Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  Shane giggled. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘And I’ll be asked questions?’ I said nervously.

  ‘Yes, you will, my darling. Now, we’re never quite sure exactly what Randolph’s going to say because he’s a bit of a naughty boy about going off script, but then that’s what makes it such exciting television. We never know what will happen …’ He giggled again and twirled his pink Biro in his fingers.

  ‘The thing to remember, my darling, is be yourself and let it all out, no holds barred. Just be honest – imagine it’s just you and Randolph at home in your kitchen having a cuppa and tell him everything, my darling.’ He lowered his voice to a cosy whisper. ‘Ever been violent?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘I’m really not at all sure about this now,’ I said urgently to Charlotte, when Shane had finally skipped off to prime somebody else. ‘No, listen. I feel pretty good today – Day Ten – I feel positively positive. Who cares about Daniel?’ I shrugged. ‘Who gives a fuck about any of it?’

  ‘Thought you said Day Ten was when you often went bonkers out of the blue,’ said Charlotte. ‘Anyway, can’t you just pretend? Just get all ratty when you’re asked a question. You usually manage it OK. Shall we get something to eat?’

  There was a table along the back piled with food and a lot of old women shoving each other in front of it. ‘Looks like a bit of a bun fight,’ I said. ‘I wish they had some wine.’

  ‘We should have brought you a hip flask,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll go and investigate what else they’ve got.’

  I took off my bracelet and fiddled with it. I did care about Daniel. Well not about him, himself, per se, of course. He was just a middle-aged saddo loser who was trying to pretend he was still a stud (here I took a brief moment to imagine kicking him hard in the shins). But I cared about the grief and wretchedness he’d caused me. I cared about what he had done to our son.

  ‘Why?’ Stanley had asked bleakly when he’d heard Daniel was moving out. Just the one word, delivered round-eyed, bewildered. Daniel couldn’t answer him. It was left to me to try to explain. ‘But why?’ he said again, miserably, when I’d finished.

  I did give a fuck about that and the whole way Daniel had done it. The way he had tried to make it all my fault, my moods, my hormones. And when Charlotte had spoken before about me doing this to put my view, to have my say, it had felt right. A chance to redress the balance. But now …

  She came back proffering a plate of bendy-looking sandwiches and sausage rolls.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I said. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Charlotte. ‘The grannies over there are all very excited. Left home at six this morning to be here. And I got talking to an old boy called Wilf whose wife used to go bonkers every time there was a full moon. She died on the operating table in 1988 when she was having her prolapse sorted.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, pushing the plate away from me, ‘I’ll be sick in a minute.’

  A cross-looking girl in her twenties came up. ‘I’m Sharon – I’m going to mike you up.’ She tugged at the bottom of my T-shirt. ‘That should be OK. Can you stand up and turn round? Hmm,’ she said, apparently examining the size of my bottom. ‘OK then, this clips on here –’ she attached a small black plastic box to my waistband. ‘Try not to sit back too hard, and then this –’ She lifted my T-shirt again and began to feed a length of wire up under it. ‘Can you put your hand down and get this?’

  I fished about down my cleavage and grabbed a little microphone which Sharon clipped on to the neck of my top. ‘You’ll be called when we need you,’ she said before walking off.

  Toni reappeared with polystyrene cups of something that could have been coffee. ‘Oh good, you’ve been miked up, cool. Oh – here comes Randolph.’

  There was a stir over to our right as the doors opened and the suited man from the poster swept in with several people scuttling along in his wake. He paused and addressed the room. ‘Good morning!’ Somewhere in the corner came the sound of clapping. In the flesh, Randolph’s teeth were even whiter and his face distinctly orange.

  ‘Don’t call him Perma-tan for nothing,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Rows D, E and F,’ called a young man from the middle of the room. Several groups of pensioners stood up. ‘That’s you,’ said Toni to Charlotte. She put the cups on the table next to me. ‘You wait here, Laura and I’ll be back for you.’ She led Charlotte off. ‘Looking forward to it? Cool.’

  The room had gone quiet. There were probably a dozen of us still dotted about at tables, and a few of the ubiquitous young people in white T-shirts and jeans holding clipboards clustered around the doors at the back. Randolph had disappeared.

  I smiled awkwardly at a middle-aged woman on the next table. She looked at me dubiously. My stomach was a sick mass of butterflies. I couldn’t remember a single thing about the causes of PMT.

  ‘Ready?’ said Toni, reappearing. ‘Wicked.’ We walked down a corridor and through a set of double doors into a large, warehouse-type place with lots of cameras and a set in the corner of it. Circular rows of red leather seats were placed around a small platform – the oldies from Oldham were already seated around the back. Charlotte waved from the middle of them.

  A long sign – Rise Up with Randolph in neon letters – was suspended from the ceiling. I was suddenly aware of my knees knocking together and a huge urge for a pee. My God, what was I doing …

  Shane rushed up, clipboard flapping. ‘Now come along As and Bs.’ He shepherded me to the front row. ‘And you sit over there, Alicia darling. This is Laura – you’re both As together.’

  Alicia was mid-twenties with jet black hair streaked vibrant red and blonde, part braided with gold and silver beads jingling at the end of each plait and some lime-green hair extensions. She wore a bright pink pair of dungarees, purple boots, a lot of black eyeliner, and huge silver hoops in her ears. She was positioned further round the circle so she was almost opposite me.

  I smiled at her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said sullenly.

  Sharon, the sound girl, arrived and fiddled with the black box bumping against my bottom. My trousers were now cutting me in half. She checked Alicia’s mike too and spoke to us both. ‘Once we start, this will pick everything up – so no whispering to the person next to you,’ she said sternly, as if addressing a class of infants. Three other women were brought in and sat in the seats between us. On my other side, an older man in a grey suit sat down.

  Cameras were wheeled about, lights turned up and down and shone in our faces. Randolph came in with his entourage and frowned up at the auto-cue screen in front of the platform. My mouth was all dry. I cleared my throat. Sharon glared.

  I suddenly realised nobody had done anything with my hair or make-up. I still looked the same washed-out old bag I’d been all morning. Oh my God, again.

  Shane was standing in front of us now, giving instructions. No bad language, no interrupting, no shouting out unless invited to do so by Randolph. No looking at the camera. Keep our eyes on Randolph or whoever is speaking at the time. No fidgeting or fiddling with jewellery. My hand went instinctively to my left earring. I was dying to cough and already had pins and needles …

  Music began to play. Someone began counting down. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’ Sharon and Shane disappeared into the shadows. Randolph stepped forward. Lights, camera, action!

  I think I am going to faint.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Something just snapped,’ Maureen was explaining. ‘I just turned round and I shoved him.’

  Randolph was crouched beside her, a hand on her arm. ‘Tell us how many flights it was, Maureen. Were you afraid he’d broken his neck?’

  Maureen was a small, tired-looking woman with faded red hair. You couldn’t imagine her throwing anyone down the stairs, let alone battering him with an umbrella afterwards. ‘I thought I’d end up in Holloway,’ she said mournfully. ‘Lucky he left me, really.’

  I could feel my heart
thumping in my chest. I had sat glazed and frozen with terror while the woman next to me, Jean, gave an impassioned account of how she had driven her car through the front window of the local newsagent’s when it was “the wrong time of the month” and her husband, Brian, who looked as petrified as I felt, haltingly explained how he used to lock himself and the children in the cellar when she “had the painters in”.

  Every time Randolph moved, my stomach lurched in case he came to me. The woman next to me was breathing so heavily I wondered if she was in the midst of some sort of heart failure. At least they’d have to stop filming.

  ‘And your husband left you too, didn’t he, Laura?’ Suddenly Randolph was perched on the step in front of me, his microphone almost touching my nose. ‘Was that because of your violence?’ he asked silkily.

  ‘No!’ It came out too loudly. How did they know about Daniel, I thought wildly. Nobody had told me he’d be mentioned. ‘I just get very bad moods,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve never hit anyone.’

  Randolph brought his orange face closer to mine. ‘Tell us how you feel, Laura. What happens when you get angry?’

  ‘Well, I sort of get very impatient,’ I said, flustered. My voice sounded higher than usual. Randolph nodded encouragingly. ‘I find I shout at my son a lot. I get clumsy and drop things, I feel very fat …’ My hand moved protectively over the half-yard of stomach that was trying to escape my waistband. ‘Things make me cry and once I threw a shepherd’s pie against the wall …’

  Randolph turned and smiled into the largest camera. ‘And yet Laura looks quite normal. With us today, we have Dr Steven Barrington, consultant gynaecologist at St Saviours Hospital …’

  I sat and squirmed as Grey Suit on my left went through all the scientific stuff I’d prepared and forgotten. What on earth had possessed me to say that about the shepherd’s pie? It was years ago. I’d never given it a thought since and suddenly, here, in a TV studio when I was supposed to be sounding sophisticated, it had just popped out of my mouth. Now the whole country would think I was totally bonkers and it wasn’t even true. It was lasagne.

  Grey Suit had finished and Randolph was standing in front of us all again, sounding sincere.

  ‘We’ve heard all sorts of stories this morning, of violence and domestic mayhem, of lives being ruined, of relationships in the balance. Ordinary-looking women going about their lives with a terrible secret …’ He gazed around the audience. His eyes were beginning to get a strange light in them. ‘They are filled with pent-up, barely-suppressed rage just waiting to boil over …’

  I jumped as he suddenly swung the microphone back toward me. ‘Would you say, Laura, that PMS was the single most contributory factor to the breakdown of your marriage?’

  I opened my mouth and nothing came out. My brain whirred, searching for the right thing to say. ‘The single most contributory factor to the breakdown of my marriage,’ I might have replied, ‘was my husband having a mid-life crisis and getting his leg over the first available female that came along. Lying to me was most definitely a contributory factor, as was trying to pretend I had developed paranoiac-personality-disorder for assuming that finding a packet of three extra-long-lasting melon-and-passion-fruit flavoured condoms and a carton of chocolate body paint in your husband’s briefcase when he was supposed to be meeting up with the district auditor (male, 57, shocking case of halitosis) was a fair indication that he was up to no good. For let me tell you, Randolph, Daniel may have liked to pretend he only left me because I was difficult to live with but smashing crockery against the kitchen tiles was the least of it. I had been hurling the dinner about for years …’

  Randolph’s eyebrows were raised enquiringly. He leant forward and opened his own mouth a couple of times as if to demonstrate what I should be doing. I swallowed. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, lamely.

  Randolph sprang to his feet and went leaping up the tiers of seats. ‘How old are you, Doris?’

  ‘I’m 88.’

  We all twisted round to look. My microphone pack had slipped and I put a hand back to pull it into a better position. Randolph was bending over a white-haired old lady.

  ‘Are you really? You don’t look it,’ he said gallantly.

  Doris cackled. ‘Get on with you.’

  Randolph crouched down beside her. ‘So what do you think about what we’ve heard this morning, Doris? Did you suffer from PMS when you were younger?’

  Doris made an impressive snorting noise that went on for several seconds.

  ‘Never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life,’ she retorted. ‘In my day we just got on with it. We didn’t have time for any of this malarkey. And another thing, we didn’t speak about things like that. Downright disgusting, if you ask me. We kept ourselves to ourselves. Talking about private women’s things on the television for everyone to hear? It’s a disgrace!’ She folded her lips inwards until they disappeared.

  ‘But what about period pains?’ asked Randolph, moving in a bit closer.

  Doris glared. ‘We didn’t have those neither. A bit of proper housework that’s what you need –’ Her eyes fixed on me. ‘If you got yourself down on your knees and scrubbed the floor you wouldn’t have pains. It’s the same with these girls today and all that nonsense when they have a baby. Epidurals, is it? What’s wrong with them? Nothing in my day at all. You gritted your teeth and you pushed when you were told to. I boiled the water myself when the midwife got the forceps out.’

  Some of the back row had opened their eyes and were sitting up in interest. ‘You tell him, Doris,’ croaked one excitably.

  ‘It’s like these disposable nappies. More money than sense that’s your trouble.’ She was really glaring at me now. ‘Too much trouble to wash a few terries, through, is it? And I bet you’ve got a washing machine too, haven’t you?’ She jabbed a gnarled finger in my direction. ‘Haven’t you?’ she cried.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I found myself saying, ‘But …’

  ‘Four lots of nappies I had,’ shouted Doris, ‘and the whitest in the street too …’

  The oldies from Oldham were now beside themselves. One of them cheered.

  ‘I haven’t even got a baby …’ I protested.

  ‘Well perhaps you should have,’ yelled Doris in triumph. I caught a glimpse of Charlotte behind her, wide-eyed. ‘That would sort you out!’

  ‘Thank you, Doris!’ Randolph patted her shoulder as the crones all pointed at me and muttered to each other. I was trembling. None of this was how it was meant to be. I could feel the sweat running down my back where the microphone pack was digging into my spine.

  Randolph had now settled himself beside the brightly-coiffured Alicia. He brought the mike up between them.

  ‘Now you’re 17,’ he drawled. What? She was much older than that, surely? Alicia was nodding. ‘And how old were you when your periods started?’ He gave her a slow smile.

  Alicia stared at him. ‘Twelve,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Twelve!’ cried Randolph, as if this were an achievement of note. ‘And do you get any of these symptoms, Alicia?’ he asked smoothly. Alicia brought her head up high and stared boldly around the studio.

  ‘No, I do not,’ she said loudly. ‘And if you ask me,’ she said, her voice rising further. ‘It’s all a load of rubbish. This is just an excuse for middle-aged women to behave like witches and make other people’s lives a misery.’ She pointed at me. ‘My mother was like her,’ she snarled, almost spitting the last word. ‘Always shouting and screaming and blaming everything on the fact that she had a bad period. Made us all miserable and gave my poor dad hell. She thought nothing of throwing a carving knife across the kitchen but it was never her fault. When I think what we went through –’

  I clenched my fists in frustration, feeling hot and angry. The sense of hurt and disappointment and raw injustice that had begun rising when Doris was speaking rose further.

  ‘I shouldn’t think she wanted to be like that,’ I said tightly. ‘None of us do. Do you think anyone choos
es to feel bad? Do you?’

  Alicia shrugged. ‘Probably,’ she said, aggressively.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure.’ I scowled at her. ‘Would you want to spend half the month with bloating and poor concentration?’ I asked, suddenly miraculously remembering the list of symptoms I’d memorised from the Internet. ‘Would you want to feel depressed and worthless? Would you want water retention and swollen ankles? Would you?’

  Alicia rolled her eyes as the oldies began murmuring again. ‘Look at you. Just like her, always feeling sorry for yourself. Always blaming something else.’

  ‘What do you know about my life or how I behave?’ I shouted. I realised I was waving both arms.

  Alicia looked at me, eyebrows slightly raised, a sarcastic half-smile on her face. The mutterings from the back grew to a crescendo.

  ‘We all know the trouble with you!’ Doris yelled. The row behind her began to bay.

  ‘Screaming the place down,’ said Alicia. ‘You’re all the same.’

  ‘I do not scream!’ I shrieked.

  I saw Randolph smiling as he turned back to face the camera. Horror struck as I realised my tirade would go out all over the country. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered, forgetting what Sharon had said about the mike picking everything up. ‘Fuck it, fuck it,’ I added, as I remembered.

  ‘Why should we all put up with it?’ Alicia was calling. ‘Why should we be your victims?’

  Furious with her, furious with myself, I struggled for something dignified to come back with, but the sight of her smug, triumphant smile was too much.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I exploded. I leant forward and jabbed a finger at her. ‘The woman with PMT,’ I yelled, ‘is a victim herself!’

  There was uproar at the back. Three of Doris’s cronies got to their feet and appeared to be trying to climb over the seats in front.

  Alicia leant forward to give me the full benefit of her evil eyes. ‘Well if it’s that bad,’ she said nastily, ‘get a hysterectomy. But it would probably be more useful for everyone,’ she ended victoriously, ‘if you got a life …’