by Penny Smith
‘Well, going through those questions in no particular order…I agree that you haven’t exactly been inundated with offers. But you need to think very hard before taking on something like this. It could be the worst career decision you’ve ever made. You know as well as I do what the producers will be hoping to get from you. And they’ll be doing all they can to make sure you either do the things they’re expecting…or look like you’re doing them.’
‘If you’re talking about the drinking and the men, I think we can safely say that I’m over that. I haven’t been hammered for months, and I am, of course, going out with the scrummy Adam, thank you very much.’
‘Well, my advice–for what it’s worth–is not to do it. Yes,’ he pressed on, sensing her interruption, ‘I know you need the cash and it is a large sum, but is it large enough to live on for the rest of your life? Even if you do get a few things off the back of it, you’ll soon find them drying up if you’ve ruined your credibility’
‘That’s all well and good but I need to eat in the meantime. Do you know anyone else they’ve asked? And what they might have been offered in the filthy-lucre department?’
‘I think they’re doing a trawl at the moment. I know some of the names. Not people you’d probably want to spend a fortnight with. As for the cash, no idea. It’ll depend on profile, obviously.’
‘When do they need to know by?’
‘As soon as. But I honestly do think you’d be wise not to. You know, the other thing is that if you go into this, people will think your career’s on the skids.’
‘It kind of is.’
‘No, it’s more in the doldrums.’
‘Doldrums, skids, whatever. The one thing it’s not is on the up.’
‘One programme offer, and you’d be on the way up. That’s all it takes,’ he said.
‘Which is sounding suspiciously like what actors say. And that is not why I became a journalist.’
‘It’s hardly a journalistic job, this one.’
‘But I could use it as one. Maybe write a book off the back of it. Or something,’ she said lamely.
‘Hm. I’d bet you a pound to a bunch of grapes that at least one other contestant will claim the same reason. Anyway, you asked for my opinion, and that’s it. Don’t do it. Enjoy the fact that they’re willing to pay such a lot of money for the dubious pleasure of watching you make a complete tit of yourself and say no.’
‘OK.’
‘OK yes or OK no?’
‘OK, I’ll think about it.’
‘All right. What are you up to?’
‘Drinking tea.’
‘As one does. Well, have a good morning, and I’ll speak to you later.’
Katie put the phone down and took a long draught of tea to warm up her nose. The air was positively frosty. Then she picked up the phone again, and dialled Adam.
He answered on the first ring.
‘That was a very speedy response,’ she said, putting her mug down on the bedside table and snuggling under the duvet.
‘That’s because I saw who was calling.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said coyly. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Is this a dirty phone call?’
‘Only if you make it one. I like to know what you’re wearing, so I can imagine it.’
‘A navy suit, a cream shirt and a tan watch.’
‘A tan watch?’
‘Yes. Why? You don’t like tan watches?’
‘I’d have thought a silver one would go better.’
‘You know nothing. Are you still in bed?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ she said briskly, sitting up.
‘Yes, you are,’ he said, laughing. ‘I can hear the sheets rustling.’
‘I was up,’ she said guiltily, ‘but then I got back into bed because I was cold.’
‘Yes. Of course. I believe you.’
‘Anyway. Listen. I know we weren’t supposed to be seeing each other tonight, although I’ve forgotten why. Was it one of your meetings? But could we, at some stage?’
‘Hold on a second,’ he said, and she heard him leafing through what she imagined was his diary.
She slurped some tea.
‘Nice,’ he drawled.
‘Sorry Got my lips in the wrong order,’ she said.
‘Is ten o’clock too late?’ he asked.
‘No. That would be brilliant. How about going to that new bar that’s opened in Soho in that street that’s erm, sort of perpendicular to the one that runs parallel to Regent Street? Or do I mean adjacent?’
‘Journalism is so good for the communication skills. I assume you mean The Rag Room?’ he asked.
‘That’s the one. Oh, good. Something to look forward to.’
‘Nothing in the diary until then?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Tons. I really ought to get on. There’s a bit of dusting needs doing behind one of my books,’ she said, with dignity.
‘Well, don’t be late for The Rag Room,’ he admonished, I know how dusting can drag on. You start with one book and before you know it you’re dusting behind another.’
‘Am I ever late? Of course I won’t be. And, in all seriousness, I do have a meeting at twelve. See you later.’ She pressed the little red phone icon. Won’t, she thought. Won’t. Funny word. Even funnier when you consider that it’s the short form of ‘will not’. Why don’t we say ‘willn’t’? I will marry you or maybe I willn’t.
She grimaced. Maybe I willn’t because I haven’t been asked. Would I say, I will,’ if I was? That’s a difficult one.
She wriggled further under the duvet, and pressed her non-phone ear into the pillow to warm it up. Maybe I should put the heating on. Or maybe I willn’t. She smiled. She might ask Adam later if he knew why it was ‘won’t’.
She didn’t have a meeting, but she didn’t like to think of him picturing her lying in bed all day like some latter-day Hollywood starlet. ‘Ooh, ’ark at me, Hollywood starlet,’ she muttered to herself, as she sat up again and drank the rest of her tea, making exaggerated lip-smacking noises for the sheer hell of it. ‘Hollywood tartlet, more like. Or Stollywood tartlet. Hey, maybe I will have a vodka martini tonight. A nod to the old days.’
Since she’d been stepping out with Adam, as she liked to describe it, she had cut down drastically on the alcohol consumption, but there was nothing in the world like a vodka martini. The oil from the two olives lying on the meniscus. The smell of the vermouth. The way it almost crept into your mouth and past your throat, coating it with a glow. She started to salivate at the memory.
She tried to conduct an internal debate about the pros and cons of doing Celebrity X-Treme, but large wads of money kept hanging over the proceedings so she gave up.
She could not have known just how much Siobhan Stamp wanted to get her on the show–that she had been given a big budget for the fee by Lamplight, the production company. And that she was already laying the groundwork for a spot of skulduggery by seducing one of the confirmed contestants, Paul Martin–not that she needed much of an excuse to seduce a handsome man but the prospect of killing two birds with one stone was delicious.
Siobhan was facing a late night working on Celebrity X-Treme. She would have been pleased to know that not only was Katie more than halfway to accepting the company’s kind offer of £150,000 for three weeks’ work, but that she was going to appear in the newspaper the next day in a very unflattering pose. She found it therapeutic seeing a woman who had bested her–even if she was unaware of it–not looking her best.
The Hello Britain! roadshow was on its fourth day and Keera had had enough. As she had predicted, Dee had been hogging the headlines with her broken ankle. She’d been an ‘…and finally’ on the late news, and had appeared on two afternoon chat shows. It wasn’t exactly Anklegate, but Keera had been relegated to a supporting role in both senses of the word–not only a shoulder to lean on as they were making their way to the outside broadcasts, but once at them people were all over Dee and virtu
ally ignoring the star presenter.
She opened a bottle of water from the minibar and elegantly sipped. She had been sent the duty officer’s log from the morning, with all the calls that had been received, and looked through it as she sat on the bed, her suitcase open at her feet, its contents immaculately folded.
A man called Kevin Drayton had rung in: I watch your programme regularly. Obviously I’m not well’
What a rude man, she thought, before reading on.
‘I’ve been housebound for some years now. Could I please have Keera’s autograph?’
Oh, she thought, not as rude as all that, then.
Miss Pam Franks had called: ‘When are Girls Aloud coming in?’
Girls Aloud. She didn’t think they’d been booked to come in any time soon. She’d have to have a word with the head of entertainment. On a need-to-know basis, she did need to know these things.
Dave Gilbert: ‘Could I please come and visit because I love everyone on the show. Apart from Dee, who is very annoying. She always says it’s going to rain and then it doesn’t. Her hands are too big.’
Excellent. She’d make sure Dee saw that one. She wondered if there was any way of making the last two sentences disappear, since it somehow made Dave sound less sensible.
Four doors down the corridor, Dee had found one of the Sunday supplements from the week before in her suitcase. She was searching for a particular shirt that she could have sworn she’d put in. She wanted to wear it for her appearance on a local television station. The bed was piled high with clothes, makeup, hair-drying paraphernalia and a vase. Oliver had threatened to send flowers and it was best to be prepared. She swept the vase and an odd sock to one side and sat down to read her stars: ‘Capricorn. A decision you make in the next few days could have a major effect on the rest of your life. Don’t rely on other people to make it, even if you trust them. The planets are promising much–but will only deliver if you take the initiative.’
Ooh. I wonder if I’m going to be offered a new job. Or maybe Oliver will propose. Or perhaps I should. She had another look. Yes, that would work. Or was it only a decision when you had to make a choice between two things? As in accepting something offered. Because otherwise, surely, you made decisions every day from the moment you got up to the moment you went to sleep. As in should I put this magazine down now and get on with the packing? As in; should I make sure I haven’t missed something interesting in this before I get on with the packing?
She looked through the rest of the magazine, ending up at the problem page. ‘I love my husband,’ she read, ‘but I have been having an affair since we got married. My mother-in-law is very rich. If I stay with my husband, I can get some of the inheritance when she dies. But if I stay with him, my lover says he will leave me. What should I do?’
Dee was horrified. That was exactly what was wrong with marriage, these days, she thought. Her own husband had had a fling with an au pair. Then she had found her new boyfriend in bed with a male hairdresser. People were disgusting, she thought. Claiming they were in love with one person, then going off with another. She put the magazine in the bin. Was that the decision that would make the rest of her life different?
She put the vase and the sock in the suitcase–forgetting to check where the other one was–then chucked everything else in haphazardly, along with a seriously full hairbrush. She leaned firmly on the bulging case and clicked the fasteners with difficulty After a cursory look in the bathroom, she dragged the case out of the door, and let it close behind her.
At eleven o’clock, as the maids entered the hotel bedroom to find Dee’s cleanser, mascara, nightie and one pink sock, Katie was indulging in one of her favourite activities. Tidying.
She had got up an hour earlier and eaten four pieces of toast with sliced apple and Marmite, then decided that she was going to do a pre-emptive spring clean. Unlike Dee, she had not read her stars. They shared a sign, but she rarely read it, and paradoxically put that down to being a Capricorn. An earth sign. Sensible. No time for that namby-pamby nonsense. She couldn’t see how one twelfth of the planet would be having a good day, no matter where they were. Capricorns around the world were being tortured, becoming single parents, being put in jail, discovering they were ill, losing socks…yet apparently they were all about to travel or meet the perfect person. It didn’t help that her birthday was three days before Christmas, so generally people bought her a birthday-cum-Christmas present. It made you feel rather bitter about birthdays and birth signs. Although Adam had given her a beautiful Cartier watch.
She spent a blissful day cleaning and de-cluttering. There were few things more satisfactory, she thought, as she sat cross-legged in front of a cupboard, than looking round and seeing a mountain of items to be disposed of at charity shops or in the bin.
And then there were the surprises. She had found a picture of herself, which she had believed long lost, with an Olympic weightlifter. She had interviewed him when she had been on the newspaper. It made her smile. She had written an article full of innuendo, which the news editor had threatened to spike unless she rewrote it. The trouble was that the name of virtually every lift had a double meaning, and for a girl who liked a pun, it had proved irresistible. The snatch. The jerk. How on earth did sports commentators do it? ‘What a magnificent snatch. What a superb jerk.’
She remembered Mike, the pervert co-presenter on Hello Britain!, once saying, ‘Congratulations on your Brazilian,’ to the manager of a football team that had bought one of the world’s best defenders. She’d had to explain to him later why she had barked with laughter. If you were a Brazilian, could you have a close shave? she wondered. She put the black-and-white photograph into a packet with a few others.
And that, she thought, is that.
She stood up, and went to get a whole load of bin-liners. She checked her watch. Perfect. Enough time to get to the Oxfam shop before it closed, then to Marks & Spencer for some groceries.
By the time she got home with her food, she was feeling too weary to do much. She put the vegetable curry into a pan and tried to work out a way of not dirtying another for the rice. In the end, she had it with toast.
Later, in the bath, Katie pondered life’s conundrums. Why do the English call condoms ‘French letters’ and the cap the ‘Dutch cap’? Why do the French call syphilis the ‘English disease’? Who makes up jokes? What is a homonym?
She squeezed an in-growing hair on her leg and was then worried that it would look spotty later. Hopefully, Adam will be so busy elsewhere that he won’t notice, she thought rudely.
Hair and hare. I’m sure that’s a homonym. Or is it a homophone? There were days when all her English grammar lessons came back to her. And other days, like today, when she would be hard pressed to tell her oxymorons from her synonyms.
If you’re bald, put a rabbit on your head because from a distance it looks like a hare.
She wished her bath was bigger. If she sank down until her chin was in the water, her knees were chilled and if she put her knees in, her shoulders got cold. She ran the hot water, moving her knees to one side to avoid scalding them.
By the time she got out of the bath–swaying and holding on to the radiator because of the rush of blood to her head–she was cranberry-coloured. She opened the bathroom door to a welcome blast of cool air. When she could stand unaided, she went into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe doors and perused the contents for fifteen minutes, deciding what to wear. She pulled out a soft brown dress that didn’t need much ironing. Anyway, the heat emanating from her body would get rid of the creases. She matched it with a pair of high suede boots. The underwear choosing took four times as long. If underwear was going to be seen by a man, it had to produce no bulges and it had to go with the stockings. And that was another dilemma: stockings or tights? Stockings always went down well, in every way, but tights gave a smoother line. And then there were hold-ups, which some men found more attractive than stockings and suspender belts. It was all bloody exhausting.
<
br /> Katie loved young relationships, but you wasted an inordinate amount of time on clothing. The only good thing about a comfortable old relationship was comfortable old clothes. Otherwise it was boring. It was like having cheese for the rest of your life–there would come a moment when you simply had to have something else.
Katie liked it when men held the door open for you and gave you flowers and gifts and wanted to kiss you all the time. She loved the electricity that flowed as your lips were about to touch. She could have lived on it for ever. She was a romantic who, deep down, was holding on to the hope that if she found the ‘right’ man, she would stop feeling like that. Was Adam the right man? He was bloody handsome. Funny. Intelligent. Good taste in music. Fit as a robber’s dog. Ticks in all the right boxes…but was he Mr Right? Her soul-mate? Her sole mate for the rest of her life? God, that was scary. For the rest of her life.
She went over to the CD player to put on some loud music to stop the voices in her head. Muse. Black Holes and Revelations. She sang along to the words she could remember.
Excellent. She went back to the underwear drawer. Brown silk with a turquoise ribbon threaded through, and Wolford hold-up stockings. So much easier to decide when death and destruction were coursing out of the speakers.
Katie did a mental bit of air guitar, and then, with her head bobbing in rhythm to ‘Starlight’, she picked out a sheer petticoat to iron out the bumps. She checked in the mirror. Dress. Boots. Gold earrings. Perfect. Or as perfect as it was going to get, she thought, peering at herself again. Getting older was a nightmare. Every day another crow’s foot. There must be no crows left with feet. Stop it, she remonstrated. Like there’s an alternative to getting older. She gave herself an imaginary shake, tied her hair back loosely (to make it easier to loosen later), turned Muse off and set out.
