by Penny Smith
They sat down.
‘Oh, you know they evacuated the whole building, by the way, because of a man with a pound of sausages strapped to his waist? Obviously they thought it was dynamite. Do you want some of these pistachios?’ She got them out of her handbag and they sat companionably cracking open the nuts.
‘You’ve got so many bits of shell down your front, you look like you’ve been mulched,’ one laughed, reaching over to flick them off her friend.
Keera gritted her teeth. Sodding lesbians, she thought spitefully. They were all right when you weren’t sitting near them. If just one small nibble of a nut lands on me…lust when she thought it couldn’t get worse, a young woman stood at the end of the table and told her she had booked the seat in which Keera was sitting.
‘Booked this seat?’ she queried in disbelief. ‘How did you book this particular seat?’
‘Online two weeks ago, if you must know. But you definitely have my seat. And normally I wouldn’t quibble, but there aren’t any others.’
‘So you expect me to give this one up to you, knowing that I would have nowhere to sit?’ asked Keera, her voice getting higher and more strident.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but it’s you or me. And since I’ve booked it…’ She raised her eyebrows.
Keera–tired from getting up early, annoyed because of the pistachio-eating lesbians, stressed because of Matthew Praed–suddenly snapped. She whipped off her sunglasses and uttered the dreaded words: ‘Do you know who I am?’
The woman did. But she was not about to give in. ‘No, I don’t. But maybe we could phone the last number you dialled on your mobile, and they might be able to tell you who you are,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Ha. Ha. Ha. How very amusing. Well, I’m not moving.’
The woman pursed her lips, opened them to say something, then closed them again and walked off.
Keera jammed her sunglasses back on and sat back, her heart pounding. How embarrassing. But she had won. And that was all that mattered. What were those rug-munchers looking at? She felt like baring her teeth at them. Nosy parkers. She tried to get comfortable. She closed her eyes. And was woken up by the ticket inspector.
‘Excuse me, madam. Could I please see your reservation for this seat?’ he asked politely.
Keera opened her purse and took the ticket out.
‘And your reservation for the seat?’
The young woman appeared behind the ticket inspector, and smiled sweetly.
Keera could barely speak. That bitch. That total bitch. She hated women. And she particularly hated this woman. She realized she was beaten.
She stood up, banging into the pistachio-eater next to her and scattering nut shells everywhere. She swung her handbag onto her shoulder, almost knocking the passenger’s head off. Then, shouting incoherently about having had enough, she barged past the ticket inspector and the holder of the seat reservation. I hope you’re happy,’ she snarled in a parting shot, ‘you stuck-up little shit.’
‘Thank you, I will be now,’ the woman replied. And thank you for warming up my seat. Have a good trip.’
‘I hope the carriage blows up and you die a slow, horrible death,’ shouted Keera, picking up her overnight bag from the rack and rushing to the connecting door.
In the space between the carriages, she stood breathing heavily. What a nightmare. Her heart was racing now. She waited until it slowed down, then strode along the train until she found a space to stand.
Adam Williams was also on the move. He was approaching his second glass of champagne on the Eurostar. He loved trains–and especially the Eurostar. He loved the beautifully restored and improved St Paneras station, and he loved alighting three hours later in Paris and going to the restaurant opposite the Gare du Nord where he would have an enormous bowl of moules marinières and chips for lunch. Delicious. He was annoyed that he had had to come on a Friday, but he was still available on the end of a BlackBerry.
Wolf Days Productions was on a roll. Commissioners from every broadcasting organization were beating a path to their door. Nick was thinking of buying another flat in London on the proceeds, but Adam had set his heart on a flat slightly further afield–hence the trip on a work day to Paris. He was picking up the key for a bijou apartment overlooking the Seine, with high ceilings, long windows and painted white floorboards. And then he was going to meet Cécile d’Ombard, who had been recommended to him as an interior decorator.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to visualize Katie Fisher on the huge bed he imagined in the space. He couldn’t picture her looking tidy on it. She needed to be a bit more Audrey Hepburn and less Jane Russell. He wondered if he could persuade her to develop a gym passion. A stone less would do her the world of good.
Nick finished work early and drove down to his house in Dorset. The traffic was dreadful. He was going so slowly he could have started a relationship with the woman in the BMW in the adjacent lane. Cracking rack, he thought. He couldn’t see her face…seventy per cent chance she’s a prawn. Delicious body, ugly face. One of those BONPAs–Bed Only No Public Appearances.
He hated driving on a Friday. There was no point unless you set off from London before lunch. If you didn’t, a two-hour journey took four. But if you left it later, it had to be after seven which meant he wouldn’t get to Dorset until nine. It was odd how he could organize a successful production company but not his life. He should have gone shopping yesterday when he’d had the time.
He leaned forward to press the roam button on the radio. He was a big fan of local radio. Butch, confident DJs, music always a little less than cutting edge. And good names: Radio Eagle, Radio Griffin, Radio Beagle–no, there would never be a Radio Beagle. He put on a deep voice. ‘Radio Beagle, broadcasting on a frequency only available to dogs.’ He looked to his right. The alleged prawn was now a shaven-headed man in a Mondeo. His mobile rang.
‘Nick Midhurst.’
‘Matthew Praed.’
Nick’s eyes slid to the clock on the dashboard. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been meaning to call you about a client of mine. Can you talk?’
‘I most certainly can. I am currently stuck in traffic. Which client?’
‘Keera Keethley’
‘Ah. The beautiful Keera Keethley. We did offer her a job, actually, a programme called Dare to Bare. She turned us down flat.’
‘Yes, she mentioned it. She’s trying to move into other areas.’
‘While still working at Hello Britain?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘She would leave? For what?’
‘Tell you what. Do you fancy meeting up next week and having an informal chat about it? You’re going in and out of range. Call me. Or I’ll call you.’
Nick put the windscreen wipers on. What filthy weather. Keera Keethley. Well, well. He wondered if Hello Britain! knew that their star presenter was actively seeking other work.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The television viewers had voted. Siobhan and the producers had done a fine job, and Alex Neil was evicted from Celebrity X-Treme. ‘What’s the betting he’ll put it down to his injury?’ Siobhan asked.
One of the runners came up to her. ‘I’ve been told to ask you about whether Jane can go now because she’s not feeling very well. I don’t know whether anyone else can cover her shift, though, so we were wondering if–’
‘Can I stop you there?’ asked Siobhan, and left the room.
The runner waited for ten minutes, then went over to Mark, who was stretching and giving his head a thorough scratch. ‘Is she coming back, do you think?’
He looked round. ‘Siobhan? I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I need to know if Jane can go early, but there’s no one to cover the rest of her shift.’
‘How long has she got?’
‘She’s supposed to be on for three more hours.’
‘I’m sure everyone can fend f
or themselves for three hours. What did Siobhan say when you asked her?’
‘She said, “Can I stop you there?’”
He huffed a laugh. ‘And then walked off?’
She nodded.
‘Brilliant,’ he said, shaking his head. He gave her a quick showbiz hug and told her to let Jane off the rest of her shift. He was still smiling when he saw Siobhan on the phone in one of the edit suites. She looked a bit shifty, and quickly ended the call.
‘Problem?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.
‘Nope. I told one of the sick runners to go back early, after you apparently walked off.’
For a moment she seemed nonplussed. ‘Oh, that wimpy little girl who was talking to me? Yes. She was boring. Couldn’t be bothered to listen any more. Now, I was thinking…’
‘Let’s hope there’s no irreparable damage,’ he said, with a twinkle–then wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Joke?’ he said, putting up his hands as if to ward off the evil eye.
She grimaced, then gave a fake smile. ‘Good. Yes. So. Seriously, I was thinking that we could use Flynn to get the two relationships we’ve decided on moving along.’
‘But I thought you wanted her out?’
‘Woman’s prerogative to change her mind. Anyway, we can use her until she goes.’
‘Everything game wise has already been decided.’
‘Yes. I know. I was there when it was decided,’ she said cuttingly, ‘but that isn’t to say that we can’t add to the games, maybe with a little astrological twist.’
‘No. Course not. Erm. I was looking for the VT editor by the way. Do you know where he is?’
‘Haven’t a clue. If he doesn’t get back in here smartish, though, I’ll make sure he never works in television again.’
Mark wondered whether she really thought she had the power. Delusions. The television world was full of people who probably needed psychiatric help. ‘Good luck with it,’ he said, turning to go.
‘What? No ideas yourself?’ she snapped.
‘Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you wanted input.’
‘Of course I do,’ she said, softening. The electronic lights behind her on the machines glimmered and flickered. One was casting a devilish hue on her face.
Mark pulled a swivel chair closer to her and sat down. ‘Right. So you get one of the games and add on something along the lines of, say…one’s a Scorpio, and they’re supposed to go with a Libra or whatever?’
‘Exactly Although you wouldn’t get a Scorpio and a Libra together.’ She shook her head.
‘Oh. You’re an expert, then?’
‘No. I just know I’m a Scorpio.’
‘Do we know what star signs the four of them are?’
‘Shouldn’t be difficult to find out. Google them. But then what?’
Half an hour later, they had come up with an idea.
Saturday morning dawned fair with a light breeze. Katie and Paul were up early, drinking coffee and hot milk while they waited for the others to surface.
‘What time did you get up when you were at Hello Britain!?’ he asked.
‘A minute past four.’
‘A minute past? Why not four o’clock?’
‘Over the years it adds up,’ she pronounced.
He put his mug down and went to look out of the window at the lake. He thought he could see a reindeer. ‘They say deer are taking over the countryside in Britain,’ he remarked conversationally, having pointed it out to her.
‘What’s wrong with that? At least they’re not hoodies with knives.’
‘They carry ticks, apparently, which aren’t good for humans.’
‘But not as bad as hoodies.’
‘They want them culled.’
‘What? Hoodies?’
‘Of course. Cull the hoodies. No, they need to cull the deer to save the countryside, they say.’
‘Animals. They’re a nightmare. You go for a walk anywhere, you can’t move for them. Let’s start a sticker campaign: “Save the countryside, bomb a badger.’”
He laughed.
‘What do you reckon we’re doing today?’ she asked.
‘Who can tell? I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday in the tyres. Great laugh. It should be an Olympic sport.’
‘Who needs the Olympics when we have the Olympics of life right here?’
‘That was very Hello Britain!,’ he commented.
‘Yes, it was.’ She nodded. I would then have turned to my co-presenter and he would have said…?’
‘And he would have said…Let me see…He’d have said something like “You are so right. You are seriously gorgeous and if it wasn’t for the Arctic suit, I’d have tumbled you in the snow on day one.”‘
Katie spluttered out a mouthful of coffee. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?’ she asked. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do.’ She dabbed at the stain on her tracksuit trousers. ‘These are the only clean pair I have. And coffee’s a bugger to get out.’ She went into the kitchen, and messed about with washing-up liquid and the hot water that was left in the kettle. The devil of it was that she was finding him more and more attractive. It wasn’t just his body–although he was a magnificent specimen–it was his quick mind. He was witty, interesting, funny…and, of course, very flirtatious. She could only assume he was single because he wanted to be.
With the stain now a map of the Caribbean islands, she returned to the sitting room.
‘Lovely,’ he said appreciatively, staring at her crotch.
‘Incorrigible.’ She smiled. I have leave to tell you that you are a rake, sir. A libertine. A squire of dames. A gay deceiver. A philanderer.’
‘Nice,’ he said approvingly. ‘Good list.’
‘Why are you doing this? Because it’s safe?’
‘You look the dangerous type to me. That’s why’
She disregarded his comment. ‘Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? You only want what you can’t have?’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend because I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said dolefully.
‘Yeah, right.’ She tutted.
‘No one who had the good fortune to call you his girlfriend could ever want anyone else.’
God, he really was totally scrummy, thought Katie. He was making her all hot and fizzy. Flirting was the best. Better than shoes. Better than silk satin. Almost better than the first kiss–and that first kiss…Talk about fizzing. The moment when your lips met. It made your head spin. And Paul Martin did have the most kissable lips. Particularly when they were parted slightly and smiling as they were now.
‘What?’ he asked innocently, having read her face very accurately.
‘Toast. Do you want some?’ She bustled back into the kitchen.
In the control room, the exchange was logged for that night’s programme. Judicious editing resulted in a simmering three minutes of air time.
In Nottingham that night, Keera and her mother sat down to a tuna Niçoise supper in front of the television.
‘This looks delicious,’ said her mother, miserably. She had wanted a meal from the local chippy with a side order of mushy peas and pickled eggs.
‘Thanks, Sheila,’ said Keera, who had been taught from an early age to call her mother by her name. ‘It’s a shame the tuna wasn’t blue fin and that we couldn’t get any of the extra virgin olive oil, which is cold pressed. It does make such a difference to the dressing.’
Her mother, pining for a pickled egg, did not reply.
Keera insisted on watching the evening news. She found it as boring as her mother, but after her ‘bollocking’ by the editor over her lack of knowledge, she supposed she ought to do a bit of homework. The news was just so wretchedly gloomy and dull–like its presenters. If she was doing the news, she’d wear something to cheer people up.
They sat chewing their leaves and watching the pictures roll in front of them.
Sheila was thinking that Keera had changed quite a lot since she had become the star presenter on Hello
Britain!. In the past, she would have been happy to come home and have a cosy chat–dish the dirt, tell her the gossip and share a nice Victoria sponge over a pot of tea. Now it was all balsamic vinegar this and truffle oil that. And why is there no hand-squashed, white-cherry, seedless tomato purée in the cupboard? She loved her daughter, but when she had mentioned the change, Keera had accused her of being a stick in the mud.
‘Shall we watch some of that American dancing show after this?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Keera, visibly brightening.
‘And then I’ve got to watch Celebrity X-Treme!
‘Fine,’ said Keera.
‘Would you do one of those celebrity programmes?’
‘I don’t need to. They’re really only for people who are Z-listers and want to resurrect their careers.’
‘Except this is really good fun,’ said Sheila. ‘Did you see the one with the huge tyres being pulled by dogs? That looked like such a laugh.’
‘Yes, but it’s not exactly elegant, is it? It’s not like Strictly Come Dancing, is it, where you actually learn something useful? I can’t see that Katie Fisher winning a dog race is going to help her get another job.’
The Prime Minister appeared on a news item.
‘How is the Prime Minister by the way?’ asked Sheila, excitedly. This was the stuff she liked, hearing about famous people, especially if there was a titbit she could pass on to her friends who worked with her at the supermarket.
‘He’s fine. He’s taller than he looks, and he’s always really friendly. I think it’s only a matter of time before I get invited down to Chequers.’
‘Really?’ asked her mother, biting her lip with excitement. ‘How wonderful’
‘Mm,’ said Keera, putting her knife and fork together.
‘You haven’t finished all your food.’
‘It’s good manners to leave some on your plate,’ explained Keera.
‘But there’s just the two of us. And it’s a waste.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Keera testily, and finished the last two French beans and the piece of egg. ‘There. Better?’
‘Thank you,’ said her mother, standing up and taking their plates through to the kitchen. She noticed that they had successfully talked through most of the news.
