Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  Charlotte was unfazed. ‘You’ve got stacks of stuff – we only went shopping last week. And we can go again this weekend. Stop making excuses. You’re boring me.’

  ‘Who’ll feed the cat?’

  ‘You’ll be back in the evening.’

  ‘I’m camera shy!’

  Charlotte folded her arms. ‘You’re really boring me now …’

  ‘I don’t care. No!’

  ‘You’ll love it when you get there.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Why do you have to do it?’ Stanley looked at me in disgust. ‘And why Becky’s house? She’s completely horrible – she always laughs at me.’

  ‘Girls are like that, darling.’ I held yet another ghastly garment up against me and looked at it from several angles in the full-length mirror. ‘Just ignore her. Play with Joe.’

  ‘Joe is seven,’ said Stanley wearily.

  I threw the dress on the bed and picked up the flouncy grey skirt I’d started with. ‘Well, Roger says you can go on the PlayStation. It’s only for a couple of hours, I’ll be back by six.’

  ‘I’ll be starving,’ said Stanley plaintively.

  ‘Charlotte’s leaving snacks for you all and we’ll have something fabulous for dinner.’ I looked at the fabric in my hands. Maybe I could wear this skirt with a black T-shirt and my wide studded belt? No, damn it, they said no black.

  ‘Pizza?’

  ‘OK. Pizza.’

  I could wear a red T-shirt, but then red can sometimes make my hair look a funny colour. Depending on what colour my hair is. At the moment, it is grape. Well, the box said “grape” – it started out burgundy and is now a faded shade of prune …

  ‘Delivered, not a frozen one.’

  ‘OK.’

  The girl on the phone – Toni – said to wear anything I felt comfortable in, as long as it wasn’t black or white, or boldly patterned or had stripes. That left one pink dress that would look OK if I lost ten pounds (unlikely in the next three hours), one brown suit I’ve always hated (bought on Day 23 when judgement impaired), one pair of green trousers that make my arse look huge (a fact kindly brought to my attention by Daniel after I’d been wearing them for several weeks of ignorant bliss) and the aforementioned long, flouncy grey skirt that didn’t have a top to go with it.

  ‘Stuffed crust.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stuffed crust pizzas delivered.’

  ‘Delivered? They cost a fortune.’

  ‘You just promised.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘And I can stay up late.’

  ‘Don’t push it. Oh, Stanley,’ I wailed. ‘What am I going to wear?’

  Stanley screwed up his nose. ‘I dunno. Why are you doing this anyway? It’s stupid you going on TV. You’re not even going to win anything.’

  ‘I’m doing it because my friend Clive really needs my help and it’s a bit of an experience and … Charlotte nagged me into it.’

  Stanley, who has known Charlotte all his life, nodded.

  I didn’t tell him it was what Charlotte had said about Daniel that had swung it. I was trying not to talk about his father unless he did – I only chalked up WIT points galore and deepened my scowl lines.

  ‘Daniel thinks,’ she’d explained, ‘that you’re an out-of-control harridan and we know you’re not. This is your chance to prove it. You will be sitting there, perfectly poised, looking stunning, speaking intelligently about PMT and how simply everyone who’s anyone gets it and it will be very obvious that he is the one who’s a total tosser for being so out of step as to not understand …’

  I love the word “tosser” – it so perfectly conjures up an image of Daniel’s ridiculous face when he’s gazing like a love-sick bovine at that silly blonde stick-person.

  ‘And you can,’ Charlotte had said, warming to her theme, ‘talk about supportive partners being important and how, while men who are insecure – probably because they have unnaturally small genitalia – might use it as an excuse to go off shagging others, the modern, sensitive man – which Daniel is pretending to be now – will realise it is all part of the raw, primitive passion of woman …’

  I wasn’t instantly converted. ‘What are you talking about?’ I said crossly. ‘He won’t be watching daytime TV, will he? He’ll be at the office.’

  ‘Stanley can show him the video.’

  ‘Stanley won’t go anywhere near the video. Stanley doesn’t approve. And can you blame him? What boy wants to watch his mother discussing periods?’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Charlotte, changing tack, ‘the papers will pick up on it – you’ll probably be asked to write a think-piece for the Guardian . Daniel will jolly well see it then.’

  I laughed sourly. ‘The Guardian ? Come off it. What I should be writing is 14 pages of scintillating copy extolling the properties of the new toughened-glass Grow-Bright range of greenhouses and conservatories. Wanted by tomorrow! How come you’re not working again?’

  Charlotte looked at the clock ‘Because I’ve got half an hour … Shit! No I haven’t – I’m supposed to be in Waldron Avenue now. See you later!’

  When she’d dashed off, hair and handbag flying, I thought about what she’d said. There was something oddly seductive about her vision of me being interviewed on TV about PMT. Of being a kind of expert. Of my collection of symptoms being acknowledged as a proper syndrome. Of being listened to, my intelligent observations on its devastating effects being taken seriously by millions of daytime viewers.

  I didn’t know of course, if there were millions. I personally had never even seen this Randolph Kendall and his 9 a.m. show – who gets to watch television then? But presumably someone must do or it wouldn’t be on. Charlotte said she’d seen it and he looked a bit smarmy but they’d had a good female psychologist on saying weight was all about what felt good to you and that if you felt sexy at size 16, then by definition you were.

  Charlotte is a firm believer in such philosophies – when Daniel moved out she brought round three chocolate cakes, a crate of Kettle Chips and a wine-box. ‘At least there’s no one to mention the size of your arse now,’ she said, before tucking in. ‘All that trying to be thin is so bloody tedious.’

  Instead of the psychologist, presumably there would be me. I would be able to provide astute insights into the role of progesterone and the function of the pituitary gland (I had already mugged up on Google so I had the facts to hand), the delicate balance of the reproductive hormones and their effect on the female both psychologically and physiologically, leading to a possible fall in the brain chemical serotonin which controls mood …

  Daniel had summed this up in his own way. ‘You’re mad,’ he’d said.

  ‘It’s quite an honour to be asked,’ I said now to Stanley. ‘Imagine – your mother on TV.’

  ‘I am imagining,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘We must get you to school. You’d better clean your teeth if you can’t be useful on the clothes front.’

  Stanley surveyed the heap on my bed. ‘That’s too pink,’ he said. ‘That one makes you look horrible like Connor’s mum and I don’t think you should wear those trousers.’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘The skirt,’ he advised. ‘You wore that when we went to Grandma’s birthday and it didn’t look too bad.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said, overwhelmed by such sartorial endorsement. ‘But what top?’

  ‘Ask Charlotte,’ said Stanley, now clearly exhausted by his efforts. ‘She,’ he added sagely, ‘will tell you what to do.’

  ‘I don’t think so, love.’ Charlotte frowned critically as I put on an olive green scoop-necked number. ‘Whole effect is a bit too Sunday school teacher for my liking. Hmmm, let’s think, what would Joan Bakewell wear?’

  ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘I’m thinking erudite,’ said Charlotte, ‘though –’ she paused to look me up and down ‘– perhaps we’re onto a loser there. Here, what about this orange one?’<
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  ‘Isn’t it a bit bright?’ I picked the T-shirt up and held it beneath my chin. ‘I only got it because they were doing three for the price of two and I’d already got a black and a white one.’

  ‘It’s going to have to do,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘The car’s here.’

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ I ran up and down the bedroom. ‘I’m not ready!’

  ‘Well, hurry up.’

  Charlotte opened the window and began gesticulating at whoever was at the front gate as I scurried about in a panic.

  ‘I haven’t sorted out a handbag.’

  ‘You won’t have a handbag on TV!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They never do. Do you ever see Kaddy with a handbag?’

  ‘She’s doing the weather. Margaret Thatcher used to have one.’

  ‘She was running the country. Just bring your usual.’

  She ran down the stairs and opened the front door. ‘Hello, yes, she’s just coming!’

  ‘I haven’t got my make-up on,’ I said, running down after her.

  ‘They’ll do it.’

  ‘But I don’t want them seeing what I look like without any.’

  ‘Come and get in the car.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve left Boris enough food.’

  ‘He’s got enough to feed every cat in the street – no wonder he’s obese.’

  ‘He is not – he is naturally large. Do you know the vet said he had excellent muscle tone?’

  ‘What, round his jaw?’

  ‘Shall I put my hair up or leave it down?’

  ‘Just get in the bloody car!’

  ‘Ah that’s what I like to see – a vehicle befitting my style and status …’ Charlotte smiled graciously as she dragged me down the path. ‘Good morning, again!’ she called to the driver, a large handsome guy of about 30 with dreadlocks, dressed in a shirt and tie, who was standing next to the big white Mercedes having a fag. He ground out the end on the pavement and turned a huge grin on us, his teeth matching his dazzling white shirt.

  ‘Morning girls. I’m Kevin – but you can call me Kev.’ He winked. ‘Got your knickers on now?’

  ‘I’m Charlotte,’ said Charlotte. ‘And this is Laura, the soon-to-be-star.’

  Kev guffawed in a way that did not sound entirely complimentary. ‘In you jump,’ he said holding the door open.

  ‘Ooh look, a drinks cabinet,’ said Charlotte when we were settled back in the leather interior and Kevin had started the engine. ‘What have you got in here then, Kev?’

  ‘No alcohol allowed before filming,’ he said. ‘My instructions are to get everyone there sober. There’s orange juice and water. I’ll see what I can find you for the way back,’ he added. ‘You’ll probably need it by then.’

  I looked anxiously at Charlotte. She grinned as she snapped the ring pull from a small can of juice. ‘We always need it,’ she said.

  I looked out of the window as we drove up Broadstairs High Street. At the last minute I’d put on a pair of black trousers with the orange T-shirt, on the basis that they could hardly send me back to change and nobody would see much of them if I was sitting down and if they did, at least black was slimming.

  Because an outfit that your 11-year-old thought looked OK when you were out with your mother hardly screamed sexy sophistication. Now, however, I was thinking longingly of the grey skirt after all, since the black trousers were already digging into me round the waist where a roll of flab was clearly visible beneath the orange top. Which I still had my doubts about, but which Charlotte had insisted on, saying it would be bright enough to distract the eye from anything else.

  ‘So,’ said Kev, as we stopped at the traffic lights at the Broadway. ‘Going on with Randolph, eh?’ He looked at me in the rear mirror. ‘Into the lion’s den, huh? Ha ha …’

  ‘It’s not that bad, surely,’ I said, frowning at Charlotte.

  ‘A right punch-up last week,’ Kev continued. ‘Bloke on there says his third kid ain’t his: he’d always reckoned his missus was up to no good with the next-door neighbour. She’s sitting next to him, like, and the next thing, she’s got up and landed him one. He goes to thump her back and the bloke sitting in the row behind leaps over the seats and smashes him in the face. Turns out he is the next-door neighbour and he’s got his wife with him too, so she’s none too pleased. Bedlam it was – all of ’em screaming and crying. Old Randolph thought all his Christmases had come at once. Ratings went right up.’

  Charlotte laughed. I didn’t. ‘This programme’s about female hormone issues,’ I said stiffly. ‘It will just be women discussing their feelings, there won’t be anything like that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Kevin confidently. ‘Randolph likes to get a bit of confrontation going. ‘You divorced, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What’s he like, this Randolph?’ asked Charlotte hastily. ‘Always looks a bit of a creep to me,’ she added cheerily.

  ‘He’s all right.’ Kevin turned left at the roundabout and took the main road out of town. ‘I don’t see much of him these days. My mate Jerry’s the one who drives him mostly. Says he’s always on the phone and they have quite a few stop-offs. Likes a bit of extra-curricular himself, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t they all,’ said Charlotte. To me, she added conversationally, ‘I’ve told Roger if he ever even thinks about it, I’ll castrate him with the bread knife.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘He loves you too much and you terrify him.’

  Charlotte nodded, satisfied.

  She and Kev kept up a conversation for the rest of the journey, while I did what I could with concealer and a tube of “photogenic” foundation I’d got free when I bought that new lip-plumping balm. By the time we were turning off at Teddington, I looked marginally less raddled and we’d heard all about Kev’s girlfriend, Cindy, their forthcoming wedding, and the problems they were having with her mother, which were in sufficient quantity to last the entire stretch of the M25.

  I stared out of the window and began to feel nervous. Suppose I dried up, suppose I forgot whether it was too much oestrogen or progesterone that caused all the problems and why, exactly, taking fatty acids were such a good idea. I took a swig of water and worried that I might have forgotten to put a drink in Stanley’s packed lunch, rendering him dehydrated and unable to concentrate and achieve his potential, leading in turn to feelings of inadequacy, extra WIT points and probably three more years on the couch.

  I was just wondering whether I should phone the school and ask them to remind him to buy a bottle of something from the cafeteria if I had forgotten, or to use the water fountain, when I suddenly realised we had pulled up at a barrier and Kev was exchanging witticisms with a couple of security guards.

  ‘More lambs to the slaughter,’ he said. They all laughed. ‘Here we are,’ he added over his shoulder.

  He pulled up by some steps. ‘Go through those doors. And someone will meet you in reception.’

  ‘I don’t want to do this,’ I muttered, as Charlotte jumped out of the car and strode ahead of me.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, marching through the automatic doors and up to the large, curved, shiny yellow desk where a blonde girl was on the phone and several people in jeans and white T-shirts stood around looking at each other. Framed stills from Yellow Door Productions’ TV shows covered the wall behind the desk; a huge poster of a suspiciously raven-haired, tanned man in his 50s with a wide smile full of American-looking teeth filled a display panel in the corner. Rise Up with Randolph. Every weekday at 9 a.m. Always There For You.

  Charlotte coughed. The receptionist cupped her hand over the receiver and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll get Toni,’ she said without enthusiasm, when Charlotte had explained who we were.

  We sat on a yellow leatherette sofa in front of a glass-topped table piled with copies of Hello . Charlotte began to flick through one of them while I stared at the lemon carpet. I was
even more nervous now. I glanced at my friend. Charlotte was wearing a new beaded, bottle green top with plunging neckline. She’d obviously been topping up her tan on the sun bed (did the woman ever go to work?) and looked voluptuous and terrific. I could see myself reflected in the smoked glass wall opposite. I looked like an overweight wasp.

  ‘I don’t want to do this,’ I said again.

  ‘Shut up,’ replied Charlotte. ‘Hello!’ She smiled at the girl who had just come through a side door. The girl smiled back.

  ‘Hi, I’m Toni. Are you Laura? Cool!’

  Toni looked about 14 and said “cool” a lot. She had on a tight black T-shirt and torn jeans, her brown hair scraped back in a pony tail and a nose-stud. I felt like an ancient aunt.

  If it wasn’t cool, it was wicked. ‘I spoke to you on the phone didn’t I? Cool. Did you have a good journey? Wicked. Come through to the waiting area – cool. Would you like a cup of tea? Cool. This way, wicked, sit over there, cool. Shane will see you in a minute. Cool. He’ll run through everything. Cool, wicked, cool, cool, cool.’

  She led us into a large, noisy room filled with tables with people around them. We sat on two plastic chairs in the corner where I stared at a blue carpet this time, until Shane, who made Clive look seriously macho, danced over to meet us.

  ‘Now, ladies, who’s our guest today? Ah, you’re the lovely Laura – wonderful. Now let’s see …’ He consulted his clipboard, ticking something off with a flourish. ‘Ooh, you’re an A guest, my darling, which means Randolph will definitely be coming to you !’ He beamed. I looked blank. Shane settled himself on a chair in front of us.

  ‘Row A are our prime guests – the major contributors with the key storylines; Row B, secondaries – we’ll come to them next when we open it up to general discussion; Row C we’ll call on if there’s time; Rows D and E, you can put your hands up but we’ll only come in an emergency.’ He lowered his voice. ‘F and G – coach trip from Oldham. Clapping and hissing only.’

  ‘They won’t be hissing about PMT, surely?’ I said.