by Penny Smith
She sat at the back of the gallery, debating what she needed in an ideal world. A drunken kiss and a fumble between Katie and Paul would be perfect. It was odd watching a man with whom she had been intimate getting intimate with another woman. But she was the puppet-master so it gave her a rather perverse thrill. She used sex to get what she wanted, and there had been no danger that she would fall for a man she considered vain and stupid enough to think she wanted him to win for love.
Looking at Paul dispassionately on the screen, she thought she saw signs of dissipation and a weak mouth. Tasty, though. She’d give him that.
She switched her gaze to another screen where Crystal and Peter were talking together. They were about as intelligent as krill, she thought, but in the edit, we can play up the romance to get the audience tuned in.
Thinking of newspaper pictures, she fancied a good close-up of one of the older women’s cellulite. And Steve either nutting Alex or kissing him. She smiled.
The director smiled back at her. ‘Looking good?’
‘Oh, it’s looking very good,’ she responded. ‘I’m going to have a quick word with the cameramen. And woman,’ she added, remembering the lone camerawoman who would be covering the Jacuzzi shots.
She stood up, stretched and, out of the corner of her eye, noted that Katie had shot out of frame, catapulted from the dog sled in a perfect arc, as she had tried to take up the snow anchor. Her bottom had virtually filled the screen at one point, replaced with a surprised eyeball and a spot erupting near her nose.
An excellent bit of tape, she thought. Nice when a plan came together.
Siobhan could have spoken to the cameras on their earpieces, but it was easier to talk to them face to face and explain exactly what she needed. She shivered in the freezing air as she slid her Hermès sunglasses quickly into place. The bright white snow was brilliant with the sun bouncing off it. She crunched over to one of the snowmobiles and raced off.
Katie could have done without falling off the sled before she had even started the race. Bloody dogs. First rule of television: never work with dogs. Second rule of television: never work with dogs like Denise Trench. What a hateful old battleaxe she was. I hope I never turn out like that, she thought, bitter and twisted. And drunk.
She was standing on the snow brake, trying to stop the dogs hurling her down the slope again. ‘Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate,’ she muttered to herself, like a mantra. Then made the fatal error of looking to her left, where Paul Martin was nonchalantly tapping one foot on the snow brake, the other on the rung of the sled.
Was it possible? He was smiling seductively at her. How could that be? He was wearing an Arctic suit, snowboots, mittens, a balaclava and sunglasses. But he was definitely giving her the come-on. She frowned and looked down at her boots, then took one hand off the sledge to fiddle with her goggles–just as the dogs, barking and straining to be off, were given the green light.
It was one of the scariest things she had ever done. The dogs stopped barking and tore round the course. Crystal fell off on the first bend. Steve was crouching in an unorthodox position, hanging on for dear life. Katie was bouncing about like a dried pea in a blender. At one point, her sled appeared to be a foot off the ground and about to overtake her dogs, the lead animal glancing round to see what had happened. She tried to grasp the handles of the weighted bags as she went round, but whipped past three in a blur and only managed to get the fourth because the sled knocked into it. At the sixth, she finally fell off, and was dragged the last two hundred yards, shovelling so much snow up one of her trouser legs that she looked as if she had lop-sided elephantiasis.
‘That’s exactly what you should do if you feel you might be getting a bruise,’ said Paul, admiringly, as he sauntered over to her. Put lots of ice on it. And such an easy way to do it, you clever thing.’
She lay bruised, battered and winded in front of him, as one of the cameras zoomed in to take a close-up. ‘Thanks for your solicitude,’ she gasped. ‘No. No. Don’t help me up. I’m fine. Just a modest amputation here and there.’
He bent down and gave her his hand, bracing his foot against one of hers. ‘Up you come, you snow queen,’ he said.
She could feel his muscular body under his suit. He really was a very attractive man, with big, slightly shovel-shaped hands that were brushing snow off her legs and bottom. Her heart lurched. She was remembering other hands. A landscape gardener’s hands. What was wrong with her?
She was in love with Adam. How had a vision of Bob suddenly come striding into her mind? She could see him as clearly as if he was standing right in front of her. His heart-stopping smile. The way he ruffled his hair until it stood up after he had been working in the garden. His broad shoulders. The golden hair on his forearms.
She gave herself a mental shake. Then a physical shake. And strode away from the group with a grim face.
‘What’s up with her?’ asked Crystal, who was standing next to Peter.
He shook his head. ‘Dunno. Who cares?’ he asked, admiring the curve of Katie’s rump in her tight snowsuit. From the back, he thought, she was surprisingly attractive for an older woman.
I care, thought Siobhan in the gallery, metaphorically rubbing her hands with glee.
At that very moment Bob was sitting in a boat on a reservoir in Yorkshire with Katie’s father. Jack had rung that morning. ‘Lovely day. Do you fancy it?’ he had asked jovially.
Bob, who hadn’t been up for long, wandered out into the garden with the phone to check whether he did or didn’t fancy fishing. Considering it was only the beginning of March, it was a beautiful day. There was a gentle breeze and a hint of a nip in the air. But otherwise it was a very good day to hang out and see if the trout were nibbling. ‘Oh, go on, then,’ he said.
‘How long will it take you to get ready?’
‘Maximum half an hour. I can’t move anywhere without a coffee. I’m assuming the reservoir?’
‘This time of year, any other suggestions?’
‘Yeah. Right. Brain not quite in gear. Shall we stop on the way for breakfast?’
‘I’ve already eaten. A bowl of porridge with an assortment of nuts and raisins, a sprinkling of cane sugar and a dash of maple syrup.’
‘Do you ever eat as us mere mortals?’ laughed Bob.
‘You mean just porridge with honey?’ asked Jack, considering the question.
‘Exactly’
‘No. Can’t see the point,’ Jack replied. ‘I keep an extensive larder and I like to make use of it. But this isn’t getting the baby bathed. I’ll pick you up in three-quarters of an hour to give you adequate preparation time. I’d suggest a nice set of thick thermals–it’s going to be blasted cold on that there reservoir.’
‘I was thinking T-shirt and shorts,’ joked Bob, and went to make his coffee.
When he and Katie had split up, he had thought that his relationship with her parents would also founder. But partly due to them being near neighbours, and partly through Jack and Lynda’s persistence, he had become very close to them, particularly to Jack. He was very like Katie in his sense of the ridiculous, his love of language and his guilty look when he caught himself in the middle of a story he really shouldn’t be telling. His mouth would suddenly go into a Wallace and Gromit line that made Bob hoot.
He was already in his wellies when Jack arrived. He put his fishing gear and a carrier-bag of food and drink into the boot.
The older man nodded with approval at his attire. ‘Good hat,’ he said, checking out the colourful article on Bob’s head. ‘Are we going to put on a show for the fish?’
‘You mean tempt them up with fishy renditions of plays and films we’ve loved?’ Bob considered the prospect, his head bobbing gently in time to the music on the car radio, as they drove off. ‘We could start with A Fish Called Wanda. Or is that too obvious?’
‘Not terribly inventive. How about…A Fridge Too Far?’ suggested Jack.
‘Nice. Do you think a trout would know about a f
ridge?’
‘Well, go on, then. Think of another.’
‘Lord of the Flies!’ he exclaimed.
‘Good one,’ said Jack. ‘Love this song. It reminds me of Katie.’ He smiled as he reached forward and turned up the Scaffold singing ‘Lily The Pink’. They joined in raucously with the chorus, Bob harmonizing at various points.
Mention of Katie’s name always turned a knife somewhere in his stomach. But it passed. ‘Katie’s favourite was it?’ he asked, only his slightly tense hands giving it away.
‘Yes. You could pick any line and she’d know the rest of it. It was one way to get her to take disgusting medicines.’
Bob Marley and his Wailers superseded the Scaffold, and they hummed and jigged in time to the beat.
The wind had picked up as they approached the reservoir, and they shivered as they got out of the warm car.
‘This is where we have second thoughts and decide to go and have a fat boy’s late breakfast at the greasy spoon,’ said Jack.
‘I can hear the trout from here,’ said Bob. ‘They’re calling your name.’ He cupped his hands and, with his lips pursed in a trout pout, very quietly intoned: ‘Jaaaack. Jaaaack.’
Jack smiled.
Bob removed his offending headgear and put it into the boot, retrieved his bags and put on a thick thermal hat.
Jack reached in and struggled to remove an enormous hamper.
‘My God. What have you got in there?’
‘Lynda,’ he responded.
‘You’ve finally done it, then,’ said Bob, giving him a hand.
‘Actually, she really is pissing me off at the moment. It would be nice to get an occasional thank-you. Or some acknowledgement that I’m even there. I think sometimes she’d only notice me if I was dead and decomposing in the middle of the hall. And even then I’d just be an irritating blob on the carpet.’
‘Not that bad, surely?’ queried Bob.
‘Bad enough,’ said Jack, grimly. ‘Now, what do we fancy? Start off on the bank and then get a boat if it’s not working? Or straight into the boat and bugger the bank?’
‘Oh, let’s just do the boat. With that massive hamper, we’re rather hampered. As it were.’
‘You will not consider it a hamperation as soon as you see what we’ve got for lunch. And I’ve also brought a number of snacks for your delectation and delight. There’s soup. Fresh bread. Oh, and I put some leftover blackberry and apple crumble in too.’
‘I might as well leave my paltry offerings in the boot,’ said Bob, raising his eyebrows.
‘Tempt me,’ challenged Jack.
‘A Mars bar and a Bounty. An out-of-date cheese and pickle sandwich. Two apples. Overcooked sausages. A meat pie of dubious origin. It was in the fridge and it hadn’t gone green. And…something else.’
‘A stomach pump?’
‘And…four spring onions,’ said Bob, triumphantly, as though he had won The Generation Game.
Jack rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll go to the fishing lodge and sort out the boat, then,’ he said. ‘You take the hamper down.’
‘I’m just a muscle Mary to you, aren’t I?’
‘Exactly,’ Jack threw over his shoulder, as he went off to pay for the boat and the fishing licence.
Later, sitting comfortably in the boat, they prepared to cast off.
‘What are you going for?’ Jack asked.
‘I,’ pronounced Bob, ‘am getting out the big guns. I am going to lob in a dog-nobbler.’
Jack nodded dubiously. ‘Well, one can’t help but admire your bravado. I, however, will be doing a hare’s ear or a March brown.’
‘You’re after a starter, then, while I’m pulling out dinner.’
‘If you pull out anything at all.’
‘There’s an enormous ten-pounder with my name on, just waiting for me to cast this lure,’ said Bob, confidently.
‘Yeah. Right. I bet you ten quid that my ear beats your nobbler.’
‘Done.’
As early morning gave way to mid-morning, and mid-morning retired hurt before midday, the two men continued to cast their lures and put the world to rights.
Jack had not been kidding about the lunch. ‘There’s enough to feed the cast of Ben-Hur here,’ Bob mumbled, through his starter of beef carpaccio and sesame oil.
‘It’s in case we get marooned.’
‘A distinct possibility here in the wilds of Yorkshire, on a reservoir.’
There was a lull in the conversation as they addressed themselves to lunch, washed down by a bottle of fine red wine.
‘Wonder how Katie’s getting on,’ said her father, as he adjusted his position to allow the food a freer passage.
Bob allowed his heart to get back to a regular beat before he asked, ‘Were you in favour of her doing it?’
‘What do I know about television? I just told her to think about the worst that could happen, and if she could deal with that, then, yes, do it.’
Bob took a slurp of wine. ‘But the worst could be massive injury. Limbs off. Frostbite…death?’
‘Doubt it. Anyway, I meant in terms of loss of dignity.’
They were quiet for a moment.
Jack was thinking about his own dignity, which was being eroded by his wife. In the past, his advice to both Katie and Ben had been that decisions taken were better than decisions forced. Perhaps now was the time to take his own advice.
Bob was thinking about Katie and how dignity was a word he would be hard pressed to use in the same sentence. Funny. Adorable. Gorgeous. Sexy. Bright. Beautiful. He gazed at the sun glinting off the water. If onlys sparkled in a line. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Trout. Hand me my rod.’
In the car on the way home, slowly warming up, Bob couldn’t keep the glee from his voice. ‘So when will I be getting my ten quid, then?’ he asked.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jim Break was sitting in front of the television with the most enormous steak roll and a tomato. He took a huge bite and, after ten minutes of chewing, addressed his girlfriend, Amanda, who was sitting on the other side of the sofa reading Psychologies.
‘You’re sure this is a balanced diet, then?’
She glanced up, putting her finger on the line she was reading so that she wouldn’t lose her place. ‘You said you wanted some protein so you’ve got some protein. And the tomato’s good for your prostate.’
‘It’s chewy.’
‘What? The tomato?’
He shook his head at her stupidity…
She continued, ‘Good for your teeth if the steak’s chewy. What’s up with you, anyway? You’ve gone grumpy on me. You were perfectly happy about it before we sat down. You could have had some of my hummus and vegetables, if you’d wanted.’
He turned back to the television. ‘I told her not to do it,’ he said, watching his client’s bottom virtually pressed up against the screen, followed by a large spot and a bit of nose.
‘She needed the money,’ said Amanda.
‘I know. But it doesn’t look good. It looks like she’s on another downward slope. She’d only just got sorted out after being sacked from Hello Britain!.’ Jim had been Katie’s agent since her first job in television, and she had made him a tidy sum when she had moved to the hallowed breakfast-television sofa. Then she had got sacked, appeared all over the newspapers being drunk and disorderly, and almost been done for assault after a night out on the town. There had been the chat show, which had lasted for two series–then nothing. Female television presenters in their late forties were not exactly in demand.
He watched Katie trip over again. ‘They’re trying to make it look like she’s either dyspraxic or a dipsomaniac,’ he said, shooting a jet of fat down his top as he took another bite of his roll.
Amanda went back to her article, which was about whether it was better to rip off a bandage that was stuck to the skin or to do it slowly. She chomped a carrot as she read. ‘Interesting. What do you think?’ she asked Jim. ‘Pain wise. Short and sharp or long and less sharp?’
‘Hmm. Short and sharp, I’d say.’
‘And you’d be wrong,’ she said. Apparently, the brain copes better if it anticipates a longer amount of low-level pain than a short amount of agony. That’s interesting, eh?’
‘Hmm. This programme’s operating on the same principle. It’s too painful to watch. Look at her now.’
Katie Fisher was attempting to back into the outside Jacuzzi without revealing too much of her bottom and thighs. A sneaky camera shot showed everything.
‘She won’t like that,’ said Amanda, on a sharp in-breath.
Then there was silence apart from the commentator on the television, who was drawing their attention to a mishap about to happen.
Katie, edging backwards, missing her footing and splashing inelegantly into the hot tub, legs akimbo, face an evocation of surprise.
Amanda laughed.
Jim tutted. ‘How she can keep her credibility after this is anyone’s guess,’ he said disapprovingly.
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Amanda. ‘She’s proving she’s like the rest of us. It’s what she’s always going on about anyway–that no matter what you do, who you are, we’re all basically the same underneath. They’ll love it. You never know, it might be the making of her.’
‘More like the unmaking of her. And if I was her new bloke, I wouldn’t be too happy about the way she’s canoodling with Mr Martin.’
They continued to watch as the storyline switched to Crystal, the ex-page-three model, and her open-mouthed adoration of the terminally dull but exceptionally well-hewn Peter Philbin.
‘That is a very attractive item,’ commented Amanda, then devoted herself to her magazine again.
In her extraordinarily messy flat, Dee was in bed, watching Celebrity X-Treme and eating low-fat, low-carb, low-sugar, low-taste biscuits–she was on a diet. She was halfway down the packet and was now at the crucial tipping point: to continue, finish the packet and get rid of the evidence, or to stop and eat something with a little more nutritional value?
She looked again at the ingredients. They appeared to be the components of a dirty bomb. Her fingers hesitated. Then she took another and popped it into her mouth whole as the ad break came to an end. She snuggled down under the duvet as the biscuit softened. All that snow and ice was making her feel cold.
