After the Break

by Penny Smith

  ‘It will be about two hours,’ Siobhan said into a walkie-talkie.

  It crackled into life: ‘Two hours?’ came back, with disbelief.

  ‘Well, we’re not exactly on the main road, are we? And I’m assuming it’s not urgent. Or does the doctor want me to tell them we need an air ambulance? And he can pay the insurance company when the quibbling starts.’

  There was silence. Then the answer came back. ‘No. He says it’s all right. Unless Katie faints or something.’

  She could hear the echo coming through the cameras, as they continued to roll and record.

  ‘The insurance company’s on the line,’ said Mark.

  ‘Transfer it through to me, can you?’ she said.

  The conversation wasn’t a long one.

  ‘Can someone call the phone company to get Katie’s voting line blocked?’ she shouted. ‘I need to go out and check on something. Can you cover for me, Mark?’ she asked, with a quick smile.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  Siobhan walked out of the building and, in case anyone was watching, made as if to go to the celebrity house, veering off at the last moment to duck behind a small outhouse, where she made an international call.

  ‘Hello, it’s Siobhan Stamp here…No, I can’t speak any louder. Pin your ears back. I’m paying you enough for this. Stop the programme, if you can.’ She listened intently, her eyes peeled for interlopers. ‘Will it come up on their phone bill that calls were attempted?…Good. And then it automatically disconnects?…Fine…Your money will be in your bank account at the end of the job. Goodbye.’

  The voice at the other end of the line continued to speak.

  ‘No. We agreed the fucking money beforehand. The fact that you have belatedly realized how important it is is neither here nor there.’ She listened again.

  ‘I think you’ll find that if you try to blackmail me, you’ll come off very much worse, you little worm. You should be grateful for the opportunity I’ve given you to pay off some of your student loan. Don’t you dare threaten me.’ She pressed the end-call button.

  Her heart was beating rapidly. That was not what she’d wanted to hear. Thank goodness she had her fall guy. She hoped it would work. Otherwise…Of course it would. You had to have faith.

  She returned to the control room. Mark remarked on her pink nose, and the blast of cold air she brought in.

  ‘Possibly something to do with the precipitation from clouds in the form of ice crystals formed in the upper atmosphere,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

  ‘Also known as snow, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh. Is that what it is?’ he asked sweetly. Boy, was she in a mood. That was what happened if you determined the outcome of the programme from the beginning, he thought. You want two couples and you end up with three blokes. Maybe he should suggest a farting competition. Or who could piss the furthest. Or highest. Or longest. He looked at Siobhan’s set face. Maybe he wouldn’t suggest anything.

  She was staring at the computer screen while dialling a number on the phone.

  ‘Hello, Mr Fisher. Siobhan Stamp here from Celebrity X-Treme. Your son gave me your telephone number…No, nothing to worry about. But, yes, it is actually something that has happened to Katie. She stood up too quickly and banged her head on an open cupboard door, and may have concussed herself. We’re having her taken to hospital for observation. She’ll be in for twenty-four hours. Which means that she won’t be continuing in the show…’ dammit ‘…although we hope she’ll be making an appearance when we have the winner…’

  Jack Fisher had been skinning a rabbit with a clingy cat round his ankles. Caligula was winding in and out of his feet, rubbing his fur desperately against the chef’s corduroys in an attempt to get a whole undressed animal for lunch. It had never happened so far in his entire feline life–but hope sprang eternal.

  Then Jack had been distracted for a moment by the phone ringing. It was all it took. Caligula gathered himself together and, concentrating all his power in his haunches, launched himself at the counter. He had the rabbit by its tail and had dragged it onto the floor just as Bob came into the kitchen and spotted him.

  Caligula let out a low growl, his teeth clenched on the meat, his eyes fixed on Bob. He began to back slowly towards the cat-flap, knowing that, once there, he was home and free.

  Bob was having none of it. He advanced cautiously, murmuring in a low, reasonable voice, ‘Caligula, if you don’t put that down, I will rip your legs off and beat you to death with the furry ends.’

  All Caligula heard was the threat. And he didn’t care. He had a rabbit that was as big as him and smelled like Paradise. He carried on towards the cat-flap.

  Bob rushed him, and his escape route was cut off. He dived round with a grumble in his throat, but the rabbit was bulky and slowed him down, and he was caught, and lifted off the floor still attached to it. He did what he could to hold on, but eventually his teeth gave out. With a yowl, he fled through the cat-flap, his tail like a stiff, stripy catkin.

  Inside the kitchen, Jack was apologizing profusely ‘Sorry, Bob. It was the phone call. Took me by surprise. Katie’s been hurt.’

  Bob’s heart did a somersault. ‘How is she? What happened?’ he asked, suddenly breathless.

  ‘She’s on her way to hospital. Or will be. I think they said an hour or something. I don’t think I was really concentrating. But she’s going to be all right. Apparently she banged her head on a cupboard.’ He stopped, then did a short laugh. ‘Ha. Bloody typical. She goes on an extreme-sports type event, and ends up knocking herself out on a cupboard.’

  ‘Concussed, then?’

  ‘Yes. Out like a light. She’s got to have twenty-four hours of observation.’

  ‘Standard stuff for that,’ said Bob, his heart getting back to its regular beat.

  ‘And then, I assume she’ll fly home. Or maybe not. Oh, no. I think the woman said she’d stay for the final. Well, I’m sure they’ll phone to let me know. But I am sorry about the rabbit. Can it be salvaged, do you think?’

  Bob looked at the two major incisor marks on its back leg. ‘I would say so. I don’t know about you, but if we give it a wash and cook it thoroughly, I’m willing to take a risk on getting scabies or whatever you can get from cats.’

  ‘Catamarans?’

  ‘Catapults?’ countered Bob.

  ‘Catarrh?’

  ‘Leave it on a good one, I say. Anyway, what do you reckon?’

  ‘A jolly good scrub and a stew.’

  ‘That sounds like a sketch from The Two Ronnies.’ Bob grinned. It was so like being with Katie that he wanted to hug the older man. I think I love your daughter, he wanted to say, but didn’t. What was the point? She had ended their affair, and was ensconced with a man who was in her world–and very rich, by all accounts. And not bad-looking, he had grudgingly to admit. A bit primped, perhaps. Looked like he spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. And waxed his eyebrows, he thought bitchily. Probably goes for manicures every week. I bet he doesn’t know how to skin a rabbit. Or bleed a radiator, for that matter, he thought randomly.

  Adam was also on the list for a phone call if anything happened to Katie. Siobhan made Mark ring him. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘Why didn’t you call him, if you wanted to know what he said?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ she said, as though she was talking to a ten-year-old. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘What you would expect him to say,’ said Mark, getting as stroppy as she was.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Phone him yourself,’ he said, and walked away from her. She was such a bitch. He couldn’t believe he’d shagged her. Yes, he could. She’d looked all right with makeup on.

  Siobhan was incensed, but could hardly threaten him with the sack. Or should she? Would that work better if he was going to be her stooge? Could she have him sacked? After a moment’s reflection, she realize
d she couldn’t. They would ask why she hadn’t made the call herself. She could hardly have said that Adam had not succumbed to her advances and had gone out with her rival–who was now in the programme she was executive-producing. No. Revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

  Dee got ready to watch Celebrity X-Treme. She prepared a tray full of food.

  Carrots and celery (because she was oh-so-healthy) with hummus (because she was oh-so-healthy, even if it was a little bit fattening), tsatziki (because she was oh-oh-oh-so-healthy and it was yoghurt, which was good for the digestion), deep-fried prawn balls (because a girl’s got to have fun) and a tumbler of red wine (because it’s good for the heart). It looked lovely, and she had all the major food groups and vitamins covered.

  She went into the bedroom on a tilt, trying to stop the wine slopping over the side of the tray. Then, since every surface in her flat was cluttered, she gingerly set it down on the carpet, teeth clenched on her bottom lip. At the last moment, the wine tipped. ‘Fishcakes!’ she exclaimed, and went to get some kitchen roll to put on it. Was there something else you were supposed to do? She could never remember. Salt. That was it. She went and got a tub and poured it in a satisfying heap on the stain. The wine started to soak into it. She turned the television on while it performed its cleansing act, and sat on the bed in her tracksuit bottoms and long-sleeved T-shirt, absent-mindedly picking at a yellow, crusty flake on one sleeve. It came off, and she smelled it. Egg, perhaps? When had she last had an egg? She sniffed it again. No. Maybe it was a piece of Crunchy Nut Corn Flake. She ate it. Yes, Crunchy Nut Corn Flake. Yesterday’s breakfast. Nice.

  She got off the bed to look at the stain, and stood there for fully five minutes, debating. It might be best to leave it until it’s dry and then hoover it up, she thought. What’s the worst that can happen?

  She began her dinner as the titles for Celebrity X-Treme came up.

  At Hello Britain!, an overnight producer was watching the programme to see what clip could be used for the item on Katie’s exit. They had rung her brother to see if he would do a quick piece with them, and also her mother. They hadn’t bothered to phone Adam. He had made it clear that he would not be talking on the subject. In the absence of family or lover, they decided to leave it to Dee to comment.

  Richard, who was outputting, asked a researcher to ring her, and tell her to watch the programme if she wasn’t already so that she could talk about it.

  ‘And tell her we’ll have live pictures from Bournemouth for the chroma key tomorrow. If she cares.’

  The researcher was riffling through a pile of yesterday’s papers before chucking them away. ‘Hey, that’s interesting,’ he said, looking at one. ‘Fifty years ago, Pope Pius the Twelfth declared St Clare the patron saint of television. St Clare. How weird is that? And Prince Charles was officially made Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Can you phone Dee, please?’ Richard reminded him, and looked back at his screen, trying to see where time could be saved. ‘What the hell can we cut at this late stage?’ he moaned. ‘They organize all these people dayside and we have to ditch them. Unless we can interview four people about diabetes in under three minutes. And tell the band to sing their song in twenty seconds. And only do the temperature and cloud cover in the weather. And get someone to tell Keera to shut up and stop wasting our time.’

  ‘That’s what people tune in for,’ Kent piped up, defending his favourite presenter.

  ‘Yes, of course it is,’ Richard said sweetly. ‘They love the quick-fire wit and repartee emanating from the dynamite combination of Sagacity Keethley and Wisecracking Fallon. Personally, I always find the adverts very stimulating.’

  Kent threw him a darkling look and walked away.

  The intake editor sitting on a nearby desk said, without raising his eyes from his computer screen, ‘You do enjoy winding him up, don’t you?’

  Richard smiled. ‘Sure do. You know, I admire him for sticking to his guns. And I also know that he probably passes on my comments to Miss Keethley. Or a version of them. Keera and I both know where we stand in each other’s estimation.’

  ‘I know where she stands in yours…what about vice versa?’ asked the input editor, now looking up from the computer.

  ‘Lower than the runner, I’d have thought.’

  ‘That high, eh?’

  Celebrity X-Treme finished, and Dee phoned in.

  ‘Wotcher,’ said Richard.

  ‘Well,’ said Dee, ‘thoroughly enjoyed that. Were you watching?’

  ‘Of course. Can’t let the Fisher down. You know how she’ll be on to us the minute she’s compos mentis, demanding to know whether she did the right thing, and did her bum look big in that snowsuit.’

  ‘And we’ll tell her…’

  ‘That she looked super-thin, hardly bigger than a tooth-pick.’

  ‘And then someone who isn’t you or me will tell her that they edited it to make it look like she was permanently on heat.’

  Richard ate another of his stash of chocolate biscuits, feeling the need of a sugar rush. ‘I’ve discovered that a friend of a friend has been working on the show. And he’s appalled at what they’ve done. Apparently, they’ve been slashing and editing so that the whole meaning has been completely skewed. Sadly, I bet the bloke concerned won’t back her up publicly because he’ll be wanting another job.’

  ‘So she hasn’t been a super-slut, then?’ asked Dee, aghast.

  ‘Weeell, slut, but not super-slut.’

  ‘Same old Katie Fisher. I bet Adam’s not too keen on how it’s come out, eh? Anyways…I was phoning in to see what you wanted from me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘About two minutes on how she did, and how she’ll be feeling,’ said Richard, leaning into his seat to ease his back.

  ‘Oh, Gawd, I don’t know. Can’t mention the unmentionable, can I? The flirting between her and Paul Martin?’ queried Dee.

  ‘She did do other things, you lemon.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Fell down on the skiing. Underpants on her head–that still makes me laugh. Hot-tub nonsense. Tidying up everywhere. Not winning Monopoly. Ever played Monopoly with her?’ asked Richard.

  ‘No. But I remember her telling me about how she and her brother used to play it with their parents, and how she used to insert a hotel up her brother’s nose if she was losing. Apparently she’d hold him down and, next thing, they’d be on their way to hospital to get it out. Fitted perfectly up his nostril. She reckoned it was why he became a doctor. He enjoyed the visits so much.’

  ‘Maybe better not tell that story or we’ll have mothers complaining that it’s promoting sticking small items up children’s noses. Let’s confine ourselves to the stories that have come out of the programme, eh? Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘I sent a text. Maybe you’re not allowed to have your mobiles on in hospital’

  ‘I spoke to her briefly. She sounded surprisingly jaunty. But it would be better if you could speak to her yourself. Give her a ring now.’

  ‘Will do. See you tomorrow, then,’ said Dee. ‘By the way, do you know how you get red wine stains out of carpet?’

  ‘Put soda water on it, I think.’

  ‘Oh. I put a whole load of salt on it. It looks like a snow turtle. Pink round the edges. Quite lovely. But I don’t know what to do now.’

  ‘Neither do I. I always thought it was soda water. Or white wine. Let me ask.’

  There was a muttered conversation before he returned to the phone. ‘Apparently you need loads of kitchen towel. Get rid of the salt. Then you press on the stain with kitchen towels until it’s all gone.’

  ‘I knew there was something I’d forgotten to get the last time I went to the shops. Do you think loo paper would work?’

  ‘How would I know? Good luck. Go and get some sleep. See you tomorrow morning.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The moon was a silver disc in the sky as Keera left her flat to go to work. The black Mercedes, which was there to pick her up, smelled of
Magic Tree. There were those who hated the synthetic tones of air-freshener, but it reminded Keera of dolly mixtures and she sniffed appreciatively. ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Keethley,’ said her driver, as he opened the door for her.

  She slid in, knees together, since she was wearing a micro-mini under her long black coat for a meeting at Wolf Days Productions after Hello Britain!. And since she was in a good mood, she responded to the driver’s conversation.

  ‘There’s going to be a demonstration on Park Lane today. A big one,’ he said, as Smooth Radio played in the background.

  She couldn’t hear him terribly well over Neil Diamond. ‘Demonstration? What for?’

  ‘Trucks, I think.’

  ‘Pro or anti drugs?’ She wondered whether the news desk knew about it. Always nice to be able to go in with some breaking story.

  ‘Trucks,’ he reiterated.

  ‘What are they going to do?’

  ‘Deliver a coffin to Ten Downing Street, I think.’

  She hesitated, then asked, ‘Why would they deliver a coffee to Downing Street? What’s that got to do with drugs?’

  The driver didn’t answer. He was tired, it was the end of his shift, he couldn’t be bothered to explain.

  Keera liked Thursdays. It was almost the weekend. And she felt more cheerful, knowing that Matthew Praed was still working on her career. She blushed to think of their last meeting. But it couldn’t be helped. Too late now. She wouldn’t think about it. And she hoped he would sit there in today’s meeting, seeing what he was missing. What would she do if he did ask her out for dinner again? She toyed with the idea of snubbing him. No, that would be too foolish. He was a powerful man. She did wish she hadn’t succumbed, though.

  She needed more publicity. The front page of a glossy magazine. Her face gazing down from a hundred and one magazine racks. And maybe today on air she would accidentally on purpose make a gaffe. It was the easiest way of making money in the world. It would go off to a bloopers show, and could be shown again and again, earning money for each airing. Ker-ching. She smiled in the darkness, and breathed in the smell of Magic Tree.