After the Break

by Penny Smith

‘Tons of them. Didn’t get through them all…’ She trailed off.

  Adam got her text message as he was having a conversation with Keera Keethley in his office. He had seen it and sent a terse one back, feeling a mixture of guilt and smugness. Two can play at this flirting-and-messing-with-the-emotions game, he thought. He hadn’t been able to concentrate fully on the meeting. Keera’s skirt was so short that he found his eye constantly drawn to the shadowy triangle where her thighs met. If he hadn’t seen evidence of the skirt when she came in, he would have sworn it wasn’t there.

  When she went through the office, there had been a hush–an envious silence from the women, a lascivious one from the men. As soon as the office door had closed, Gemma and Rose let her have it.

  ‘She looks utterly ridiculous,’ said Gemma. ‘I mean, there’s party gear and there’s office gear. And that is Pink Rhino gear, no question.’

  ‘Don’t know why she turned us down for Dare to Bare when she’s showing her knickers to all and sundry,’ said Rose.

  Gemma took a noisy slurp of her black coffee. ‘The bitch does have a cracking pair of legs, though.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t eat. Ever,’ said Rose.

  ‘Unlike you,’ added Gemma, thoughtfully, ‘who eats other people’s psoriasis crumbs.’

  ‘Will you never let me forget that?’ huffed Rose, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Absolutely not. Highlight of my year. Licked any good ear wax recently?’

  ‘Why are you always so gross? Did your parents drop you in something when you were a baby? A bag of poo or something?’

  Gemma giggled. ‘I love the word “poo”. And “pong”.’

  ‘Sounds like a dim-sum place.’

  ‘What’s Adam going to offer Ms Knickers, then?’

  ‘Nick says it’s something to do with the fashion world. I don’t know that it’s actually been commissioned, mind you. But if it is, she’d just have to drift around looking beautiful. Which, let’s face it, is about all she can do. Her interviews are so crap.’

  ‘She is stunning, isn’t she?’ said Gemma, wistfully.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to look like that, though, would you?’ asked Rose, dismissively.

  They both looked at the office where Keera was. And then declared in unison, ‘Yes.’

  Gemma added, ‘I would. But I wouldn’t want to be her. It must be very boring in her head.’

  ‘Beautiful but thick, or clever but ugly?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I’m having a funny sense of déjà vu.’

  ‘Are you having a funny sense of déjà vu?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Yes. Only it’s not very funny.’ Gemma drank the dregs of her coffee. ‘I suppose I’d better get on with my programme treatment. I’ve got to get this in to Nick by the end of the day, and I’ve only half written it. Every time I look at the computer screen, my eyeballs feel tired. Or maybe it’s my brain that’s tired. Sometimes I hate my job. I want to be at a supermarket passing products over the beepy thing. Beep. Beep. Beep. Your own bag, madam? Unidentified item in the baggage area. Beep. Beep.’

  ‘You wouldn’t last a day. You’d have a row and throw your pinny on the floor.’

  ‘“Pinny”. That’s a good word. I wonder if I can get “poo,” “pong” and “pinny” into this treatment.’

  ‘Bet you can’t.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Gemma began typing. ‘Hey, you know Daniel’s been given a warning about his expenses?’

  ‘No!’ gasped Rose.

  Gemma stopped typing. ‘I really do have to get on with this. But, yup. Apparently went out for lunch with some mates. Put it through as dinner with contributors. Nick recognized the date–Mothering Sunday’

  ‘What bad luck,’ said Rose, sympathizing with Daniel. ‘The amount I put through that probably wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny’

  ‘Not lunch with four people, though. Would you?’

  ‘No. I’m a scaredy-cat. Always think I’ll be spotted. But I got a jumper through.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Gemma.

  ‘Yeah. Having said that, I did have to buy it. I was freezing my tits off on a shoot. I’d have got frostbite if I hadn’t bought something warm. On the other hand, I should have taken a jumper in the first place.’

  ‘Do you remember that presenter at Sky who put through a whole load of clothes from Harrods? He hadn’t noticed that they’d all been itemized. He could have got away with the sweater, but the blouse and skirt…’

  Gemma went back to the computer. ‘This wretched treatment. I’ve only written three words.’

  Poo, pong and pinny?

  ‘Exactly’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There are few things more gratifying to those who work behind the scenes in television than having those out front ripped apart by a national newspaper.

  When the papers were delivered to Hello Britain! late on Thursday night, the double-page feature in the Daily Mail detailing Rod Fallon’s critique on the other presenters and his bosses was the most fingered. No one was surprised by his view of Keera–few people would defend her intellect, apart from Kent. But they hadn’t known that he felt himself so superior to absolutely everyone. Dee was an airhead. Simon, the editor was feeble. The Boss was an idiot.

  ‘Who do you think this “source close to Rod” is, then?’ asked one of the researchers.

  ‘Whoever it is has got his turn of phrase down a T,’ mused Richard, rereading a particularly pungent description of the editor.

  ‘Could it be someone here, do you think?’

  ‘If it is, then it’s someone who’s prepared to take a great big risk. One whisper and they’d be down on you like a ton of bricks. You’d be out on your ear. Not that Rod’s wrong on some of the points. It’s going to be a fun morning.’ He made a face. ‘Better not give him any of the happy stories. And the morning meeting’s going to be interesting. No doubt he’ll deny all the statements. Only thing he can do. I thought he sounded a bit subdued when he phoned in earlier to check on what guests he was doing. Well I never.’

  Normally Rod would have been asleep by eleven o’clock at night. But he was lying in the darkened bedroom going over and over his recent conversations.

  It had been at four o’clock that afternoon that the nightmare had started.

  A woman called Sarah from the Daily Mail had phoned to ask if he had a moment to respond to an article that was going into the next day’s paper.

  How the devil had she got his mobile number? was his first thought. Followed by horror at what she had revealed.

  She wanted a response to the litany of vitriol that had spewed from his own lips on everyone from The Boss down. And the worst of it was they had him bang to rights. Every quote was accurate. Every turn of phrase was his. It was as though his alter ego had written the entire article as a resignation letter. To each comment, though, he had said, ‘That’s utter bollocks,’ his heart beating so wildly he thought it might come out of his chest.

  ‘Come on, Rod,’ said Sarah, reasonably, as he continued to say that it was rubbish. ‘We know from two separate sources that these are your views. Do the people concerned know what you think of them?’

  ‘Since it’s all rubbish, there’s no reason for me to have a conversation with anyone about it, is there?’

  As soon as the call ended, he rang the head of the press office at Hello Britain!. He had to dial three times, his hands were so sweaty.

  ‘Hello, Rod,’ said the chief press officer, warily. He hated phone calls from the presenters–it usually meant trouble. His instincts weren’t wrong. He listened quietly as Rod talked, jotting down a few words on the pad he had beside his computer for just such occasions. ‘So. First things first. Where have all these quotes come from?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea. I mean, obviously not me. I wasn’t planning on leaving the company any time soon.’

  ‘Well, take a minute and try to think of anyone who wants to stitch you up. Anyone you’ve been out with for a beer, whom yo
u might have spoken to, or someone who might have overheard.’

  He thought. ‘No. No one.’

  ‘If you think of it later, let me know. I don’t know how much difference it’s going to make in the damage-limitation stakes, mind you. Right. Is there a photographer outside your house?’

  Rod went to the door and opened it. ‘Can’t see anyone.’

  ‘Well, there will be one. More than one, I would imagine, if they’re going big on this, as you suggest. So make sure you walk out with your head up. And make your expression as neutral as possible. Don’t try to avoid being photographed–it looks like you’re guilty. Be friendly to the photographers. Ask if they want a picture, and pose for them, before getting into your car. I’ll have a word with the car company and make sure they’re directly outside your house and waiting with the door open so that you can get in and be driven off. I suppose you read your scripts in the back of the car?’

  Rod assented.

  ‘Keep a semi-smile plastered on your face as you’re doing it, in case they follow you.’

  ‘OK,’ said Rod, humbly. His hands had started to shake now. Who could have done this to him? If he ever found out…He could feel bile in his throat. He’d kill them. How could they do this to him? ‘Sorry Missed that,’ he said, as the chief press officer had continued to talk.

  ‘I asked if you’d spoken to any of the parties concerned?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘As in, have you spoken to Keera, Simon and The Boss about what you’ve said?’

  ‘Allegedly said.’

  ‘I think we can be honest between ourselves, Rod,’ he said nastily. ‘I assume you haven’t. In which case, I suggest you do it as soon as possible. And call your agent so that they’re on-side. I’ll ring the Mail now and try to put a spin on it, but I doubt if I can do much if they’ve double sourced. And, finally, don’t mention the article on air. No point in having everyone rushing off and buying the paper. Giving it the oxygen of publicity. I’m going to phone Keera, Simon and The Boss too. I’ll give you a ten-minute start.’

  ‘Which order do you suggest?’ he asked humbly.

  ‘Whichever order you want. Make it snappy, though. I need to get on. Try not to make the situation worse.’ The chief press officer put the phone down, then rang Sarah Nicholls. ‘Hello. It’s Christopher Dingle from Hello Britain!. I understand you have an article running tomorrow about one of our presenters.’

  ‘Actually, it’s about all of your presenters. And your bosses, too,’ she said sweetly, making sure her pen was working, and writing ‘chief press officer’ at the top of a new page on her notepad.

  ‘Could you tell me what the gist of it is?’ he asked, knowing full well what it was.

  Sarah told him.

  ‘Well, regarding Rod and Keera, off the record–and this is strictly off the record–they actually do get on well together. They socialize outside work. They went to the Christmas party together, for example. And you’ll have seen that photograph–I think it may even have been printed in your august organ–of the two of them shopping together.’ No one needed to know that it was a set-up by Keera with her publicity agent when she’d felt she needed more press. ‘On the record, I’d like to say that they’re highly professional people and of course they get on. It’s ridiculous to suggest they don’t.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Sarah. ‘But what do you say to the incident in which Rod walked off the set saying he couldn’t believe Keera had been given the job of interviewing the Prime Minister when, and I quote, “one of the runners could do a better job”? Yes, I have that right. Just wanted to check my notes.’

  He remembered that incident. Keera had lodged a complaint. ‘People are up very early. It’s a live show, and things go wrong. Tempers flare. But that was an isolated incident,’ he said.

  ‘What about the views he expresses about his bosses? That essentially they’re incompetent and overlook Keera’s obvious shortcomings because of the shortness of her skirt?’

  ‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response.’

  ‘No comment, then?’

  ‘I did not say “no comment”. I said I would not dignify the statement you just made with a response. Please do not write “no comment”.’

  At the end of the fractious conversation, he called the Boss on his mobile.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked brusquely, answering on the first ring.

  ‘Yes. An article in the Mail. Unfavourable. Quoting Rod Fallon–but he has no idea where from.’ He explained the situation.

  ‘Does Keera know?’

  ‘I’m about to tell her. Rod may well be on the phone to her now.’

  ‘Well, remind her to keep a dignified silence.’

  Christopher gritted his teeth. Like he didn’t know his sodding job. ‘Of course. I’ll also tell her to tone down her clothing. We don’t want a photograph of her looking like she’s forgotten to put her skirt on.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said The Boss, ‘but you’re probably right. Remind me of the exact quote he used to describe me.’

  ‘Ignorant numpty with your head up Keera’s arse,’ said Christopher, regretfully.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll let you get on.’

  The penultimate call was to Simon.

  ‘Well, well. Dull, boring Rod, eh? I’ll make sure he remembers who allows him to live a comfortable life in a big house in an expensive part of London Town. He’ll get a nice hand on his entrance from me tomorrow morning. I’ll warm up that hand right now,’ declared the editor.

  Keera was having a pedicure when he called. ‘Yes, I know all about it,’ she said. ‘I’m just off the phone to Mr Rod Unpleasant Fallon.’

  ‘Is someone listening to this phone conversation?’ asked Christopher. ‘Because if they are, I suggest you don’t use those sort of words. Not when there’s something like this happening.’

  She made no answer.

  ‘Anyway,’ he pressed on, ‘I wanted to mention a few things. There may be photographers. Have a quick picture taken and move away. Be friendly Do not make any comment other than that you two are friends.’

  She made a noise.

  ‘I know that’s not necessarily true but you say it, all right? And you must not mention the article on air. Ignore it. And, I’m sorry, I have a feeling this might rumble on for a week or so.’

  Oh, goody good, thought Keera, already planning what she would be wearing. She was glad she had on her bottom-skimming skirt and that her makeup from the morning was still looking alright. She reached over and got out the vanity mirror from her handbag. ‘Sorry, didn’t get that,’ she said, her phone having slipped slightly from her ear.

  ‘I said it would be helpful if you were wearing a reasonable-length skirt tomorrow. Make you look more like a professional presenter.’

  The cheek of the man. She hoped there were photographers outside right now.

  ‘Of course,’ she said sweetly. Anything to oblige. Do you think he’ll be sacked?’

  ‘I think I said that it was perhaps better if you didn’t use those sort of words while there was the possibility of someone overhearing.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right. They don’t speak English,’ she said.

  Iwona, carefully painting Keera’s big toe, assumed she was being described. She made a mental note to go and buy the papers the next day.

  Keera lived by the motto that all publicity was good publicity. She phoned her publicist. ‘There’s going to be a big story about me in tomorrow’s Daily Mail. Not very complimentary. So I could do with a big picture to go with it, and today would be a good day to have my photo taken. Can you phone round and tell them I’ll be drinking tea outside Starbucks on the King’s Road for the next hour, and after that I’ll be walking in Holland Park near the Orangery?’

  She reapplied her lipgloss and swayed down the road from the nail bar, looking at herself in the shop windows. She lingered in front of a hairdresser’s, her image reflected through hair products, then moved a few d
oors down and feigned interest in boots and shoes. If she moved her head slightly to the left, her reflection showed her wearing odd shoes as earrings. Interesting. Would that be a good photograph?

  At the coffee shop, she had a quiet word with the manager, who went out to apologize to a couple who were sitting at the best table. They moved, and Keera took their place with her skinny latte. She got out the book she had just bought, and sat there in the weak sunshine, supposedly engrossed in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.

  In Norway, it was early evening, and Katie found herself with the first spare time she’d had in weeks. It was crisp and quiet, and she had seen the northern lights the night before. It had been so special that she wanted to share the vision. She phoned Adam, and left a message on the answerphone. She looked at her watch, wondering where he was. Then she phoned Dee, who was contemplating a mountain of stuff that had emerged from a rather small cupboard in her sitting room, debating whether she really had the energy to tidy or whether it would be better to push it all back in again. She felt much as a woman with a hideous teenager must feel, she mused.

  ‘Hey, Katie,’ she said, when the phone rang, ‘you would so approve of what I’m doing now. I’m organizing a cupboard.’

  ‘As in throwing things away?’

  ‘Not as such. Or not yet, anyway.’

  ‘As in what, then?’

  ‘As in taking it all out and deciding what to do with it. Although I’m not sure that I could actually throw things away. How can you bear to do that when so many of them have memories attached?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. But, first, can I tell you that I was standing outside in the frosty air of northern Norway last night, watching the northern lights? And that they’re beautiful. So gorgeous they take your breath away. Green lights dancing and flickering. Lovely.’

  ‘Aaah,’ said Dee.

  ‘Exactly Meanwhile, back in your cupboard. Take me through three of the items in front of you. I’ll tell you what needs to be done with them.’

  ‘You’re hundreds of miles away’

  ‘All the better to advise you. Shoot.’