by Sue Watson
By Sue Watson
By Sue Watson
A Rickshaw paperback
www.rickshawpublishing.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Rickshaw Publishing Ltd, 102 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 9PL
Copyright © Sue Watson 2013
The right of Sue Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9565368-7-7
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Cover designed by Coleen Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Rickshaw Publishing.
Printed and bound in Great Britain for Rickshaw Publishing Ltd by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Acknowledgements
This book has taken me to a very far flung place and, like my heroine, I’ve had ups and downs, but on the whole it’s been a fabulous ride. And though they may not have realised it at the time, many of my family and friends were travelling alongside me on that bumpy journey, providing the support, encouragement, deep chocolate cake and rich humour that drives me on.
I’d just like to say thank you to a few of them here.
Thanks to all at Rickshaw Publishing and an extra special thank you to the divine Jo Doyle, my editor, who does the literary equivalent of wiping my eyes, tidying up my mess then making a nice cup of tea!
To Maya’s mummy, an inspirational woman who really ‘showed’ me Nepal, through her lyrical descriptions and amazing insight into the place and the people...Thank you, thank you. And a special thank you to my friend and former colleague Claire Davies-Hobbs for introducing us.
Thanks to my great friend Liz Cox, my sounding board, literary lovely and (for this book) the font of all things designer and Swedish. Her delicious phrases, profound knowledge of high-end splash-backs and in-depth data on profanely priced interiors are all present in the novel. But most of all, a million cream and jam topped Devon scones to her for giving me Astrid on a plate, well a smorgasbord, actually!
Big hugs to my girls and lunchtime legends, Alison Birch and Louise Bagley. Our glamorous suppers, retail lunches and relentless pursuit of the perfect nude shoe are a constant source of hilarity and inspiration. Their support, humour, and genuine friendship mean so much to me and are a wonderful antidote to my sometimes lonely writing life.
I couldn’t have continued on this bumpy book journey without my lovely literary ladies, Sarah Robinson, Jan Holman, Diane Tilley, Jackie Swift, Sheila Webb and Sarah Douglas, who make up ‘The Bodacious Book Club.’ Their continued support, intelligence, humour and capacity for wine is truly appreciated – our Book Club evenings are as raucous as they are literary – and long may it continue!
Thank you to Jeannette and Cyril Watson, for their kindness, faith and support and for sharing their own funny stories which often inspire mine (but theirs are far crazier)!
To my dearest friend Lesley McLoughlin, thank you for always being there, never doubting me and keeping my glass full (literally) with the best Lime Daiquiris this side of Cuba.
I couldn’t even have started on this writing journey without my wonderful mum, Patricia Engert, who has always told me anything’s possible. Her advice and candlelit suppers sustain me through all life’s journeys, literary or otherwise!
A special hug and thank you to my daughter Eve Watson, one of the funniest people I know, and whose lines I shall continue to steal for my books, until she is old enough to write her own.
This book is dedicated to Nick Watson,
who makes it all possible.
1
Psychosis and Cellulite
“So, tell me, just how many women have you made pregnant?” I muffled angrily through toothpaste foam.
Silence.
“Go on... Say something. You’re supposed to be the big man...”
I spat toothpaste into the sink with unbridled venom, stopping briefly to take a glug of mouthwash. The bracing mintiness stopped me in my tracks and I inhaled deeply. “Aah...and don’t try to deny it, the evidence is...here.”
I slammed the bright green bottle onto the side. The relief from that much-needed oral frisson had stopped me mid-rant again. I had to word this carefully – I didn’t want him to walk off – so I flossed firmly, whilst giving it some thought.
It was 5am and as always I had been woken by the sound of crazed birds from my alarm clock. I think it was supposed to be soothing, conjuring up a morning scene of country meadows bathed in early sunshine. Problem was, it was faulty and couldn’t be relied upon. To be woken at dawn by gentle birdsong was one thing, but it is quite another when the bloody thing sets off at 2am, all flapping feathers and menacing squawks like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds. I couldn’t get rid of it because it was a gift from Nathan and he was sensitive about stuff like that.
“...Don’t play the innocent! It takes two, or in your case, five, at the same time!” I carried on, shouting through the bedroom door. I could hear Nathan snort and turn over in our huge bed. I sighed and checked the clock. I had precisely one hour before my driver picked me up to take me to the studio – and I hadn’t even got to the part with the mother yet. A response from Nathan would really have helped at that moment – The Truth with Tanya Travis aired in five hours and I wanted to cover every angle before my confrontation with the nation’s great shagging, drug-taking, DNA-testing unwashed.
Still in my underwear, I approached the mirror for a quick inspection.
“Jesus! Look at the state of my bum!” I moaned, finally causing a slight stir under the duvet. Nathan pulled the covers over his head, so all I could see in the dimness was a few tendrils of dark blond peeping out from the top. I smiled in spite of myself; I did love his tousled, tangled mane – though it also made my fingers itch for a comb and a bottle of Serge Normant Velour Conditioner.
“Nathan, you wouldn’t believe the spectacle of my thighs... Don’t look, you might never fancy me again,” I said, thumping my bottom cheek in disgust.
“Tanya. It’s 5am, give over with the shouting,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry Nathan, but if you saw what I’d just seen in the mirror you’d shout too,” I shouted, again. It was OK for him, he wasn’t on television. Every extra pound, every fine wrinkle was up there for scrutiny, and TV was so unforgiving – especially now I was in HD. But of course he didn’t understand because he was male, and on Mars they’ve never encountered the horrors of cellulite.
“I can’t believe it. I’ve detoxed, toned and lunged for most of my adult life,” I muttered, waggling the flesh around my buttocks. I’d never been Elle Macpherson, but my thighs hadn’t expanded in such an alarming and unforgiving way before.
Until now controlled eating, vigorous daily sessions down the gym with Zac – my personal trainer – and my pre-show morning run had always kept me at a size ten. But there was no getting away from it: I was now over 40 and the gym alone couldn’t cut it. As I wiped each thigh with cream made from the umbilical cords of unborn calves, I contemplated the pain, cost and inconvenience of liposuction but saw no other way. I rummaged through my BlackBerry for the number of Donna’s surgeon of choice, in the hope he could squeeze my thighs into his tight schedule immediately and make me younger, firmer, better. Donna was my agent and she always said that ‘Dr Lipo’ (Len to his friends) could turn a fat girl thin in a lunch hour, often waxing lyrical on his ‘sucking technique’.
I couldn’t find the number and I wasn’t seeing Donna until lunchtime. Christ, by then my thighs would be like Quartermass – swelling until they’d taken over the world. “You are disgusting... five women in a night. You are nothing but a male slag...a...tart...” I said absently, still scrolling through my BlackBerry in the hope that the number would magically appear.
“Turn off the bloody lights, I’m trying to sleep!” came a grumpy voice from the bedroom.
“Go on. You have to tell the truth,” I continued, ignoring him. “Shit!”
“What now?”
“I’ve definitely lost the phone number of the fat sucking surgeon who takes ten years off and turns fat into fit,” I said, crossly, “and I need emergency surgery now!”
“No you don’t.” A response: at last.
“Ha! Try telling Donna that. She said yesterday that if I don’t get work done, I’ve got another two years – max – before they send me to the retirement home for ageing presenters. Mind you, I reckon she’s on commission from Lipo Len.”
“Ah, stop fretting, you’re beautiful, come back to bed. We could get warm together.”
“No. You’re not part of my pre-show regime.” I shouted through with a smile, not prepared to make myself late. I washed my hands again, turning the tap up so it drowned out thoughts of early morning lust. I washed them once more, thoroughly this time.
“Donna would insist you have a complete surgical makeover if it meant you’d stay in work longer and earn more money for her,” Nathan said as I padded back into the bedroom. I could just about make out his toned silhouette in the darkness, propped up on one elbow, watching me. “She’s a bloody pimp.”
“She’s not! You don’t even know her.”
“I know enough.”
“Donna’s been a good friend to me,” I said, picking up my trainers.
“Anyway, stop interrupting me... I’ve got to finish the script before my run. I have the evidence in my hand so there’s no point denying it...” I started.
“Tanya I...”
“Here are the results of the lie-detector test. We’re about to find out exactly what’s been going on during those visits to your ‘dentist,’” I announced dramatically. “It seems you’ve been getting more than a scale and polish on your nocturnal visits to Doctor Cavity!”
I left it hanging. I was trying for Jeremy Paxman but in an attempt at BBC Two gravitas, I was developing a scary German accent. My style was becoming less ‘serious interview’ and more ‘SS interrogation’. I stopped myself, before the compulsion to goose-step around the bed took over. Not a good look in M&S midi-pants, especially considering the current wobble of the derrière.
“Tanya, just keep the noise down,” said Nathan with a sigh. “We don’t all have to be up at dawn.”
“OK, Mr Grumpy,” I leaned over the bed and kissed his warm, sleepy cheek, wishing for a second I could stay with him under the duvet.
I mentally ticked off ‘serial impregnator,’ on my script. That was only the beginning: there was plenty more on the menu that morning and I moved swiftly on to my personal favourite, the cage-fighting psycho drug dealer... Where did they find these people?
“When not in your cage having a fight, you were bagging up household cleaning products and passing them off as coke and smack!” I shouted, my outrage building; “So you think it’s OK to flog Bold Bio and Persil Automatic to a teenager for a tenner a gram? Apart from the obvious, it’s a waste of good detergent,” I huffed indignantly.
I stood for a few seconds in the darkness, waiting to see if I’d get a reaction but Nathan pulled the pillow over his head and turned over.
“So you aren’t up for role-playing the sex-fuelled skin head, or cage-fighting psycho detergent-drug dealer then?” I asked, a little sulkily.
“Oh you don’t need me – you’re Tanya Travis.” He said, with a sigh.
“Yes, I am Tanya Travis,” I responded in my best TV voice while lining up the jogging playlist on my iPod, “but even a queen needs her king.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his back. “I may be Queen of Daytime, but if you’re lucky I could be your queen of night-time later,” I said softly.
“Yeah... That would be great Tanya, but I might have to work tonight,” came the muffled response.
“Work?” I couldn’t quite contain my surprise. Nathan was a great musician and wrote wonderful songs, but had so far had no commercial success.
“I’m so pleased for you Nathan. Is it music work?” I asked, wanting to encourage him and practice being the supportive, ‘rock-star’ wife. One day I would be Trudie Styler to Nathan’s Sting, all tasteful interiors, raw wholefoods and tantric sex.
“Don’t get excited, Tanya. It’s only a chat with a guy from an indie label,” he said, pulling himself up onto his elbows again and squinting at me in the half-darkness. “It probably won’t come to anything, so don’t go on about it.”
“I won’t.” But I couldn’t help myself.
“I hope it’s a good meeting, though. Wouldn’t it be fab if he likes some of your songs,” I said, pushing his dark fringe out of his face and smiling encouragingly. “Your talent deserves to be acknowledged, and if someone famous sang it, the royalties could mean big money...”
He frowned at me.
“Oh, so you think I should earn some money? God Tanya, I thought you understood!” He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. “I just don’t need this kind of pressure.”
“I do understand, Nathan. I didn’t mean...”
“Oh, forget it. You’re so obsessed with materialism! It’s all about what you can buy next -how much does this cost, how much can we afford… Look Tanya, if I’m a drain on your shoe resources, just say. I can go.”
“Don’t be silly! I don’t want you to go anywhere.” I reached out for his hand and he moved it back under the duvet.
“Oh come on, Nathan, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just meant, well, if someone like Rihanna wanted to sing one of your songs, the sky’s the limit...”
But he didn’t want to discuss Rihanna or royalties. He shuffled back down in the bed and closed his eyes, obviously a bit upset, so I crept quietly out of the bedroom.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth Just rehearsed today’s exciting show at home with @NathanWells my lovely man! Thanks babe. Heart!
2
Organic Vomit and High End Splashbacks
I slipped out through the front door, eager to run off the morning’s angst. It was late August, but the dawn chill tingled on my face, reminding me that Autumn was on its way in more ways than one...I might need another trip to ‘Doctor Botox’. Some days it felt like I needed a year off, just to fit all the doctors in – by which time I’d be a year older with a year’s more fat and wrinkles. It was a never ending fight staying young, like painting Blackpool Tower, my mum used to say. I’d lied when I told Piers Morgan the British climate was the only reason my skin was firm for 42. My run was always the first task of the day, I never, ever missed it – I couldn’t. In the absence of Zac, who joined me when he wasn’t putting some other poor sod through their paces, my iPod was my enabler for this daily ritual. The iPod kept my jogging to exactly 40 minutes, as mapped out with the ‘morning run’ playlist. Each milestone had to match the music, starting with George Michael’s Fast Love for a gentle, flirty spurt in the first few minutes, to warm up and feel that 90’s vibe. I had loved the 90’s, when I was single with no pressure, plenty of time in hand, younger, thinner and on my way up the career ladder.
Cruising past the post box on the second corner by Delaware Road at seven minutes 23 seconds, I would pant hard as the pace was pumped up by The Black Eyed Peas singing Tonight is Gonna be a Good Night. This was followed by a tear-inducing (on many levels), thigh-pounding rendition of M People’s Proud while whipping past the new Italian deli at exactly nine minutes 45 seconds. Nathan laughed at my musical taste and said I had no soul, but he was wrong; I loved music, I just didn’t like the stuff he li
ked. My musical tastes were eclectic and though I might not enjoy techno-vibe garage, ambient-house stuff (whatever that may be) I embraced all extremes. Good God I was positively experimental – my repertoire covered Take That to The Gypsy Kings.
Arriving home, my morning marathon now completed to time, with the correct tunes played and landmarks passed, I took some time to stand on the doorstep and fill my lungs with cold air. Breathing in I had that fleeting, wonderful feeling of clean, and about 15 seconds spare to enjoy it.
Walking into warm, thick, carpeted stillness, I crept gently upstairs. The clean feeling had vanished as soon as I’d walked into the house, so I took a quick shower in the en-suite so I didn’t disturb Nathan then went to get a suit from the navy section of my wardrobe. Rushing from the sparkly white bathroom into warm, bedroom darkness I caught a glimpse of the lump still lying in the bed and softened. A wave of guilt swept over me: I really ought to give him a bit more attention and not be quite so work-obsessed. I dressed quickly in my freshly-laundered, pre-show tracksuit and pulled by damp hair back from my face and tied it, ready for hair and make-up at the studio. I padded downstairs, all negative thoughts forgotten as I sashayed into my brand new Mark Wilkinson kitchen and shivered with delight. I had grumpy boyfriend, scary thighs and a tussle with a skinhead high on smack that morning. But my kitchen rocked.
I ran my clean palm along the pristine work surface; smooth, gleaming and hard as diamonds. Here, in my sleek, white kitchen (with minimalist oriental undertones) I contemplated the orgiastic collision of white serenity, perfect calm and high end splash-backs. I took the Blue Mountain coffee from the fridge and scooped it lovingly into my Pierro Lissoni espresso maker. Several errant grains dared to land on the snow-white counter – but not for long. I wiped vigorously with a damp cloth, working up quite a sweat and restoring pure, white innocence. Then steaming water hit rich, aromatic grains and the worldwas clean and white again.Carrying the steaming cup in both hands across the kitchen, I held it to my face, breathing deeply as Doctor Nicholas Mason, (the after-care medic who worked on my show) had taught me. I drank the beautiful liquid, looking out of my kitchen window at the emerging shadows of the late summer trees in my perfectly manicured garden.
