by Sue Watson
“Nathan, please don’t think I’m nagging and fretting and being a bore. It’s just… I think I mentioned that things are a bit tight at the moment. I’m almost up to the limit on my cards,” I said. “The music studio seems to be swallowing up quite a bit,” I tried to add, gently. He looked away from me, out of the window. I looked at the little box on the table and I felt bad.
“I don’t mean to put a downer on your gift, I’m sorry. The earrings really are lovely.”
He glared at me. “So much for a romantic reunion! I buy you a present that most women would love, but you end up giving me another lecture about ‘your’ money. Thanks a lot, Tanya.”
He was sulking now. I grabbed some wipes from my bag and, still smiling for the public, I cleaned between my fingers discreetly. This would suffice until I could get to some hot, running water.
“Nathan, I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you and everything...” I tried, putting my hand on his. “I was so happy to get your call. I love spending time together. We don’t do this enough, do we?” I looked around the bar still smiling inanely, trying to give the impression we were happy and having a lovely time.
“Tanya, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I don’t want them to think we’re not happy. Just keep smiling.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re always working, aren’t you?” He sipped his drink, placed it carefully down and after a couple of seconds lifted his head and suddenly said; “I love you, Tanya.”
Warmth surged back into my chest: “I love you too,” I mouthed. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked up at me.
“Tan... we need to talk.”
I looked at him quizzically. “OK.”
“I had a call from a reporter.”
“Oh... About the wedding?”
“No, no nothing like that. It’s just that ...there’s a story about to hit the papers.”
My mouth went dry and I felt sick. I stopped smiling.
“What story?” I squeaked a few decibels too loud, trying hard to contain my panic. “What are you talking about Nathan?”
“Shhhh Tanya...Jesus,” he said, running his hands through his hair, looking round to see if anyone had heard.
“Is it another young blonde trying to make a name for herself? I’ll call Donna, she can threaten legal action before any of this gets into the...”
“Tanya, it’s difficult.”
“No it’s not, Donna can...”
“There are photos.” He said quietly, his head down.
“What?” And I had naïvely hoped we’d be ordering champagne and talking guest lists and bridesmaids by this point.
“Photos of what, Nathan?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer, but hoping against hope it was something innocent. “Are you in a bar? Is she a friend?”
“No. No, she’s not a friend. She went to the papers, she says she’s got proof.”
“Proof?” I repeated in a whisper. “Proof of what?”
“That I spent time with her...she’s saying we had sex or something... I don’t know.”
“Nathan, what do you mean, had sex ‘or something’? Did you...are you... having an affair with this girl?”
“No. God, no. I told you, I just chatted to her, in a bar.” He reached across and grabbed both my hands with his.
“OK, so she’s telling lies then.” I said. “If she’s after money, we’ll just offer her more than the papers are offering her. What proof anyway? What is she alleging?”
“Tanya,” he said, gripping me tightly, “please, try to stay calm. She’s gone to the papers because– well, because she’s pregnant.”
“NO!” I shouted, pulling away from him. He cast a desperate glance round the room. “Shhh Tanya, please try not to freak out. It’s not mine Tanya, you’ve got to believe me.”
I took 13 seconds to breathe deeply. I daren’t cry or throw up: one could only imagine the headlines accompanying those shots . A baby! Of all the things...a baby. How could this be happening to me? To us?
“Christ Nathan, I’m starting to feel like a guest on my own show,” I said, feeling the world wobble beneath me.
“You know I would never hurt you, Tanya. You know what the press are like!”
“Yes, but did you sleep with her? Why would she claim the baby was yours if you haven’t even slept with her?”
“There you go again! You’re just like everyone else; I thought you knew what it was like to be a target? And it’s all because I’m in love with someone famous.”
“You are so naïve, Nathan.” I said a sudden flash of anger piercing through my anguish. “Don’t you realise what these young women will do for money and a bit of publicity? When will you learn that you can’t chat to them or be nice to them because they will pretend that more happened!”
I took a long slug of vodka cocktail and looked at him: “Did something happen?”
Nathan leaned over and touched my face. “Tanya, how could I ever hurt you? I love you and I love our life together – I’d be a fool to jeopardise that. If I’m guilty of anything it’s caring too much about you.”
“Just answer me. Did you sleep with her, Nathan?” I wanted to be sick, I’d asked the same question of one of my guests that morning.
“No. I didn’t sleep with her.”
“Right, I’ll talk to Donna and see what we can do. If there’s no way the baby’s yours then we will make sure everyone knows it’s just lies and we’ll get a DNA test to prove it.”
I sipped my drink. I’d have given everything – anything – to have a baby with Nathan, I wanted it so much it was a physical pain, but I knew it could never be. Now another woman was telling the world she was carrying his child and my fragile heart smashed into shards, scattering all over the floor like tiny stars.
We left the bar in silence. I looked across at Nathan who stared resolutely out of the window all the way home, and I tried to squash the little flutter of panic beating like a bird within me, trying to escape through my mouth. Why would this girl allege she was pregnant with Nathan’s baby if they hadn’t even slept together? I screwed my eyes up tight. Nathan’s baby: Nathan was going to be a father. A stab of pain shot through me and I fumbled for my wipes. How could this happen? I thought we were ok... I had everything neatly planned, this wasn’t in the script. Then practical Tanya took over, as always. Nathan isn’t having a baby. This girl is just a gold digger trying her luck. And like crumbs on a kitchen worktop, I wiped the thoughts away.
As soon as we arrived home, Nathan went upstairs to our room. I fished my mobile out of my Prada clutch and called Donna.
“JESUS, NO! It’s the 21st century, for Christ’s sake! You can buy bloody condoms in the local drug store ...public toilets... there’s no excuse for it,” was Donna’s reaction when I broke the news. All the hurt and anger I was feeling towards Nathan for getting himself into in this situation and all the guilt I was feeling because of my nagging doubts about him exploded again in giant, gulping sobs.
“I think you’re missing the point, Donna,” I spluttered, once I could speak. “I’m heartbroken at the accusation. I’m not upset because he didn’t use a bloody condom.”
“Well you should be...”
“Look Donna, it isn’t his. Nathan didn’t sleep with her. The girl is just telling lies because he’s my partner and I’m famous.”
“It’s not that Polish checkout girl from the Pound Shop is it? I heard he had the hots for her last time you were away.”
“I don’t know who she is and I don’t want to know,” I hissed down the phone, through a hundred years’ worth of mucus and tissues.
“There’s no smoke without fire, honey,” she added, unhelpfully. “He’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Perhaps now you’ll see him for what he is: a gold-digging womaniser.”
“I don’t need this now, Donna, I’m too upset, just sort it, will you? I can’t wake up to any more pictures in the papers o
f young blondes in skimpy tops talking about how good my boyfriend is in bed.”
“’Sort it,’ she says. Is this blonde bimbo royal? Is she a celebrity? A European aristocrat? Wealthy supermodel? Big Brother winner? If it’s yes to any of the above, then I could ‘sort it’ as you naively suggest and turn it into a money-spinning story to keep you on the front pages of heat forever and ever amen. As it is, I’m left with the proverbial silk purse and sow’s ear – again. So what’s his story?”
“Nathan’s not the dad, he knows the girl but he never slept with her. He just chatted to her in a club one evening, she knew who he was and has taken it from there.”
I was standing in the hall clutching the telephone as Donna banged on about tarts and gold diggers like it was a bloody themed party, when Nathan emerged from the landing. He padded down the stairs, his head down. I noticed he was carrying a rucksack.
“Where are you going Nathan?”
“I’m leaving. If you can’t trust me I don’t want to be here, after all it’s your house, Tanya” he said in a quiet voice.
“Nathan, please don’t leave!” I said, reaching for him. He batted my hand away.
“Wake up to yourself, Tanya,” he said, and was gone, slamming the door behind him.
I moved into the downstairs toilet and sat down. Donna was still on her diatribe about ‘Z-list tarts’ and gold-digging nobodies’ making her life a misery and I cried silently, allowing her to rant for another 14 seconds.
“He’s gone, Donna.” I said, finally interrupting her, wiping my face on a towel. “He said I don’t trust him... and he’s gone.”
“Ha! Guilty as sin,” she snorted down the phone.
I turned on the taps in the little sink, running the hot water until it was scalding and washed my hands with the phone under my chin. I caught sight of the ‘Tanya Travis Engagement Announcement’ magazine lying on the top of pile; Astrid must have put it there. We looked so happy on the cover. I knew Nathan was hurting from being wrongly accused, but no-one seemed to care how I – Miss Haversham, forever a spinster of this parish – felt about the day’s developments. I had not only been denied a ring and a proposal, but was now in waiting to find out if my boyfriend had made another woman pregnant. The cruelty of it almost took my breath away and I wondered if I was somehow being punished for what I’d done, all those years ago.
I got rid of Donna and emerged from the toilet almost an hour later, my cuticles ragged, nails almost transparent. I staggered into the sitting room where Astrid was nursing a box of Maltesers and humming along to the opening bars of Countdown, she always Sky-Plussed it so we could watch it together in the evenings.
“Where’s Nathan?” she asked.
“He’s gone to see some friends.” I lied.
I sat down next to her on the sofa and tried my best to switch off and watch, but before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face again.
“Ah Tanya, you silly old cow... You crying?”
“Oh it’s nothing, Astrid,” I said in a wobbly voice. She offered me a Malteser; normally chocolate was a no-no for me and I think Astrid was quite shocked when I took one. She patted my arm.
“Tanya, you are making me do the crying too.” she said.
“Sorry, I’ll be OK,” I said, amazed that she was even aware of what had been going on. “I know what everyone thinks about him but I’m sad because he is very special.” I tried to explain in a way she’d understand.
“Yes. It is shitting sad.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“Well, you say he special... You English loved him much.”
“Who, Nathan?”
“No, bollocks! Richard... Richard Whiteley, Countdowning man. They say it is not same without him, and now Carol the number lady, she goes too.”
I just nodded and stared at the screen.
“Balls from hell, Tanya! What do they play at? Who is next to go? Gok? Dr Christian? I sometimes say I should piss on this Channel 4 and be watching the ITV instead.” She handed me a tissue.
GOSSIPBITCH: ‘Which Darling of Daytime is telling porkies about a white wedding and desperately hoping her boyfriend’s DNA test is negative... just like the guests on her show?’
9
Embarrassing Bodies and Morning Manoeuvres
When my crazed birds alarm went off the next morning, I reached out to the space beside me in our dark, empty bedroom and remembered. I had slept fitfully and felt tired to my very bones; the thought of my morning run made me want to weep but I couldn’t miss it. I threw the covers back and went to the window. It was still dark outside and I could see the fading moon. Heavy dew lay on the grass and for the first time in my career, I wanted to just get back into bed, pull the covers over my head and shut out the world. Instead, I put my trainers on, did a few hurried stretches and went out into the morning to pound the pavement.
Run complete, I pulled off my sweaty clothes, padded to the bathroom and turned the shower on to super-hot. I was about to step in when I heard a knock on the door.
“Hello? Come in!” I said, my heart leaping, hoping it was Nathan.
Astrid’s blonde head poked round the door.
“Good morning, Mrs soppy shithead. I’ve made some tea.”
I smiled, in spite of myself.
“Thanks Astrid. It’s not that Swedish tea that tastes of cat-piss, is it?”
“It never tastes of the cat’s pissings!” she exclaimed, outraged at my insult. She set it down on my bedside table (without a coaster). “Now I go get ready for big studio day.”
“Pardon?”
“Ah Tanya, you upset, yes? I come to the studio to help you.”
This was all I needed, my crazy, confused cleaner accompanying me to work to ensure that my already difficult day turned into hell.
“Er, thanks Astrid, but I will be fine on my own” I tried.
She frowned at me then fixed me with a stare.
“No Tanya Travis. You are too much on your own, yes? I come and keep you company on the programme.”
And with that, she left the room.
Once I was ready, I snuck downstairs in the hope I could leave quickly without Astrid noticing. But she was waiting by the door, in large, knee-length khaki shorts and a too skimpy T-shirt, looking like something from a deranged Dad’s Army. I was just about to open my mouth and object to a) her outfit and b) her presence at the studio, when my phone started to ring.
It was Arthur my driver, in distress.
“Miss Travis. I’ve tried to get in the front but for some reason I can’t get the electric gates to open. And – I don’t know if you’re aware, Miss, but there are at least fifty journalists and photographers out here”.
“Shit.”Clearly the story about Nathan and the pregnant blonde had hit, and the media pack was now outside, baying for my blood.
“The vehicle is situated down the road, Miss Travis” he continued. “We need to make a getaway plan. Perhaps employ a decoy?” Arthur loved being a celebrity chauffeur and even when we had only minor press interest, his SAS side would come out. He’d talk in a sergeant-major voice about ‘heading them off at the pass,’ like they were armed terrorists rather than a stringer from The Sun and a trainee reporter the Wilmslow Advertiser.
“OK listen, here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “You get Astrid to take a tray of tea around the back of the house and keep ‘em talking.”
I could already see a flaw in his plan because Astrid would happily make tea but no doubt serve it while addressing the world’s press as ‘shitheads,’ or ‘toss-bandits.’ However, this was a double-edged sword and if we were lucky may cause an international incident in itself, which would take the heat off my story. “OK, so what do I do?” I said.
“While she’s talking to the press, I will keep an eye on the front of the house and when it’s all clear I’ll call you. I don’t know why but my remote isn’t working to open the electric gates so you will need to open them from inside as soon as I call, and m
ake a dash for it before they realise. OK?”
“OK,” I said, feeling a stab of panic.
I put the phone down, took a deep breath and turned to Astrid.
“OK. Astrid, there are a load of press out the front. It’s very important that you make some tea and take it out of the back door to them. While they are drinking it, I will run out of the front gates. OK?”
Astrid’s face spread into a grin, “OK Tanya. I will make important tea for the press toss-faces. Leave to me.”
Astrid made several cups of vile tea and I popped upstairs and put my show suit (black Gucci) on as time would be of the essence. I returned to the kitchen where Astrid was carrying a tray of steaming mugs and opening the back door. “Don’t worry Tanya – I am here,” she smiled, shutting the door behind her. Within two and a half minutes, one of the press had spotted movement at the back of the house and, in the hope it might be me, had run round. It wasn’t long before the others followed and I peeped from the back window on all fours, waiting for the coast to be clear. Two minutes later, Arthur called me on my mobile.
“Open sesame, then run, run, run!” he commanded. So I ran to the front of the house and leapt up to press the button that would open the gate. Nothing happened. What the hell? Then I remembered – I’d asked Astrid to turn the power box off last night, so if Nathan decided to come back in the middle of the night again he wouldn’t be able to get in and would have to call me. That way he couldn’t sneak into the spare room. Turning it back on required a key and I had no idea where Astrid might have put it. I ran round the house, looking in all the obvious places.
“Shit, shit, SHIT” I muttered to myself, flinging the contents of my kitchen drawers onto the floor and hating myself for the chaos I was causing. Still no key. Tearing myself away from the mess I had just made, I knew I’d never find it on my own, so I had to reach Astrid and ask her where it was. I snuck to the back of the house and ducked under the windowsill. Then I furtively peeked out of the very bottom of the window, praying there were no long lenses trained on the house. I could see Astrid a few yards away in the back garden, chatting animatedly over the fence to the press. I grabbed my phone and called her.
