by Penny Smith
‘As I said. He loves being inside curled up on a day like today’
Eleanor Fallon was at war with her father because he had grounded her for a month. She had decided that her desperate desire to be a journalist could be achieved with the added bonus of getting back at him. She would shop him. She sat in her geography class, imagining his face when he found out. Or was it better if he didn’t?
Oxbow lakes, drumlins–when was this going to be relevant? Seepage point, she wrote in green ink, without thinking.
Would it be better to get her father to help with her career? No. That would involve having to be nice to him. And, second, he was in television. She was going to be the editor of a tabloid. Also, he didn’t seem to know anyone useful. She wrote ‘alluvial deposits’ and underlined it.
During the lunch break, she phoned the Daily Mail. She explained what she was offering.
‘And are you expecting payment for this article?’ asked the feature writer to whom she was eventually put through.
‘That would be good, obviously’
‘There is a slight problem because of your age, which might mean we need parental permission.’
Eleanor was silent for a minute. Her father was hardly going to agree to an unflattering article. ‘If I didn’t get money, would there be something else available?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like maybe doing interviews with bands, that sort of thing?’
‘For money?’
‘Not necessarily.’ For being the girl at school who interviews sexy boys, you moron, she was thinking.
‘Well, it’s certainly something we could look at.’
‘Good. And maybe work experience?’
‘Hang on a second while I just ask about the article…’
There was a mumbled conversation.
‘Eleanor? What we could do, to protect both you and us, is chat to you, get the information, and then we’d have to confirm what you’ve said through other sources.’
‘So would my parents know it was me?’
‘No. Not from the quotes. We couldn’t attribute them to you.’
‘But if I wanted to I could tell them it was me who did it? Or not?’
‘Obviously we can’t stop you saying whatever you want to your parents.’
Later, doing her homework, the only thing she was worried about, was what ‘see page…’ meant.
Richard and Louise were late sitting down to watch Celebrity X-Treme that Monday night, and were having a swift bet with each other as to who would be voted off.
‘Daisy Bed,’ said Louise, without turning round.
Daisy, standing in the door jamb, stayed perfectly still.
‘I know you’re there. I can smell your unwashed teeth. Go to bed. And clean your teeth.’
‘Oh, Mum, why can’t I watch it?’
‘Because it’s school tomorrow, and I don’t like you whining about being tired. Go to bed.’
They turned the television down until they heard her going up the stairs.
Louise put the sound back up. ‘I can’t believe they got rid of Flynn O’Mara last night. I’d have voted that hideous apology for a comedian out. He’s a rancid little nonentity’
‘Katie’s still giving good television,’ said Richard, as she appeared on screen.
‘Dee looks great these days,’ said Louise.
‘She’s lost weight,’ said Richard. ‘And she’s got Oliver, of course.’
‘Are they going to get married?’
‘Who can tell? She looks happy.’
The shock was that Dave Beal survived another vote. Crystal Blake was out.
‘Well, there’s a turn-up for the books,’ said Louise, going to make herself a mint tea.
‘It goes to show that the public can be discerning,’ said Richard. ‘Can I have one of those? There’s a limit to how much superficial, brainless idiocy anyone can put up with. Although Keera’s managed to indulge in it for years. Vacuous woman. She probably thinks “negligent” is a man in a petticoat.’
‘You’ve nicked that from somewhere, haven’t you?’ asked Louise suspiciously.
‘Course I have. I haven’t got time to go round making those things up. Good one, though, isn’t it?’
In Norway Siobhan’s plan of a double relationship had been stymied by the eviction of Crystal–although the irritation factor of Dave Beal was high, and keeping the viewers hooked. And she had nailed her stooge in every way in case anything did come to light.
As a lover, Mark had been sadly lacking. She was unaware that this had been entirely due to his shock when she had appeared without her heavy layer of makeup. She had looked like a different person, and he had had to concentrate hard to make any headway at all. He didn’t want to renew the acquaintance. And since Siobhan had no urge to repeat the performance, they were both as satisfied as they could be under the circumstances.
‘Let’s go through tomorrow’s programme, then, now that Crystal has been evicted,’ she said. ‘Mark, what are your feelings?’
‘Well, it’s three guys and one girl’
‘Yes, patently’
‘So perhaps tomorrow we should use those messages from loved ones back home instead of saving them for when there are just three of them. It always reminds people that they do have outside lives. And we get the crying stuff, which would be good.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Siobhan, thoughtfully.
‘And then, maybe, we should have a task outside that involves them all helping each other. Apart from the one we already have, I mean. I know they’ve got to do that slide thing but maybe we should get the guys to rustle up something that not only has funny potential but also shows who is the most genuine…’ He tailed off.
‘Anyone else got any ideas?’
Another producer piped up: ‘I wonder if we should write the scripts a bit earlier. It’s always such a rush.’
‘Wonder again, then,’ retorted Siobhan. ‘You can’t shape the script until all the tasks have been performed. Anyone else? No? Well, in that case, Mark, you get on to the designated family and friends and get some VTs in the bag. If they can’t get to a proper studio to record them, do a phono and we’ll put a picture up.
You don’t need me to tell you to keep on at them until they do it in a short soundbite. And the more sentimental the better. We want damp eyes at the very least, if not a full-on boo-hoo. Right. Get on to it.’
Mr Ben Fisher, consultant anaesthetist, younger brother of Katie Fisher, had been enjoying dinner with friends when he got the call. He didn’t recognize the number, but he was sufficiently worried about one of his patients to take it.
‘Hello. Mark Jarvis here, from Celebrity X-Treme. Sorry to bother you, but would it be possible for you to get into our central London studio tomorrow for a very quick interview about Katie?’
Ben had not been enjoying watching his sister on television. He’d known she was a flirt, but this was something else. He assumed his father was watching (and therefore Bob), and supposed he ought to phone his mum at some stage and ask her how she was getting on without him. Jack had done as much as he could to make sure she knew he was all right without revealing where he was.
‘Erm, can you get to the studio?’ asked Mark again, as there seemed to be no answer forthcoming from Katie’s brother.
Ben sighed. ‘Yes, I probably can. Is there a particular time?’
‘Any time at all, to suit you.’
‘I’ll do it on my way in to work, then.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Mark, aware that Ben Fisher was not happy about doing it. Shouldn’t have a sister who was prepared to reveal all on a national television show, then, he thought.
A thought echoed by Ben as he rejoined the table.
‘Bad news?’ asked Oliver, who knew he was concerned about a patient who’d had an operation that afternoon.
‘No. Well…no.’
‘Nothing you want to tell me about?’
‘Nothing to do with work, if
that’s what you mean. Katie…’ He let her name trail.
‘Sisters,’ said Oliver, with feeling.
‘You haven’t got any,’ said Ben, accusingly.
‘I know. But I can imagine. I only ever wanted a sister so that she could bring home her friends. I had to find all my own girlfriends from scratch.’
‘Whereas you’ve used my sister to get your girlfriend.’
‘Ha. Touché,’ acknowledged Oliver.
‘And from your lack of conversation on the matter, I assume that side of your life is still going well’
‘Yes. I may even take it on a stage,’ he said.
Ben raised his eyebrows. Oliver nodded.
‘Hey,’ said Ben, to the rest of the table, ‘Oliver’s getting married.’
There was a raucous response.
Oliver put up his hands. ‘I did not say I was getting married.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Ben.
‘I did not.’
‘I raised my eyebrows. You nodded. Confirmed.’
‘Have you asked the little lady yet?’ drawled a haematologist, in a faux-Texan accent.
‘No, I bloody haven’t. And, frankly, none of your bloody business.’
‘Oooooh! Tetchy. Calm down, girl,’ minced a fellow proctologist.
‘Well, shut up, the lot of you.’
There was a tiny silence, and then somebody said, ‘Or shall we buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate Oliver getting shackled? And because we can’t believe that anybody’s agreed to marry such a complete nadger-brain?’
Ben waved a waiter over, as Oliver shook his head.
‘You know what this is all about?’ He raised his voice to be heard. ‘This is all because Ben has got a sister who puts it about a bit.’ He realized immediately that he’d gone too far. He had forgotten the golden rule: never diss the relatives. He grimaced. ‘Sorry, Ben. Sorry. You know I didn’t mean it.’
Ben got up and left the table.
‘Bloody hell, Oliver. You really are a twat,’ said the haematologist. ‘Although, to be fair, Katie isn’t doing herself any favours in that programme. I’d be seriously pissed off if I was Adam Whatsisname. But you can’t go round casting aspersions. Really not your place. Always quite fancied her myself, actually. That lovely hair.’
‘I suppose I’d better go and have a word,’ said Oliver, getting up to follow Ben. He found him having a conversation with a waiter. When he had finished, Oliver apologized again. And again.
‘Oh, it’s all right. Forget it,’ said Ben, eventually. ‘Just don’t repeat it.’
‘What is it you heard about Katie, anyway?’ asked Oliver.
‘They want me to go and record something tomorrow morning to be shown to her. It’ll go out in the evening. And I don’t want to do it, but I agreed when she went in.’
‘What are you going to say, then?’
‘What I want to say is that she should stop it now. Quit while she’s ahead. Or quit before she does any irreparable damage. And you know they won’t let me say that. Or if I do they’ll just cut it out.’
‘You could say that you’re looking forward to her getting out so that you can hit her squarely in the snout.’
Ben laughed.
‘Or that you can’t wait for her to be evicted so that you can rip her guzinters out,’ said Oliver.
‘Guzinters?’ Ben queried.
‘Animal innards. I think. Heard it in Australia. Filed it away for future use.’
‘A little excessive, perhaps. Honestly, she is a dingbat, though. If we’re going ’Strine. She carries on with one of my best mates, cocks that up, finds a decent bloke who has a good job, then cocks it up on air. In front of millions. I swear she never used to be this much of a mess.’
Oliver didn’t say anything. Ben, who had been admiring a waitress with a short skirt and an excellent pair of legs, dragged his attention back and noticed Oliver’s face. He snorted. ‘Oh, all right. She’s always got herself into pickles. It’s just that this one is public. So it feels worse.’
‘Look, mate, do the thing tomorrow morning and make it as bland as you can. Say something like you’re looking forward to her coming home so you can sink a couple of martinis together. And if they try to make you say that you’re missing her, say that you’ve been far too busy making sure people don’t die under surgery to miss anyone.’
‘And if they try to make me say that I think she’s doing really well, and I’m proud of her–which is what they always do on these reality shows?’
‘Then you say that it’s nice she hasn’t broken anything yet. Unlike my girlfriend, who breaks her ankle in a ruddy loo.’
‘Girlfriend…future wife?’ said Ben, with a twinkle.
‘Stop it. That’s how we ended up standing here by the cloakroom, instead of sitting with our friends at the dinner table.’
‘All right. To le table, mon ami’.
‘Bien sûr, mon frère’.
‘Mon best man at the wedding…’
‘Shut it,’ said Oliver, in a threatening manner, as they walked back to join their friends.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As it was, the message from Ben was never played out…
The Celebrity X-Treme contestants had an early start the next morning and were on the snow at six o’clock. The challenge involved an obstacle course through mini igloo tunnels and over snow bricks. It didn’t sound that hard, but with thick Arctic suits on, it was exhausting.
‘I feel ever so slightly glowy,’ announced Katie, as she clomped across the finishing line.
‘That will be the close proximity to me,’ leered Dave Beal, who had gone first and was standing cheering the others on. ‘It’s the pheromones–they’re phenomenal.’
She looked at him gurning and said dampeningly, ‘Oh. And there I was wondering if it was the mumps.’ She brushed snow off her shoulders. He was a revolting smeggy turd and she hoped he’d be voted off that night. Give them all a break.
She watched Peter limbo his way down the course. He was like a racehorse, she thought. All sleek and shiny. And about as intelligent. She wondered if he shied at plastic bags and was scared of pigs.
And, finally, Paul Martin, who gave her a wink as he went past. She was looking forward to getting back to England. Wearing something different. Getting out of her wretched thermal suit.
They were done with the challenge by mid-morning and were driven back to the hut on skidoos. The sun was glittering through the trees, and Katie was suddenly glad that she had come. Nature. It made you feel happy, she thought, breathing in the fresh air–and the fumes of the skidoo in front.
They were back in the hut by eleven for desperately needed hot drinks. Katie put the kettle on. ‘Brrrr. Why is it that even though we wear snowsuits it takes such a long time for your bones to warm up?’ she asked nobody in particular. ‘We should be able to take the bones out and leave them near the stove or in the oven on a low heat so they’re nice and warm for later. Although that could be an issue with the boneless body. It would be difficult to get them back in again with your fingers all flappy. Maybe we’d have to have special seams, like a tent…’
Two of the three men looked bewildered.
Katie stopped speaking as she noticed. And smiled in collusion at Paul Martin.
‘Are we all having tea?’ she asked, and crouched to get some biscuits from a low shelf. Paul reached over her to get the mugs from the cupboard. He had just put them on the counter when Katie stood up quickly and smacked her head smartly on the open cupboard door. She was only aware of the most incredible pain behind the eyes. The next thing she knew, she was being held in the arms of the handsome doctor. ‘Well, good morning,’ he said, relieved.
‘A very good morning. Am I ill?’
‘That depends. You had a nasty knock, and you’ve got an enormous bump on your head.’ He smiled.
‘Nice smile,’ she said woozily.
‘I just need to check that you haven’t done any major damage, Katie,’ he sai
d. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Annoyed.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A bit sick.’
‘Right. Always horrible when you bang your head that hard. So what day is it today?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think I knew before you asked me.’
‘Who’s the President of America?’
‘Ah. General knowledge. Is it Batman?’
One of the producers, watching on the monitor, put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God. She’s really concussed. Nightmare.’
‘Don’t be a moron,’ said Mark. ‘She’s always doing that sort of rubbish joking.’
‘Katie, I need you to be serious,’ said the doctor. ‘Otherwise you’ll have to have a lot of unnecessary tests to discover the extent of the brain damage.’
‘Barack Obama.’
‘And how many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Two spring onions and a tree.’
‘She’s fine,’ he announced, ‘even if her jokes are still as bad as ever. But I’m afraid she’s going to have to go to hospital for twenty-four hours’ observation.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Katie, while secretly quite pleased that she wouldn’t have to continue. She didn’t think she had a chance of winning–and this way she retired hurt but with her pennant still held high. If that was the right expression.
She tried to get up, and her head swam. ‘Oops. That doesn’t feel so good,’ she said, as a severe attack of nausea and light-headedness attacked her.
The doctor held on to her. ‘Can someone call an ambulance, please?’ he asked in a general way, knowing that the cameras were still rolling, and that someone would react to the request.
‘Call an ambulance,’ bellowed Peter Philbin, in his best soap-opera voice.
In the control room, Siobhan’s face was like thunder. An all-male final was not what she had planned, and her revenge on Adam Williams was not quite complete. Damn. Damn. Damn Miss Katie Sodding Fisher. Throwing a spanner in the works. Typical. Outwardly she was ringing for an ambulance. ‘Can someone get the insurance company on the phone for me?’ she shouted, then spoke into the phone slowly and exaggeratedly as she explained what the ambulance was needed for. The Norwegian telephonist–who spoke perfect English–told her in a very slow and exaggerated way that it would be sent as quickly as possible.
