by Penny Smith
The darkness was beginning to lift as she arrived at Hello Britain!. ‘Good morning,’ she said gaily, as she went through Security. They knew better than to stop her.
The newsroom was quiet. The final pieces of the jigsaw were being slotted into place.
‘Hi, Keera,’ said Richard, as she threw off her coat theatrically to reveal her outfit.
Kent gasped. That was the shortest skirt he had ever seen in his life. Was it legal?
Even Richard was shocked. ‘My God. I hope you’re wearing sturdy underwear.’
She tried out one of her new laughs. It sounded more like a drain being cleaned than the sexy, throaty growl she’d been practising. More work required. Nobody could possibly know, she thought, how difficult it was to get things right.
She logged on to the computer and started to look through the scripts.
‘Incidentally, do we know that there’s a demonstration on Park Lane today about drugs?’
‘Is there?’ asked Richard. ‘No. I don’t think we do. Antidrugs, I assume–unless it’s a load of lost hippies, ravers and junkies campaigning for more?’
‘I don’t know.’ She cast her eye down the running order. ‘Why are we doing this thing about Katie Fisher?’ she asked, trying not to sound peevish.
‘It’s a story. And I think our viewers still want to know about those who used to be our top presenters here,’ said Richard, passively.
‘You’ve put it down for two minutes, though. That’s a long time to talk about somebody who’s banged her head and is out of a reality show.’
‘Is that actually your item, Keera? I thought I’d put Rod down to do it.’
‘Yes, you have. Doesn’t stop me having an opinion, does it?’ she asked.
‘No. I suppose not.’ Richard carried on typing away on his keyboard.
‘So?’ she eventually asked.
‘So, er, what?’ he asked, now involved in trying to work out how to move one guest out and another in during the link between the items.
‘So are we going to spend two minutes on this item?’
‘Yes, we are. How do you feel about doing one of your items in front of the chroma key to help me out with swapping guests?’
She looked mutinous, but realized the futility of carrying on the argument.
‘Of course. Anything to oblige,’ she said shortly, and turned to face her computer screen again.
A researcher came over to Richard. ‘I’ve checked it out. There is a demonstration on Park Lane but it’s the one we’ve already got as a short news item. It’s a whole load of lorries demonstrating about petrol prices and taxes and so on.’
‘Thanks,’ said Richard. He hadn’t really expected Keera to come in with a news story they were unaware of. Although he did wonder how she had got drugs and petrol mixed up. Great party guest–ask her for a quarter of black and she’d turn up with a gallon of diesel.
When Keera had finished looking through her interviewees, she went down to Makeup and was surprised to see Rod already in the chair, the cape thrown around him. ‘Pre-record,’ he said briefly, before closing his eyes again.
‘Why are you doing a pre-record?’
‘Because it’s with someone in LA who doesn’t want to stay up until two o’clock in the morning for the dubious pleasure of talking to us live.’
‘Sleep well?’ she asked. Not because she wanted an answer but because it was the sort of thing you were supposed to ask your co-presenters. She really had no interest in whether he’d slept well or slept in a well. Hey. That was a good line. She’d try to find somewhere to use it.
‘No,’ he stressed. ‘I didn’t. Children. Who’d have them? Teenagers are a pain in the arse. I can’t wait for her to leave home.’
‘Hmm. Know what you mean,’ said Keera, who had stopped listening and was gazing in rapt admiration at her reflection in one of the mirrors. It was at an angle where she could see the stunning curve in her back, the trim waist and the pert bottom encased in its tiny skirt.
Rod flicked his eyes open. ‘Do you have experience of looking after teenagers, then?’
Caught out, Keera answered, ‘I was a teenager once,’ and left before he could ask anything else.
‘Did you watch Celebrity X-Treme last night?’ asked Vanda.
‘Course,’ said Rod. ‘Bet the producers aren’t happy they’ve got three men in the final. Always nice to have a bit of fluff to look at.’
‘Paul Martin’s got to win it, hasn’t he?’
‘Nope. Peter Philbin will walk it. Think about the voters. Women or girls who watch soaps. It’ll be Peter,’ he said, with conviction.
‘I can’t quite believe Dave Beal made it through to the end. No accounting for tastes,’ she said, moving her lipsticks to make room for the two new eye-shadow sets she had bought the day before.
‘Oh, I think the viewers are canny enough when it comes to these programmes now. They like to leave someone in who shakes the tree. You want to throw things at the screen when he’s on. Doubt if he’ll get much work out of it, though–he’s just enhanced his reputation as a poor comedian with a penchant for sexism, racism and any other ism. Whereas Peter has won–no matter what. As has Paul. Nobody had heard of either of them. Depends how wisely they make their next move.’
‘And Katie?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. Difficult to tell. Maybe she’ll be offered a show on UK Living based on that old Paul Simon song, “Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover”.’
‘I know. That’s going to be very interesting. A sort of accidental dumping of the boyfriend,’ said Vanda. ‘And she didn’t even win.’
Paul Martin actually knew that he was going to win because he had been told he would by Siobhan. But he missed sparring with Katie and was sorry to see her go. He had no doubt he would see her again, and was fairly confident that he could tempt her into a night out. Would she leave her man for him? What a fantastic tale that would be for the newspapers. And it would be a win-win situation for him. Win Celebrity X-Treme and win the girl. He was going to enjoy the after-show party. Maybe that was where he would make his move on Katie. He knew she liked a drink, and a tipsy female was a fairly safe bet, in his humble opinion. Beal would go this evening, he’d bet a pound to a pinch of salt. And then there would be the run-off between him and Philbin. He had no doubt that his triumph would be greeted with surprise, and he hoped he could do a convincing goodness-little-old-me-winning. And he also hoped that Siobhan was happy with his performance. But not so happy that she would want another close encounter of the horizontal-jogging kind. He didn’t think he could countenance another round of tapeworm grappling.
Katie was excited that she had been given her mobile. She hadn’t realized how isolated she had begun to feel without it. She phoned home. ‘Hi, Mum. I can use my mobile again until I go back for the final. Sorry I couldn’t speak for longer yesterday afternoon. Draughty place for the phone. Just to tell you that I should be out of hospital soon.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine. A comedy bump on the top of my head. Apart from that, it’s all OK.’
‘Good. Good.’ Her mother sounded distracted.
‘Is Dad there?’ asked Katie. The line went so quiet she thought she had been cut off. ‘Hello?’ she asked loudly.
‘Hello. Your father is not here at the moment.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s, erm…out.’
‘You’re being very peculiar, Mum. Where is he? Has he gone dogging or something else embarrassing?’
‘I have no idea what that is. I also have no idea where he is.’
‘What do you mean? What’s going on?’ asked Katie, puzzled by the way her mother was responding to her questions.
‘Well,’ her mother sighed, ‘you’ll no doubt hear it from your brother anyway. Your father appears to have left me.’
‘Left you?’ asked Katie, disbelievingly. ‘Left you? When?’
‘About the same time as you went into Celebrity Dream
.’
‘Celebrity X-Treme, Mum,’ corrected Katie. ‘What’s happening? What did you do?’
‘Thank you for being so sympathetic,’ said her mother, waspishly.
Katie bit her tongue, thinking that it was always her mother who was unsympathetic. ‘Poor Mum,’ she said, glad that her mother couldn’t see the face she was pulling. ‘But, really, what happened?’
‘Nothing. Or nothing out of the ordinary. I came in to find a note in the kitchen.’
‘And you have no idea where he’s gone? At all’
‘As I said, no. I phoned your brother. He said he was sure he was safe. There’s no point in me worrying. He’ll come back if he wants to.’
Katie couldn’t believe the way her mother was dealing with this bombshell. Her concussion felt like it was coming back. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘He’s not missing, Katie,’ said her mother, sounding exasperated. ‘What would I tell the police? My husband’s left me. And they would do what? I have to go. Hercules is whining. I’m glad you’re all right. I’ll see you when you come out of that house or whatever. I’m sorry I’ve been the bearer of bad tidings.’
Katie phoned her brother and left a message. He was never there when you wanted him. Why had her father left home? Should she have seen it coming? Where would he have gone?
In Hawes, Jack had been watching Hello Britain!. He turned it off as it ended.
‘Yes, I thought they might do something with Katie. She sounded well. Very perky.’
‘Hm. She did, didn’t she?’ agreed Bob.
‘And she’s going to be back on Saturday. Which is good. Another coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Bob was aware that something else was being debated.
Jack had planned to stay away from his wife until the weekend. But then the phone call had come about Katie bashing herself up, and he suddenly wanted to go home. Six days was enough to miss someone, Jack reasoned. He certainly missed Lynda. ‘Faint heart never won fair maid,’ he said to himself, as he went up to pack his few belongings in the suitcase. He took it downstairs.
Bob looked up from his newspaper enquiringly.
‘Yes. I know. Earlier than planned. I’ll make us both a fat-boy’s breakfast, and then I’m going to take a taxi home,’ explained Jack.
‘I’d offer to take you, but the battery on the Land Rover’s buggered again. And I’d take you on the back of the bike, but I think either you or the bag would fall off.’
‘And I feel inappropriately dressed for that,’ said Jack. ‘There’s a severe lack of leather about my raiment. Not even an elbow patch.’
‘Good heavens above, my liege,’ said Bob, in mock-horror. ‘No leather elbow patches? What were you thinking, going about dressed thus?’
‘There are those would say that I’m fit for purpose,’ said Jack, with dignity. He continued, ‘And talking of purpose, I’m very hungry and must needs eat. For my farewell breakfast, I will be offering either the full English or eggs Hollandaise with trimmings. Or an omelette. Or anything you damn well fancy. As a massive thank-you for putting up with a daft old man who wanted to shake up his life a bit.’
‘It’s been an absolute pleasure,’ said Bob, standing up. ‘I’ve enjoyed being cooked gourmet meals for, and having someone to share my sofa and television with. And I hope it’s been worth putting up with my poorly equipped larder. I had no idea I was missing so many important staples. How could I have lived without organic saffron?’
Jack left after a breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, and Bob kicked disconsolately round the house for an hour, moving things that didn’t need to be moved, and giving the cat a thorough brushing–which so surprised Caligula that he let it happen.
Jack arrived home a short while later and let himself in quietly. He was half hoping that Lynda would be out so that he could have a minute to gather his thoughts.
It was not to be. She was standing in the kitchen, her eyes wide, her hands grasping a hard wooden conch crusher he had brought back from a Caribbean island decades ago. A pot of tea steamed on the table, with a fresh cup beside it. ‘You beast,’ she said, and burst into tears.
He bustled forwards and took her in his arms. ‘It’s all right, Lynda. It’s all right. I’m sorry’
‘Sorry about what?’ she muffled into his shoulder.
‘About frightening you.’
‘I wasn’t frightened,’ she muttered, pulling away from him slightly.
‘Of course you weren’t,’ he said, pulling her back into his embrace.
‘What the hell have you been about, going off without a word?’
‘I left you a note,’ he protested.
‘Saying you were going away. You didn’t say for how long or anything. You could have been anywhere. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘Good.’
‘How can you say that? What would you have said if I’d been murdered in my bed while you were off gallivanting?’
‘That sounds more like my Lynda,’ he said approvingly.
‘But really,’ she said, trying to push him away.
He held her closer. ‘I wanted to make you remember that I was around,’ he said, ‘to remind you. You know why I went. I’ve been feeling like a drudge, and when I’ve tried to have a conversation, you shout at me. Or dismiss it. I needed to make you see that I really meant it. You have to stop the sniping or I’ll have to leave for good. You know, I cook for you, look after you, make you tea in bed. And you just accept it, and then have a go at me. All the time.’
She looked at him mistily as he explained. ‘Do I?’ she asked, in a small voice, trying to find a tissue in her skirt pocket. ‘Never got the skirt with pockets in when I need it.’ She used her jumper sleeve to wipe her eyes.
‘Yes, you do. We used to laugh together. Have fun. Be silly. But over the years it feels like we’ve drifted apart. Or, rather, I feel like I’ve stayed on the shore and you’ve drifted off to other pastures.’
‘You should never mix your metaphors. You’re on dry land or you’re not.’
He laughed. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘You can’t be forgiven just like that.’ She snapped her fingers.
‘Can’t I? You could do it if you wanted to. And you do understand why I went? That I couldn’t think of any other way?’
She moved over to the kitchen table. ‘Oh, all right. Yes, I suppose I do,’ she said, looking down, then up again with a martial light in her eye. ‘I don’t know why we’re standing up when there’s tea in the pot and my cup’s getting cold.’
‘You are a terrible old woman.’
‘Yes, all right. All right. What do you want me to say?’
‘I don’t want you to say anything. Except. How about saying you love me?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Well, say it, then.’
‘Love you,’ she mumbled.
‘I can see I’m going to have to leave again.’
‘Well, if you don’t want to come home, don’t. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do.’
‘Stop being so bolshy.’
‘I wasn’t being bolshy. But you march in here as though nothing’s happened…’
‘I did not.’
‘You did. And then you expect me to forgive you,’ said Lynda, getting annoyed where, just moments before, she’d been willing to take him back under almost any circumstances.
Jack began to get annoyed too. ‘It is actually your fault that I left,’ he snapped.
‘Oh. Now it’s all about whose fault it is.’
And all of a sudden, the reconciliation was turned on its head. The cup of tea continued to cool.
‘I can see this was a bad idea. I wish I hadn’t bothered. It was all a terrible mistake. This time…’ he said dramatically, picked up his bag and left again, slamming the door.
Yes, he did know that he was partly to blame–because he had let it happen, instead of dealing with it when things had first started to go wrong. But that was the problem wi
th life. It crept up on you. The speck of dust became a plank of wood. You had to deal with that grit when it was still manageable.
Bugger, he thought, as he trudged back to the road. He sat on his suitcase and phoned for a minicab. It had all seemed so easy.
Dee and Katie were having a textual relationship.
‘Hey, Batface,’ wrote Dee, ‘has your head come off yet?’
‘Thanks for the sympathy, you miserable old crow,’ wrote Katie. ‘Head still here. How have I been looking?’
‘Like the ugly cow you are. When you back?’
‘Saturday. Party tomorrow night. Adam being weird. What’s been going down?’
There was a pause before Dee wrote back. ‘Celebrity X may have stitched you up. May be why Adam being weird.’
Katie read the text twice. First the bombshell about her parents, now this.
She knew it. Admittedly she had flirted with Paul Martin but that had been the deal, hadn’t it? It hadn’t meant anything.
Mark, the producer, was waiting for her in the hospital reception area. He led her outside to a plush four-by-four. ‘How are you?’
She felt as if she’d burst with worry, but forced herself to think of the show.
‘Fine,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt, and flicking down the sun visor. She gave herself a quick glance in the vanity mirror. ‘Although I felt fine anyway, apart from the ridiculous lump on the top of my head. But I can’t deny it was nice to be lying down in clean sheets and having handsome doctors–well, some handsome doctors–checking me out.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve got cameras waiting for you back at the camp.’
‘That’s OK. I signed up for cameras. And, obviously, it saves my phone bill if everyone knows I’m all right.’
‘Lots of texts and messages?’ he asked, in sympathy.
