by Penny Smith
She hurriedly ended the conversation and rang Matthew. ‘I know you’re busy. I don’t mean to hassle. But have you heard back about the show for Wolf Days?’
He assured her he would get on to it, but it was early days. The meeting was only yesterday. He was pleased to hear she sounded less peeved than previously. Peevish people were particularly pointless.
‘Would it be terribly unprofessional if I gave them a call myself?’ she asked sweetly. She couldn’t see him raise his eyebrows in surprise. But she could tell from his silence that she had stumped him.
‘It would be perhaps a little singular,’ he commented eventually.
What did ‘singular’ mean when it was used like that? ‘Is that good or bad?’ she essayed.
‘To what end?’
‘Well…’ she started. ‘Well, maybe I could persuade them to let me do something else for them, if this fashion programme doesn’t work out.’
‘I’m not sure,’ he countered. How long had she worked in television, for God’s sake?
‘No matter,’ she said gaily. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ She checked the time on her new Chanel watch, then did it again because she liked the look of it on her wrist. She spread her fingers and held her hand towards the sun. A look of horror came over her face. Was that an age spot? She brought the back of her hand slowly towards her face and, with her index finger, touched the blemish. It moved. She brought it up to her nose. Oh. Coffee. Relief coursed through her. It would be just too, too hideous to have an age spot. Heather, one of the producers, had a cluster of age spots on her forearms. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate on what she was saying because of them.
She looked at her watch again, having forgotten to take note of the time. Eleven o’clock. By half past, she had secured an early-evening drink with Nick Midhurst.
Nick had been as confused by Keera’s phone call as her agent but, like most men, he wasn’t about to turn down the offer of a drink with a very attractive woman. It was one of the perks of the job. He wasn’t unaware of his appeal. He didn’t think he was bad-looking, and he knew he was rendered more attractive by his job, his sufficiently deep wallet and his friendship with a number of famous people. He just wished he hadn’t been away from the office when Katie Fisher had become available. He would have told her not to do Celebrity X-Treme. He would have developed a programme specially for her.
He didn’t understand Adam and his don’t-want-to-be-seen-promoting-nepotism rubbish. Secretly, he was quite enjoying Adam’s obvious discomfiture over the stories in the newspapers. ‘Schadenfreude’–a wonderful word for such a mean emotion.
He leaned back in his chair and stretched, his thin black Prada jumper coming slightly adrift from his trousers.
Rose, on her way past to the water-cooler, faltered and almost stumbled as her eyes were drawn to his taut stomach. God, he was gorgeous. She loved him. She loved her job. She loved her job. Last night, she had dreamed they were having dinner and he was proposing to her. Of course she had hesitated before saying yes. She had got as far as the bridesmaids’ dresses before the alarm went.
She decided she would make him hers. She and Gemma had been reading a book that essentially said you could have whatever you wanted. You just had to put the thought out there, visualize it, and it would come to you. They were addicted to it.
One of the other producers had pooh-poohed it over drinks after work, saying they’d be better off just getting on with their lives. ‘Get out there. This sort of crap panders to the viewers of reality shows. You don’t have to work hard, just wish for it to happen. It’s all shit. Sixteen-year-olds are “visualizing” themselves as TV presenters, leaving school with no qualifications and filling in application forms for every reality show going. Because that’s how you do it. Yeah. Right,’ he had sneered. ‘And it works. For one in a million.’
They had tried to explain that it wasn’t like that. But he was having none of it. Nobody was going to change their mind, so they’d had another round and moved on to a discussion about pointy elbows and, more specifically, that it’s physically impossible to lick your own.
Nick came out of his office and almost bumped into her. ‘Looking very serious,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
Rose blushed.
‘What?’ he asked again, looking bemused.
She could hardly tell him she’d been daydreaming about his upcoming marriage proposal to her. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, feeling quite hot round the back of her ears.
He walked through to Adam’s office. ‘Women.’ He laughed.
Adam looked up from a DVD he’d been viewing. ‘What about them? Found a new place where you can buy them by the metre?’
‘Ha. No. Got a phone call from Keera Keethley. I think she wants to jump on my bones,’ he said, with a slow swagger over to the bookcase. There were few books on the shelves, just rows and rows of DVDs, tapes and industry tomes.
‘Oh, really?’ asked Adam, pressing the pause button and addressing himself entirely to his friend.
‘Yes.’
Nick straddled the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘She phoned me up and did that slightly, erm,’ he made a face, ‘slightly strange laugh–and then virtually invited me to dinner.’
‘You dirty dog,’ responded Adam, with a smirk.
‘I know. Obviously she thinks we’re not working hard enough on a proposal for her. I’m supposed to be meeting up with my mates Sam and Thomas tonight, but since it looks like I’m on a promise, I’ll ditch them. I said I’d have an early drink with her. I’ll see how the land lies, and take it from there.’
‘That skirt was something else,’ said Adam, nodding at the memory.
‘I know,’ said Nick, smiling. ‘And I bet she’ll be wearing something special tonight, too.’
‘I think that’s a fairly safe bet. Well, good luck to you.’
‘When’s your bird back, then?’
‘Tomorrow, theoretically.’
‘Do you think it was worth it? Going into Celebrity X-Treme?’
Adam stood up and went to the window. It was a breezy day, and each gust of wind rattled the window casing. ‘Must get this ruddy window sorted. Drives me insane. I don’t know. I suppose it depends what Katie gets offered afterwards.’
‘And at least tomorrow you’ll find out her version of events.’
‘Yes. Exactly,’ said Adam, going back to his desk and shuffling a pile of paperwork. ‘Now I must get on with this. I promised the lawyer I’d have it all done by the end of the week and, as usual, I’ve been procrastinating. So sod off and let me at it.’
Since Nick had never seen Adam procrastinate over anything, he merely inclined his head and left the room.
In Hawes, Bob was missing having lack around. He had a desultory breakfast of cheese on toast and a cup of coffee, fed Caligula a handful of dried cat food, then mooched about. The trouble with being self-employed was that there was ample opportunity for doing nothing. He stood by the window, and gave his head a good scratch. Nothing quite like a good scratch. Except maybe a good stretch. He tried one. It didn’t work when it wasn’t done as an urgent response to a need to stretch. He bent down and touched his toes. Good flexibility, he thought. He lay on the floor in the kitchen and did a few sit-ups, flipped over and did some press-ups. Maybe he should go for a run. No. He couldn’t be bothered. He reached over and closed a cupboard door. It was a bit wonky. He went to fetch his tools and was midway through adjusting the hinges when his phone rang.
He answered it.
‘Blimey That was quick. Sitting on it, were you?’ asked Harry.
‘I’m bored out of my box. I was altering a hinge.’
Harry whistled. ‘Well, I hate to interrupt you in the middle of such a major job, but are you doing anything this evening?’
‘Friday night? You kidding?’
‘Oh,’ said Harry, sounding disappointed.
‘Which means that, no, I haven’t got anything on this evening. Originally, I was g
oing to be having a house guest so I didn’t organize anything. What are you up to?’
‘Can you babysit?’
‘And there I was thinking you were going to invite me out for drinking, cheap women and carousing until dawn.’
‘Yeah. Right. Now…you know how Elizabeth loves you…’
‘Uh-huh. And your babysitter’s dropped out at the last minute…’
‘…And the babysitter’s dropped out at the last minute, yes. Could you help me out of a pickle of the large, brown variety? I promised Sophie I’d take her to some Opera North thing in Leeds and we’d stay at this hotel she’s always going on about.’
‘Ooo-er. Well posh. Will you be wearing a sparkly number?’
‘Of course. But only if you babysit. Can you? Go on. You know you want to.’
‘All right, you old scrote. In the absence of anything else to do. But tell Elizabeth that I’m reading a fairy story of my choice. And I demand a selection of salty snacks. And I want the hot-water bottle with the Barbie cover.’
‘Those are pretty stiff terms. But since beggars can’t be choosers, I’ll have to give in to your ridiculous demands. Thanks. I owe you. Can you come at four?’
‘I can come now, if you like.’
‘No. It’s all right. Thanks for the offer, but I have things to do. And if you came round, we’d sit drinking beer and playing computer games.’
‘Got some new ones?’
‘I’ll show you when you get over.’
‘You temptress, you.’
‘You should see what I’m wearing right now, big boy.’
‘Is it pink and lacy?’
‘It’s like you have X-ray vision. Spooky. See you at four.’
Bob went back to the cupboard door. And since he’d got the screwdriver out, he did a few other jobs. And then, because he’d worked up a sweat, and had something to do later, he went for a long, bracing run.
The clouds were scudding across the sky and some of the smaller trees were bent almost horizontal. He loved Yorkshire. The light had a purple edge to it, and the weather somehow felt more personal.
He got back to the house and took a leisurely shower, before getting down to the work he had been putting off all morning. Suddenly he was in a rush. Where does the time go? he wondered.
Dragging on his motorbike helmet, he gave Caligula a stroke and a large bowl of tinned meat. ‘See you tomorrow. Help yourself to the mice,’ he said, as he locked the door, while Caligula tucked his tail round his paws.
The Triumph fired into life, and ten minutes later, Bob was being bounced over by his goddaughter. ‘Daddy’s been farting a lot,’ she pronounced.
‘No, I have not,’ declared her father, smiling over her head at Bob.
‘You have. Don’t lie. You always tell me not to lie. And then, Bob, he says that it’s better out than in. He does.’
‘Well, they do say better an absent landlord than a friendly tenant. Is that the right expression?’ asked Bob.
‘I thought it was better an empty flat than a bad tenant. But I quite like your version,’ said Harry. ‘I’m just going to nip upstairs and throw a few things into a bag. I’m picking Sophie up on the way. You OK?’
‘Cool. You get on with it. Elizabeth and I are fine, aren’t we?’
‘Yes. Can we watch television?’
‘I don’t know. Harry, can we watch television?’
‘Elizabeth knows the rules. If she eats all her vegetables, then she can watch television.’
‘Vegetables smell,’ she said mutinously.
‘Of course they do,’ said Harry, mildly. ‘They smell delicious. Peas are yummy. You love peas.’
‘What we’re going to do is cook our dinner together, aren’t we?’ Bob grabbed Elizabeth and blew a raspberry on her stomach. She squealed. ‘Aren’t we?’ he asked, and immediately tickled her.
‘Stop it!’ She giggled.
‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ she gasped, between tickles.
Harry left them rolling around on the sitting-room floor and went to pack his bag. A few minutes later he was back. ‘Be good, Cuddlechops,’ he said to Elizabeth, giving her a hug.
‘Don’t go, Daddy’ Suddenly she was crying.
‘What are you on about, Elizabeth? You know that Mummy and Daddy are away for the night. You’re going to have a laugh with Bob. See you tomorrow. I might bring you a nice present back from Leeds if he tells me you’ve been super-good.’
The tears stopped. ‘What might you bring me?’
‘I don’t know. And I didn’t promise you anything. I said I might. It’s up to Bob. If he says you’ve been good…’ He let the words hang.
‘She’ll be fine,’ he said quietly to Bob, as he straightened up. ‘She’s going through a clingy stage.’
‘What time does she have to be in bed?’
‘Half eight at the latest. But sooner if she looks like she’s drooping. I must get off.’
‘Have a good time. Send Sophie my love.’
‘And I was thinking we should have a weekend in London with some of the lads. Maybe go to the theatre or a comedy gig, if you fancy that.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘See you tomorrow about lunchtime.’
Bob closed the door and Elizabeth immediately wailed and clutched her doll to her chest as if it was her only friend in the entire world. ‘Do you want some chocolate cake?’ he called through from the kitchen, having found a piece in the fridge with a note on it from Harry: ‘FOR EMERGENCIES’.
There was a sniffle and a subdued ‘Yes, please,’ as she shuffled in with damp eyes.
Two hours later, they had played at shops, where Bob had bought an assortment of vegetables for eighty pounds, and they had pretended to eat plastic food, which Elizabeth had cooked for him on her child-sized cooker. They had played hide and seek, run all over the house, worn each other out, and eaten a small amount of vegetables with a pie.
Now Elizabeth’s eyelids were drooping.
‘Bed,’ he said determinedly.
‘No. Don’t make me go to bed. I want to stay up with you,’ she moaned, bottom lip protruding.
‘You know I don’t like whining. Big girls don’t whine, do they?’
She looked at him sideways through her eyelashes. Girls, he thought, certainly learn how to flirt early.
‘Pleeease can I stay up with you?’
‘Tell you what. You can have a bath, clean your teeth and get ready for bed. Then we’ll tuck you up in your duvet and you can watch a bit of television with me. Deal or no deal?’
‘Deal,’ she pronounced solemnly.
They missed the opening credits of the final of Celebrity X-Treme because she couldn’t find her beanbag rabbit, but they were on the sofa in time to watch the highlights of the series.
‘You know her, don’t you?’ asked Elizabeth, snuggling down into her pink duvet.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
‘Her name is Katie.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Why don’t we see her any more?’
‘Because she’s in Norway, my little cauliflower. Now shut up and listen to the television.’
In Norway, Siobhan was quietly confident. She had settled a couple of scores rather cleverly, and produced a bloody good series in the process.
The director moved the shots around to get the best close-ups of the two remaining contestants in Celebrity X-Treme. Peter Philbin really was extraordinarily handsome. And she knew what she knew about Paul Martin. He was a man after her own heart. Ambitious. Single-minded. Ruthless in pursuit of his own goals.
The other contestants were ready to join the winner after the announcement. She could see them all jostling for position–apart from Katie Fisher. Pretending she wanted to go at the back. Pah! She hated dissemblers. No point in being on television unless you were on television. Self-effacement was wasted. Tanya Wilton was easing herself right to the front. Well done. And Alex Neil. Yes, let’s get the gay th
ing going. Had Denise Trench been at the celebratory champagne? She made a quick note on her pad to check who had been slack enough to leave the bottles unattended–or if anyone had let the drunken old soak have first dibs.
She looked at the red figures on the clock as it counted down to the moment. And then there it was. There was the usual massive pause, which went on for ever…
‘And the winner of Celebrity X-Treme is…’
She knew there would be people up and down the country mouthing their favourite at the screen, unaware that from the start there had only been one possible outcome.
‘…’
Really, it was quite ridiculous how drawn out these things had become. She could have cut all her toenails and filed them in the time it was taking to announce the winner.
‘…’
She felt a stiff hair poking through on her chin and fingered it lightly.
‘…Paul Martin!’
Peter Philbin’s face fell. She could tell he had been expecting to win. But he immediately put on a smile and turned to hug Paul, who was doing an expert job of looking shocked and amazed.
In Yorkshire, Bob watched Katie with hungry eyes. She looked beautiful, if tired. She had lost weight, he thought. Was she giving more attention to Paul Martin than anyone else? He couldn’t tell, but he was jealous of everyone who was there and hugging her.
He heard a little snore. Elizabeth was asleep. She had done her best to stay awake but had fallen in the final furlong, her head back. Bob wrapped her securely in the duvet and took her upstairs, giving her a feather-light kiss on her forehead as he turned on the fairy lantern by the side of her bed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The after-show party was wild. The hotel’s reception room had been swathed in red and white satin. There were huge bowls of punch on some of the tables, bottles of beer marching together along one bar and an enormous vodka luge.
