by Susan Lewis
‘Max.’ It was Maurice. ‘She’s OK. A bit shook up, but she’s OK.’
‘Where did you find her?’ Max said hoarsely.
‘She turned up at her apartment just a few minutes ago. She’s a bit bruised, got a couple of cuts, but nothing serious.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Max sighed. He was quiet for a moment, his face drawn tightly as he thought. ‘You’ve got no idea where she went, or who she was with?’ he said.
‘No,’ Maurice answered.
‘But someone’s fixing this up for her?’
‘It pretty much looks that way,’ Maurice agreed.
‘OK,’ Max said. ‘I’ll call her at the apartment. Check out what happened at the hotel, why no one was on her tail when she left, then fire whoever’s responsible.’
‘Ellis is already on it,’ Maurice told him. ‘Deon’s over at the apartment sitting with her until you get back.’
‘Then tell Deon to sit tight, because I won’t be back until I said I would. Now I want to talk to you about a meeting I just had with Theo Straussen. It might not be anything we need get involved in, but on the other hand, it might.’
Chapter 9
IT WAS ONE of those days. From the minute Lizzy had got out of bed, in a mood that was as filthy as the weather outside, everything had gone wrong. She’d stubbed her toe on the bathroom door, burnt her hand on the kettle, spilt coffee down a clean top and then promptly locked herself out in the rain while dumping the rubbish. Fortunately the downstairs bathroom window was fractionally ajar so she’d managed to clamber through, but not without banging her face on the bathroom taps and smashing a brand-new bottle of Clinique toner. By the time the postman arrived with a fistful of bills and not a line of solace for the barbed edges of her temper she was about ready to scream.
Now it appeared that every lunatic driver in London was surfing the Cromwell Road heading towards Knightsbridge. Cars were coming at her from all directions, overtaking, harassing, threatening, honking, swerving off at the last minute and managing to wind her up to the point where the pains in her head were starting to feel like daggers. In fact her temper was so foul that the violence she felt towards the executive ass-hole in a Ford Granada who cut straight in front of her at the lights, leaving her on red as he sailed blithely on ahead, was murderous.
She sat there at the junction with Queensgate, steaming with outrage, her fingers drumming the wheel, her stress level soaring towards the point where she was either going to ram her precious Beetle into someone or start foaming at the mouth. To make matters worse, her wipers were smearing greasy rain all over the windscreen. But what the hell, she might just as well go blindfold into the affray – everyone else seemed to be.
The lights changed, the way ahead was blocked and nothing moved. Lizzy’s hands tightened on the wheel, her teeth started to grind and encroaching insanity brought a wild and dangerous gleam to her eyes. Realizing how close she was to losing it, she forced herself to let go of the wheel, to take a few deep, relaxing breaths and even to attempt a smile at the guy in the next car. His apparent alarm was a momentary antidote and letting go of a tired laugh she closed her eyes and tried very hard to persuade herself that none of it mattered.
But of course it did. Everything mattered, though raging against God and the rest of the world wasn’t going to change anything. She was a widow, she was on her own, she had no one to make bad days better or to turn sour moods to laughter. She hated the loneliness; she despised the self-pity; she loathed the way she got so obsessive about things when she’d never been like it before. She was turning into a nasty old woman, blaming the rest of the world for taking her happiness away, then kicking her in the teeth with Andy.
Sighing, she pressed her fingers to her eyes as though to push back the tears. Actually, it was the time of the month that was making her like this.
The lights changed to green and pulling slowly forward she reached over to her bag and began rummaging around for a cigarette. She’d been in a great mood since they’d got back from South Africa – well, let’s not push it, Lizzy, she told herself. She’d been in a generally OK mood since their return a fortnight ago. There’d been a lot to do with the editing of the programme, the writing of the commentary and the setting up of new projects. It was true the evenings were lonely, but she usually managed to stretch out the day by working late or getting Jolene or one of the others to go for a drink with her before they rushed off to whatever else they were doing. Rhiannon was never free these days, all her spare time was taken up with Oliver, house-hunting and planning their wedding. In fact they were going to book the register office this morning so Rhiannon would be late in, she’d told Lizzy on the phone the night before. She’d been in a rush so she hadn’t noticed how down Lizzy was sounding, but she never did lately. In the old days, before Oliver, Rhiannon would have detected her mood instantly, no matter how tight for time she was, nor how hard Lizzy tried to conceal it – but in the old days Lizzy had never had to, for they’d always had time for each other and always discussed everything that was going on in their lives.
So, what did she want, she asked herself sharply, that Rhiannon gave up Oliver for her? She winced as a sharp pain stabbed at her head. Of course she didn’t want that. She wanted them to get married, she wanted them to be happy and she wanted . . .
‘Oh, fuck off!’ she seethed as someone hooted her for changing lanes. She was starting to boil again, she could feel it building up inside as if she was about to go nuclear. And so what if she did? Who the hell cared? No one, that’s who. She didn’t matter to anyone. No one gave a flying fuck about her, so maybe one of these ass-holes would like to do her the favour of smashing her right into the next world, the way they had Richard.
Calm down! she told herself forcefully. Just calm down.
But she couldn’t. If Andy would return her calls, if he would write her a god-damned letter in reply to the two she’d sent him – just in case he hadn’t got the first – then this wouldn’t be happening. She’d have herself and her PMT under control and she’d be . . . ? Yes? What? What would she be? Happy? Who was she trying to kid? The man lived at the bottom end of the world, in the back end of beyond, she’d only known him for two days and here she was trying to make herself believe that he was the root of all her misery.
Well he was! Damn him to hell!
Of course he wouldn’t be if she were to meet someone else. Someone more suitable who at least lived in England, even in Europe. Actually the United States would do, just not the African bush. And besides, she was only fixating on him because he was the first since Richard and because he’d made her feel special by asking her to go and live with him.
And she, like the pathetic, screwed-up, desperate forty-year-old she was, had actually believed he meant it.
Tossing the presents she had for her nephews out of her bag and on to the seat, she started to dig about for a cigarette again. Finding the packet at last she opened it up, felt around inside, then glancing down saw that it was empty.
‘I don’t believe this!’ she raged, flinging the packet on the floor. ‘Why are You doing this to me, God? You could have magicked one lousy cigarette into that packet. It wouldn’t have hurt You. What is it, have You got it in for me or something?’
The tears were very close again now and the pain in her head and in her stomach was increasing all the time. Her periods never used to be like this. It was only since she’d started getting older, started moving towards the change . . .
‘Oh God, I can’t stand it,’ she cried, squeezing the wheel so hard her nails started to bend. ‘What about kids? I don’t have any kids.’ She felt suddenly panicked. Her blood was running hot. Her head was pounding. Her breath was short, her hands were clammy. This couldn’t be happening. She was going to have a nervous breakdown, right outside Harvey Nichols.
The lights went to red. She jammed on her brakes and the joker behind jammed his fist on his horn. The noise cut through her head like a chain-saw. She looked in
the mirror. The man was apoplectic, but so was she. This was it! She was going to kill him. She was going back there and she was going to smash her fist right in his ugly fat face.
Flinging off her seat belt, she threw open her car door and stormed through the rain towards him. As she drew closer she could see his eyes, bulging with shock. Reaching his car, she tore open the door and jammed a gun right into his cheek.
‘You fucking bastard!’ she seethed, the wind and rain whipping about her head. ‘Don’t you beep your fucking horn at me like that. Those lights were red. We stop at red lights. Do you hear me? We stop at red lights.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the man gasped, his face chalk white with terror. ‘Don’t shoot. Please, don’t shoot. I’ve got a wife and three children.’
Lizzy blinked.
‘Please. I beg you. Don’t shoot,’ he sobbed.
Lizzy looked down at her hand and seeing the gun she felt her heart stop beating. ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’ She looked at the man. ‘It’s just a water pistol,’ she said. ‘For my nephew. Look.’
She squeezed the trigger and the man almost passed out.
Then suddenly someone was grabbing her from behind, manhandling her to the floor and rolling her on the tarmac as the water pistol was wrenched from her fist.
To her amazement, when she was finally able to look up, she saw a crowd of people standing over her, their faces stark and hostile against a backdrop of dense grey cloud. Then turning her head to one side she started to sob uncontrollably, for this wasn’t a nightmare, she wasn’t going to wake up any minute and find Richard or Andy lying in the bed next to her. It was all, every excruciating minute of this miserable, hateful and humiliatingly lonely day, totally and inescapably real.
‘Hi,’ Rhiannon said, coming in through the door of Check It Out’s cluttered offices just off Oxford Street and dropping a batch of second mail on Jolene’s desk. ‘Everything under control?’
‘As always,’ Jolene responded, gazing pensively at the computer screen in front of him. He was a man today. Tomorrow he would quite possibly be a woman. Whichever, it didn’t matter, he/she was a first-class office manager, an absolute genius with the computer and a veritable mine of hot gossip – though how he managed to acquire it no one could quite bring themselves to ask. He/she was ravishingly good-looking, whether male or female, with the kind of legs most women would die for, a splendidly naked head when male, the most striking of blondes when female and, again if female, a wardrobe that would make even Dame Edna’s look dowdy.
‘So,’ he grinned, finishing off what he was doing and spinning round in his chair as Rhiannon hung up her coat. ‘When’s the big day?’ The lipstick and rouge on his smooth West Indian face had evidently just been touched up and his diamond drop ear-rings glittered winsomely in the overhead lights.
Rhiannon’s smile was widening as she looked round at the others, most of whom had stopped what they were doing to hear her reply. Carrie, Martin, Neil, Rohan, Lily and Reece were the researchers, production associates and producers who, together with Jolene, Lizzy and Rhiannon made up the Check It Out team. There were also, of course, the camera crews, editors, dubbing mixers and occasional directors, but they were employed on a freelance basis, whereas the production team were permanent fixtures.
‘Where’s Lizzy?’ Rhiannon asked, glancing up at the imitation Big Ben that played an old ITN theme tune on the hour, and which, along with the forecast schedules, new and old graphics, programme posters, fake clapper-boards and headline reviews, adorned the freshly painted office walls.
‘Wouldn’t we all like to know?’ Jolene answered, crooking his wrist as he crossed his legs. ‘I’ve had calls coming in left right and centre for her this morning and she hasn’t even rung in to say she’s going to be late.’
‘Come on, Rhiannon!’ Lily prompted, putting down the phone. ‘When’s the wedding?’
‘Yeah, come on,’ Carrie said, tucking her frizzy hair behind one ear. ‘Stop keeping us in suspense.’
Rhiannon was laughing. ‘OK,’ she said, feeling and looking as though she might just burst with joy. ‘It’s on the thirty-first.’
‘Of this month!’ Rohan cried. ‘Are you serious?’
Rhiannon nodded.
‘That’s only three weeks,’ Martin told her.
‘Oh my!’ Jolene wailed. ‘How am I going to find anything to wear in that time?’
‘Who said you were invited?’ Reece reminded him.
‘Of course he is. You all are,’ Rhiannon laughed, peeling off her French-workman-style cap and shaking out her red hair. ‘It’s at eleven in the morning, so you’ll all be able to get back to work after lunch.’
‘She’s so generous,’ Reece commented, looking at the others. ‘Where is it? Chelsea?’
‘Yep. And no, I’m not wearing white. I might go for cream, I’m not sure. But it won’t be anything frilly or fancy. We’ll be having lunch at the Ritz.’
‘Wow,’ Lily beamed. ‘I’ve never been to the Ritz.’
‘What about a honeymoon?’ Neil asked.
‘You’ll have to ask Oliver,’ Rhiannon told him, throwing a grin over her shoulder as she sailed breezily into her office. ‘Have you tried Lizzy’s mobile, Jo?’ she asked, dropping her bag on the floor and sinking into the sumptuous leather chair behind her desk.
‘Does Sharon Stone shave the pubes?’ he responded, batting his eyelids. ‘It’s switched off.’
Rhiannon frowned. ‘Then where is she?’ she said. ‘I told her the meeting was at eleven and it’s already quarter past. By the way, did you get those tapes over to editing last night, Reece?’
‘Yeah. I dropped them off around nine. Tony reckons he’ll be finished by the end of today.’
‘Great. So, what else is new? Have we got the ratings in for last week yet?’
‘They’re right there,’ Jolene answered, nodding towards the stack of mail in front of Rhiannon. ‘Number nine,’ he added, which for their kind of programme was an excellent position.
‘Are Hugh and Jack free to do the Scotland story?’ she asked, starting to sift through the paperwork while the others returned to their computers and telephones.
‘Hugh yes, I’m still waiting to hear back from Jack,’ Jolene replied, the bangles on his wrists jangling as he smoothed a hand over the shining dome of his head. ‘Frances from Ready Edit called wanting to know if we’d mind swapping with some LWT programme that’s up against transmission. I told her it was OK, but it means we’ve got a through-the-night session on Thursday.’
‘Whose programme is it?’ Rhiannon asked, switching on her computer.
‘Lizzy’s. It’s the South African one.’
‘OK. Have you told Lizzy about the change yet?’
‘I will when she gets here,’ Jolene responded, slipping on the discreet little headset he used for answering the phone. ‘Check Out a good morning,’ he greeted the caller cheerily, making Rhiannon smile. ‘Yes, she sure is. Carrie, it’s for you,’ he called across the office.
The usual busyness ensued for the next ten minutes or so while Rhiannon made an heroic effort, considering how euphoric she was feeling, to get herself in tune with the day and return the couple of urgent calls that were waiting for her. Then, deciding that the monthly planning meeting, which was something she tried very hard not to hold unless everyone was present, would just have to go ahead without Lizzy, she shouted out for everyone to start winding up their phone calls ready to begin.
‘I’ve just got to make one more call,’ Rohan said, as the others started wandering into Rhiannon’s office and sinking into the two-seater Habitat sofas that were scattered around.
‘OK,’ Rhiannon answered, starting to laugh as she noticed the pile of Bride magazines someone had left on the corner of her desk. ‘Oh God, Jo,’ she suddenly said. ‘I almost forgot. Oliver’s secretary wants to know if you can do a turn at some function she’s organizing on Saturday. I don’t know the details, I’m afraid. Can you call her?�
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‘Bit late notice,’ Jolene answered, preening nevertheless, for his Diana Ross and Tina Turner impersonations were becoming quite de rigeur for parties about town these days. ‘Isn’t it a good morning? Check It Out,’ he gushed into the tiny button of his mouthpiece as he took another incoming call and blithely ignored the depressing drizzle trickling down the condensated windows.
‘Rohan, how are you doing out there?’ Rhiannon called.
‘Two minutes,’ he shouted back.
‘Do you want me to give Lizzy’s mobile another try?’ Carrie offered.
Rhiannon nodded absently as she made a quick flip through one of the bridal magazines. ‘Yeah. Try her home too, while you’re at it,’ she said, as Carrie lifted the receiver on her desk. ‘I’m just popping to the loo,’ she added, getting to her feet, ‘then no more delays, we’re going to get started.’
‘Yes, madam, I’ve written it down,’ Jolene was saying as Rhiannon went past him. ‘Spicer. Sharon Spicer. And you want Lizzy Fortnum to call. Are you sure I can’t say what it’s about? No, OK. Of course I’ll make sure she gets the message. Thank you for your call. May all your moments be magic and all your facelifts fuck-ups,’ he added after disconnecting the line and smiling sweetly at Rhiannon who had stopped on her way out.
‘Who was that for Lizzy?’ she said, looking down at Jolene’s notebook.
‘A frenzied-sounding personage by the name of Sharon Spicer,’ he responded fruitily.
Rhiannon pulled a face. ‘Why does that name ring a bell?’ she said.
Jolene shrugged, then his eyebrows went up as Rhiannon started to grin.
‘I know who she is,’ she said and turning away, she continued on to the loo.
Jolene watched her, while tapping the keys of his switchboard to take another call. ‘Check It Out. Jolene speaking. I’m happy to take your call. How may I help you?’
