After the Break

by Penny Smith

  ‘You are incorrigible,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If you weren’t looking so utterly sumptuous yourself, I’d be walking out right this minute.’

  Inside, he was more than a little peeved. But he had sat through enough business meetings in his life to be able to hide his emotions fairly easily. He was not sure that this relationship was going to last the course, and had unconsciously begun to compare her unfavourably with the elegant Madame d’Ombard.

  Across town, Dee and Oliver were sitting in their favourite little family-run Italian restaurant, where Dee was generally able to tell the next day what she had enjoyed by the sploshes on her clothes. She could never resist spaghetti.

  Tonight, however, she had not managed to eat much of it because of the butterflies in her stomach. She wanted Oliver to ask her to marry him more than she had wanted a guinea pig when she was eight. The spaghetti vongole was removed, and she dabbed ineffectually at a few of the oily marks she could see on her neckline.

  In the middle of her ministrations she looked up to see a small velvet box on the table in front of her. With shaky hands, she opened it. It took her just moments to accept and to upset most of the crockery on the table in the rush to hug her new fiancé. Oliver’s happy nod to the waiter brought the bottle of champagne.

  The antique square-cut diamond ring was beautiful. She stuck her hand closer to the candle to admire it and the smell of singed skin rose to her nostrils. ‘Whoops. Think I’ve burned my hand,’ she said gaily, anaesthetized by ecstasy.

  Oliver reached out to take it and examined it as closely as he could in the flickering light. ‘You should go and run it under the cold tap,’ he said solicitously.

  ‘All right, Doctor,’ she said, only too thrilled to go and have a better look in a brighter environment. She kissed him fully on the lips, caressed his neck, and went to the loo, grasping the opportunity to send Katie a quick text: ‘He did. I said yes.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  April stood aside for May, and clothed Britain in a cloud of blossom and blue skies.

  Katie had almost begun to believe she had got away with her random act of kissing Paul Martin. Amazingly, the footage had not appeared anywhere. She wasn’t to know that Siobhan had combed the pictures and failed to find a single frame. She had refused to return Paul’s texts and phone calls, and he had gradually been overtaken by a whirl of meetings to capitalize on his new-found fame. He had also discovered that his appearance on Celebrity X-Treme had gained him an army of female admirers, and was busy availing himself of their ample charms. He believed it was only a matter of time before he found one who was as sexy, witty and, frankly, newsworthy as Katie Fisher.

  She kept in touch with Tanya and Flynn–and Flynn had done Oliver and Dee’s astrological chart. They looked very compatible. Katie thought she might buy them the biggest blanket box in the world as a present so that Oliver could throw all her junk straight into it, bypassing the clutter-on-the-tables stage. Katie was saving the chart to hand over at the wedding in September.

  The others from Celebrity, she saw frequently in the newspapers during the immediate aftermath of the show, and then more infrequently, apart from Crystal and Peter Philbin, who were now something of a fixture on the nightclub circuit.

  For herself, she was pleased to reveal to those who asked that she had a new series she was working on, involving women’s issues. It would mean travel to a number of places and she was passionate about it. Actually, she was looking forward to doing anything that didn’t include a whole load of people being manipulative, or flirty, or stupid, or a combination of all three.

  The weeks following the end of Celebrity X-Treme had been busy. Adam had whisked her off for a weekend in Paris and shown her his new flat. It was airy and pretty, all beige and white. Very elegant. But although their relationship appeared to be back on an even keel, a certain matter was unresolved. He had appeared to accept her explanation about Paul Martin at face value, but occasional barbed comments had been made. She had tried to ignore them, but they had a habit of resurfacing at romantic moments. Adam had dead-batted her attempts to ‘have it out’, and she had decided that eventually he would stop picking at the scab, as it were.

  There was also the problem with her parents. They were still living apart, and the longer it went on, the more entrenched both sides seemed to be. And despite her brother saying that they had to be left to it, Katie felt that enough was enough. She had called a powwow for Friday night.

  ‘I don’t want to be sitting here in two years’ time with hideous step-parents. The idea of Dad and some revolting young floozy is too disgusting to contemplate. Or Mum and some young stud muffin. Yergh.’

  She had had to tempt him to the dinner by promising to bring Tanya.

  Bob rang Ben to see if he wanted to be involved in a boys’ weekend in London. Harry had bought tickets to see Bill Bailey, and one of their friends had pulled out at the last minute.

  ‘It’s supposed to be brilliant,’ said Bob.

  ‘Actually, I am free on Saturday night,’ said Ben, ‘so you can definitely count me in. And…erm, tell you what, Bob, thinking aloud on this one, what are you doing on the Friday night?’

  ‘We’re driving down to London. ETA about pub opening time, then we’ll be going to a selection of strip bars, Stringfellows, a clip joint and finally a massage parlour, where four women inadequately dressed for a chilly night will waft us away to Paradise.’

  ‘Right.’ Ben laughed. ‘I assume that the only factually correct part of that sentence is the pub.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So how do you fancy coming for dinner with Katie and Tanya, her new bessie mate from Celebrity X-Treme? Now, don’t say anything straight away. Have a think about it. I realize you have two friends with you, but maybe you could meet up with them later. It’s just that Katie’s insisting we have a push to try to sort out Mum and Dad. And you obviously have something to bring to the table since Dad stayed with you for a week. If Katie’s up for it, would you be?’

  Bob hesitated, unable to decipher quite how he felt about the prospect of seeing Katie for the first time since they had split up for the second time.

  Ben pushed on: ‘Don’t make the decision yet. Have a think and phone me back. But it would be useful. Even if you came for a starter. Or a glass of tomato juice.’

  ‘Bugger me, what an incentive. Almost impossible to resist,’ said Bob, with mock-appreciation. ‘You’re right. I do need to have a think about it. When do you need to know by?’

  ‘As soon as.’

  And an hour later Bob had texted his acceptance.

  Ben then sent a text to Katie.

  When she finally opened it–being involved in a tricky spot of fridge cleaning–she stood looking at it for a while. Her initial feeling was to say, no, it was out of the question, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made–he had housed her father for a week, after all. And she refused to acknowledge the rapid beating of her heart that accompanied the text she sent to Ben. She also convinced herself that it was mere forgetfulness that led to her not mentioning Bob’s dinner attendance to her boyfriend.

  When Celebrity X-Treme finished, Siobhan Stamp was–to her immense satisfaction–immediately approached by another production company, impressed by what she had achieved. She accepted with alacrity, and took a well-earned holiday in Dubai, where she succumbed to the advances of a rich American businessman who paid for all of her dinners and gave her an expensive watch as a parting gift. She loved a man’s company–as long as he owned it–but she was pleased that he went before the end of the holiday so that she could enjoy herself and not have his fat, sweaty body all over her, even if she had enjoyed the charms of his wallet.

  And she could luxuriate in the knowledge that she had done a fine job of getting back at Adam and Katie. She had pulled the strings to make Katie look like the fat, silly slapper she was, and had therefore put a thorn in her and Adam’s relationship…while having, rather cleverly, made A
dam pay–literally.

  She applied a little more suntan lotion to those areas of pale skin that were exposed to the elements, and went back to her book.

  At Wolf Days Productions it was full speed ahead with Behind the Seams, the new programme that had been written with Keera Keethley in mind.

  Adam had explained to Katie that it was nothing personal. ‘Surely you’re big enough to see beyond this,’ he had said, when she had challenged him about working with her usurper at Hello Britain!. And because she had felt guilty about Paul Martin–would probably feel guilty for the rest of her life–she had said nothing further.

  Nick, meanwhile, had confined himself to a working relationship with Keera. Their dinner meeting had remained that, a dinner meeting, much to her chagrin.

  What she couldn’t have known was that he shared one major trait with Adam: a fear of boredom. And that she had been so amazingly tedious on the subject of Keera Keethley that he couldn’t even summon up the energy for bedroom frolics. He had no objection to sex with bimbos, but it was not worth the aggro if he was going to end up working with her. And, weeks down the line, he was glad he hadn’t. It made his job easier, since he was the one who was dealing with the programme. They had agreed that Adam would be fairly hands-off the project in deference to his girlfriend.

  But, in the midst of negotiations with fashion correspondents, designers and manufacturers, Adam opened a phone bill that threw the cat among the pigeons. It was for at least a hundred thousand pounds more than usual. He took it through to Nick’s office. ‘Look at this,’ he said, throwing it onto the table.

  Nick looked stunned. What a bloody big bill. Is it definitely ours?’

  ‘I’ll call the phone company. Just wanted to check with you before I did. Any ideas?’

  ‘No. We haven’t started working on Katie’s programme yet, so no massive international calls. Is it worth getting it itemized?’

  ‘It’d probably take so much paper, we’d have to get the foundations strengthened.’

  ‘How’s it going with Behind the Seams?’ asked Adam, rolling up the sleeves of his favourite navy Armani shirt.

  ‘Fine. We’ve had a query over presenters from the BBC, though. The top bod there wants us to go in for a meeting with Keera.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Adam. ‘Never known that happen before. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s no problem. I’ll go and see some other people while I’m there.’

  Keera had been unbearable at Hello Britain!. There was no one who didn’t know that she had a new series lined up for prime time. ‘I think it. It happens,’ she said to herself, as she gazed into her eyes in the dressing-room mirror. She thought back to how she had seen herself reflected in a shoe-shop window, surrounded by shoes. ‘And now, here I am, doing a programme about shoes. And about clothes.’ She hoped she’d get loads of designer freebies. They were hardly going to let her do a show about high fashion without putting her in designer outfits, were they?

  Derek came in to ask her what she was wearing on air.

  ‘These shoes.’ She indicated the tan Patrick Cox platforms she had on. ‘So choose anything, really.’ She wafted a hand in the direction of the suits and dresses, and swayed off to the makeup department.

  ‘Will do, madam,’ mouthed Derek, to her departing back. ‘Anything else madam will be requiring? A wipe of the royal arse, maybe?’

  Vanda was applying a light layer of foundation to Dee’s face.

  ‘I’m trying so hard to lose weight,’ Dee said.

  Vanda reached for the concealer. ‘It’s beyond boring going on diets, though, particularly when you get up at this time of the morning, and your body clock’s all over the place,’ she said.

  Keera went over to the big mirror on the other side of the room, and began to use the straighteners to iron out any kinks in her thick black hair. If either of them had any self-control…she thought, as she sprayed hair-protector on a section and applied the tongs. They were probably a pair of pigs. Would she have the body of a goddess if she didn’t go to the gym every day except Sunday, and limit herself to a thousand calories a day?

  ‘Pigs,’ she said accidentally, surprising all three of them.

  ‘Talking about us?’ asked Dee, startled.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Keera, a tinge of flush to her cheeks. ‘I was just, erm…’

  ‘Joining in,’ said Vanda, none too kindly, ‘and claiming we were pigs.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ said Keera, blushing hotly now.

  Dee turned back to the mirror, smiling at the rather sniffy Vanda. ‘I’m wearing lilac today. Can I have that nice Mac purple eyeliner you’ve got in your special bag for special people?’

  ‘Ah. The liquid eyeliner with glitter? Yes, you can,’ Vanda said pointedly.

  ‘You know, going back to the food thing, I reckon my body just can’t be bothered to sort it out,’ said Dee, thoughtfully. ‘With most people, it starts dealing with, say, a meat pasty by sending the protein to the muscles, the vitamins to the skin and eyes or whatever, and then what’s left over gets stored as fat. I think my body says, “Let’s stuff everything on the bottom and thighs, and we’ll divvy it up later.” Then it just messes about and never gets round to it.’

  Or maybe you eat too many doughnuts, thought Keera, putting a small amount of gloss serum through her hair.

  ‘So, have you thought about the wedding dress?’

  ‘Cream. Heavy satin. Tight bodice, with a dropped waist and a skirt that flows out the back just a bit. A long, thick wrap affair for over my shoulders. Hair up. Discreet makeup with light pinky lipgloss. A posy of cream roses. And cream shoes from Emma Hope. I bought them yesterday, along with a beautiful pair of Fogal stockings with lacy tops. And pure silk knickers from Myla. Oliver’s promised to buy those for me. Although he’d better get large because I can’t be doing with tight pants,’ she finished.

  ‘Nothing definite yet, then–still all up in the air?’ Vanda snorted.

  ‘Ha-ha. I know. But I couldn’t be more excited.’

  ‘More exciting than the first time?’

  ‘Yes. I love Oliver.’

  ‘You must have loved the first husband?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember. I suppose I must have thought I loved him. But he was a–a–’

  ‘Man. And that’s the problem,’ said Vanda, emphatically.

  ‘Aw. Poor men. They do get a raw deal, don’t they?’ asked Dee.

  ‘Just because you’re all loved up,’ said Vanda, sourly. ‘I’ll give you a couple of years and you’ll be coming in saying, “Why can they never find anything, even though they’re looking right at it?” And “Why does their helping round the house consist of them sitting in front of the television?” You know, I could write a Top Ten of rubbish things about men.’

  She did a Fluff Freeman impression, using a brush as a microphone: ‘At number ten we have leaving the loo seat up. Coming in at number nine, “Where are my socks?” At number eight it’s the dropping the clothes by the laundry basket, not in it. Number seven–a real climber here–“I’m hungry. Why is there nothing in the fridge?’”

  Dee laughed, as the sound girl came in. ‘Number six,’ she joined in, putting the belt round her waist for the microphone and talkback equipment, ‘“I’ll do that in a minute.” Followed by number five, “I’ve said I’ll do that in a minute. Stop hassling me.’”

  ‘I know,’ said Vanda, ‘and in the end, you do it yourself and they get all annoyed, and accuse you of trying to undermine them. They’re a nightmare. My mum was right when she said there was only one way to a man’s heart.’

  ‘Through their stomach, mine used to say,’ said Dee.

  ‘Nope. Through their chest cavity. Are you going to have loads of children, do you think?’

  ‘Oi. Hang on. Haven’t got married yet.’

  ‘What? And you’d be the first person down the aisle with a bump?’

  ‘I’m not dieting to get into a dress and ruining it by being pregna
nt. No way,’ said Dee, disappearing out of the door to get ready for her first weather bulletin.

  Rod and Keera were already sitting on the famous sofa as she went to stand in front of the green screen. In her earpiece, she heard the director saying, ‘Dee’s chroma needs to be tweaked.’

  She held her microphone up to her mouth: ‘Oh, I do like a thorough tweaking of a morning.’

  She heard the director laugh, but he was having a bad moment. ‘What’s going on with this mixer desk? Graphics don’t come up. And I’ve just tried firing one of the VTs and it won’t come on.’

  One of the producers working on the news bulletins could be heard shouting: ‘Rewrite on 253, the dustbins item.’

  ‘A new mixer isn’t going to help with that,’ said the director’s assistant.

  Keera had not been able to resist sniping at Rod ever since the article in the Daily Mail.

  ‘We’ll do a quick ad lib about Spain after this VT,’ said Rod.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Keera, ‘I was thinking it reminded me of California.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got long enough to go round comparing Spain to America. We’ve only got thirty seconds, not three minutes,’ said Rod, tetchily.

  The VT ended.

  ‘I love Spain,’ said Keera. ‘How do you think it compares to America, though?’ she asked sweetly.

  One-nil, thought Dee.

  In the morning meeting afterwards, Rod was overheard telling a producer a joke very loudly as Keera entered the room. ‘What do you call a beautiful woman who is also intelligent?’ he asked. And before the producer had time to respond, he said, ‘A rumour,’ and laughed at his joke.

  One-all, thought Dee.

  Keera smiled a smug smile. ‘Be careful, Rod. You know how your little sayings sometimes make it into the papers.’

  Game, set and match to Miss Keethley, thought Dee.

  Rod had been horrified to discover that it was his daughter who had stitched him up, in retaliation for being grounded. He had come home shaken after being carpeted by The Boss and told his family he was now worried his job wasn’t safe. Eleanor had told her mother first, then cried all over Rod until he had forgiven her.