t allow his clothes on public transport, in case they get squashed or tainted by the smell of commuters. As we trail across London in the taxi, I look out at the city I now call home.
It hadn’t taken me too long to get used to living here permanently. After I’d spent a month house-sitting last year in Notting Hill, and I’d fallen in love with my next-door neighbour at the time – Sean – it hadn’t taken me much thought at all before upping sticks and moving in with him. We’d relocated the offices of the popcorn-machine company I continued to run with my father from Stratford-upon-Avon down to London, and our headquarters were now based in a little office in Chelsea. But it was only me and my new assistants, Tammy and Leon, that ran the offices now. Dorothy, my father’s faithful secretary of many years, had decided to retire when Dad had gone over to New York to run the new US arm of the business. Which was blossoming, after Sean had purchased a chain of cinemas last year in one of his business deals, and our popcorn machines were gradually supplying the ever-growing needs of the cinema-goers of America.
I missed Dad terribly. But he’d taken to living in New York surprisingly well. I think he quite enjoyed having the chance to do something different with his life for once, and my moving in with Sean had given him the push to move on.
‘What ya thinkin’ about?’ Oscar asks, as we suddenly pick up speed and start moving through the early-morning traffic at a pace.
‘Dad.’
‘You miss him, don’t you?’ Oscar asks, resting his hand on mine.
I nod. ‘Yes, but he’s having a whale of a time over in New York. Best thing that ever happened to him, going to the States. It’s been like a new lease of life.’
‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t miss him, though, Scarlett. It was only the two of you for twenty-three years. It’s understandable you should feel the loss.’
I nod again. Oscar always knows the right thing to say. He’s been like my new best friend since I’ve come to live in London. Maddie, my oldest friend, still isn’t that far away in Stratford-upon-Avon, when she isn’t off travelling around the world with her husband, Felix, but it just isn’t the same.
Suddenly the taxi driver screeches to a halt.
‘What’s wrong?’ I exclaim, peering through the glass partition to see what’s caused him to brake so hard.
‘Bloody joggers!’ he moans, rolling his eyes. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed. She just stepped right out in front of that bus, and now there’s a three-vehicle pile-up.’
As the taxi driver slowly pulls around the line of vehicles, I see some early-bird tourists already snapping photos of the incident, and uniformed police officers appearing on the scene, trying to grab a couple of witnesses to take a statement from as the jogger looks anxiously at her watch.
‘I don’t think she is a jogger,’ I remark as we drive by. ‘Her clothes suggest she’s going to a gym, like us, not out road-running.’
Oscar laughs. ‘Two sessions with Davina McCall, and you’re a fitness expert now?’
‘Three, actually, and I have bought some other workout DVDs, I just haven’t had time to do them yet.’
‘And will you?’ Oscar asks with wide eyes.
‘Depends on how I get on at the gym later this morning. I could well take up a yearly membership if I like it.’
‘You mean if you catch a glimpse of Jude Law in a sweat-soaked vest!’
‘There is that added incentive!’
The taxi pulls to a stop outside the TV studios where we’re dropping off Oscar’s outfit. While Oscar pays the driver, I look up at the rather dull building we’re about to enter. It doesn’t look much like I’ve imagined a TV studio might look. It’s quite drab and boring on the outside. But as we go through the security gate outside, giving our names and reason for being there, and then on into Reception where we sign our names in a book, it begins to feel a bit more exciting. I see photographs of some of the programmes that are filmed there, and some of the personalities that work on them. Oscar flashes his visitor’s pass at the smiling receptionist and we’re allowed further into the building.
‘So where do we have to go now?’ I ask, trying to act cool but feeling a sense of nervous anticipation, like a child about to visit Santa.
‘This way,’ Oscar says, prancing down a long corridor.
As I follow him, I try and look as if I visit TV studios every day of the week, but the reality is my head is swivelling to and fro trying to see inside rooms and offices
in the hope that I might spot something exciting going on.
But it’s all quite boring, really, not at all what I expected. It’s just like a normal office block.
Then as we turn a corner, and Oscar hurriedly sets off down the next long corridor, I pause for a moment to glance back at a small crowd of people gathering outside one of the rooms we’ve just passed.
It couldn’t be – could it? It had looked an awful lot like him sitting in that chair as we’d whizzed past … But what would he be doing here at this time of the morning?
Then I see a sign above me on the wall that says Wake Up Britain TV Studios, and the penny drops. He must be a guest this morning on breakfast television. I’m about to call out to Oscar to wait a moment, but the corridor stretching out in front of me is empty.
I look at my two options. Chase after Oscar and his 1920s flapper dress and matching headband, or casually wander back down the corridor and possibly get the chance to speak to Colin Firth …
It doesn’t take much thinking about.
I’m about to take a step towards my date with destiny when a young man in faded jeans and a Ted Baker t-shirt taps me on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me?’ he enquires.
I’m almost thrusting my hands in the air in surrender and admitting that yes, I’m not supposed to be here alone when he continues, ‘Are you the fitness expert?’
‘I … I’m sorry?’ I ask, looking at him in bewilderment.
‘The new Wake Up Britain fitness expert? To say there’s been a bit of a panic going on down there,’ he gestures down the corridor, ‘is an understatement. We didn’t think you were going to make it when you said you’d been in a traffic accident. I’m Rich. We spoke on the phone.’
I stare at him blankly.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, looking worried. ‘Are you in shock or something? You don’t have concussion, do you?’
‘Er, no …’
‘Good-good, then let’s get you down to make-up. You’re looking a bit pale.’
He grasps hold of my arm, and before I know what’s happening I’m being escorted down the corridor and into a small room decorated almost entirely in white. It has large mirrors running the length of the wall, and several high seats standing in front of the mirrors.
‘Hi,’ says a young girl with long auburn hair and wild jewellery, gesturing at one of the seats. ‘Sit right here. Won’t be a mo.’
I’m just about to explain that I’m not actually an expert in fitness, and that the only time I really get out of breath is when I have to run the length of Oxford Street on the first day of the sales, and that I can judge my current strength levels on just how many shopping bags my biceps can endure in the process without becoming too overloaded … when she whips a white gown away from the person sitting in the chair next to me.
‘There, all done, Mr Firth,’ she says, coyly smiling at him in the mirror.
‘Thank you, Michelle,’ he says, a charming smile spreading across his newly made-up face. He lifts himself from the chair and glances in my direction. ‘Don’t worry – you’re in safe hands. Probably bump into you in the green room in a few minutes,’ is his parting comment, before he’s suddenly surrounded by people wearing headphones and carrying clipboards. Most that gather in the gang don’t actually seem to have a reason to be there, but just need to be passing by at the time because, hey, it is Colin Firth.
‘Now,’ Michelle says, securing a clean white gown around my neck so I can’t escape. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
I should protest. I should say, ‘No, I’m not supposed to be sitting here. I’m not a fitness expert,’ or whatever it is Rich thinks I am. But I can’t. Colin Firth has just spoken to me. Mr Darcy has just said, ‘See you in the green room in a few minutes.’ I’m not going to turn down an invitation like that, am I?
Michelle spends the next few minutes making me look fit to appear on TV. This involves spraying quite a lot of very dark base on me so I look as if I’ve been under a sunbed a tad too long, with a sort of spraying wand that Michelle explains is specifically made for high-definition television make-up. Then she applies more eye make-up and blusher than I’ve ever worn on an evening out, let alone to give me the healthy glow of a fitness instructor first thing in the morning. But Michelle insists it’s all necessary under the bright TV lights, so I go along with it while I try to make it sound as if I know something about exercise and fitness. I throw in a few words I’ve heard Davina mention in her DVDs like ‘quads’ and ‘hamstrings’, except while I’m doing all this I’m also trying to plan what I might say to Colin in the green room, and my already overwrought mind mistakenly blabs ‘Cheestrings’. I hurriedly correct myself and I don’t think Michelle noticed, and if she did, she’s too well trained to point it out.
My plan is that once I’ve spent a few minutes chatting up – sorry – conversing politely with Colin, on subjects like where he keeps his Oscar, I’ll casually sneak out of the green room (I wonder what shade of green it’ll be? My skin will look awful if the room is painted the wrong tone) just before I’m called to go on air, and then I can go and find my own Oscar. I wonder if he’s missed me yet …
Make-up done, I’m hurried along another corridor to a pretty-looking room which, thank goodness, isn’t green at all, where there are delicious-looking refreshments waiting for me on a table, and a comfy sofa with a couple of other people already sitting on it. No sign of Colin.
‘Just take a seat. Lucy, she’s the floor manager on this morning’s show, she’ll be in to have a chat about your segment in a moment,’ Rich says, looking at his clipboard.
I look hungrily at the croissant on the table in front of me. We hadn’t had breakfast this morning because we were on our way to the gym, and my stomach is beginning to complain.
‘Shame you can’t have any,’ Rich says, glancing over his clipboard at me. ‘They’re delicious, we get them from a little bakery down the road.’
‘I can’t?’ I enquire sadly. Maybe they were for the A-list guests only.
‘You can’t work out on a full stomach, can you?’ he says, looking at me with a puzzled expression.
‘No … no, of course not.’
The door opens and my settee-mates are ushered through it, presumably for their five minutes of TV fame. Rich still hovers by the door.
‘Will Colin be joining us?’ I enquire as casually as I can. If he isn’t coming back in here then I really need to think about making my escape. And soon.
Rich looks at his watch. ‘Yes, he’ll be along in a minute. I think he’s got caught up signing autographs and stuff down the corridor.’
I glance nervously around me. There’s a little monitor across the room showing exactly what’s going on in the Wake Up Britain studio right at this very moment as they broadcast live to the nation, and suddenly I realise that this might not have been such a good idea after all – Oscar-winning actor or not.
I clamber to my feet, about to try and make some excuse about needing fresh air, when the door bursts open and in breezes a young woman wearing jeans, a tight red sweater and a polka-dot scarf tied into a cheery bow at the side of her neck. Her black hair is in a loose ponytail.
‘Hi, you must be Jemma,’ she says, thrusting her hand into mine. ‘So sorry – got tied up back there with Colin. But who wouldn’t want to, eh, given half a chance?’ She winks at me.
‘Hahayeahmm,’ I nervously half mumble, half laugh at her joke.
‘Ye-ss … Now then,’ she says, sitting down next to me. ‘I just want to run through what’s going to happen over the next hour. You had the email I sent last week, so that’s fine … now—’
‘Email?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy looks at me oddly. ‘Are you OK? I know you were involved in a bit of an accident on your way here, but Rich,’ she looks over her shoulder at Rich, ‘said you were fine now.’
Why do they keep mentioning an accident? Then it all falls into place. The pile-up we drove past with the jogger … She must ha
ve been the fitness expert they were expecting in here this morning! And now, seeing me dressed like this, wandering about in the corridor earlier …
‘So, are you?’ she prompts, looking worried. ‘Only you’re on in …’ she glances at her watch. ‘Bugger, Rich, why didn’t you say? Quick, Jemma, this way!’ She grabs my arm and yanks me off the sofa. Before I’ve got time to protest, I’m dragged along a corridor and through a door with a red ON AIR sign lit up above it.
Three
I stand there, panic-stricken, with Lucy gripping my arm like a vice. I look past a bank of cameramen and see two orange sofas. Sitting on them are the two regular Wake Up Britain presenters, reading off an autocue and talking into one of the cameras. Lucy holds her finger to her lips. ‘You need to be quiet,’ she whispers. ‘They’re live right now.’
I look around me and try to bolt for the exit. But Lucy is surprisingly strong and blocks my way. ‘Where are you going?’ she hisses. ‘You’re on in a minute!’
‘Toilet,’ I squeak. ‘Desperate.’
‘Sorry, no time. Ad break in three … two … one … now. Go!’ she calls, herding me towards one of the orange sofas.
‘This is Jemma, our new fitness expert,’ she says by way of introduction. ‘Jemma, meet Julian and Loretta.’
‘Hi, Jemma.’ Loretta holds out her hand and I manage to shake it. Julian just nods as he shakes my hand. I begin to lower my bottom onto the orange sofa.
‘No!’ Lucy cries. ‘It’s your routine first, then question-and-answer after the next break. You did read the running order?’ she asks accusingly, grabbing my arm again and leading me towards a small area with wood laminate flooring and a large screen behind it.
‘Y-yes. Of course I did.’
‘Great, well, just do your thing, the music will cue up automatically, then when you’ve finished, make your way over to the sofa again and Loretta and Julian will interview you. Capeesh?’
I feel my head nodding as my brain bangs on the inside of it going, No! No! Tell her, you fool. Tell her you’re not the fitness expert now before it’s too—
