by Karen Clarke
‘He’s offered, more than once, and so have his family, but it’s my responsibility,’ he said. ‘And we’re managing just fine.’
I felt a flare of admiration and back in the car was emboldened to ask, ‘What would you do if you weren’t a cameraman on a reality show?’
He looked through the windscreen as he fastened his seat belt, as if seeing the future unfold in the car park. ‘I’d move to a small seaside town, meet a beautiful girl and settle down. Then I’d pitch a brilliant idea to television companies and let them fight it out.’
Heat rushed to my cheeks. ‘Don’t you have a beautiful girlfriend at home, wherever that is?’
‘I’ve been living with my father, not far from the Mathesons’ place in Hertfordshire.’
‘The shack?’ I said, remembering what Ollie had called it.
Craig gave a small smile as he started the car and turned the heating up. ‘Let’s just say our place is a lot less grand, but it’s home.’
‘You have someone to care for your father?’
He nodded. ‘When necessary. I had the house adapted and our neighbour, Linda, is more than happy to pop in and keep him company. I think they might have got married if he hadn’t had his accident, but he wouldn’t hear of it afterwards. Said he didn’t want to be a burden.’
I was silent for a moment as his words sank in. Dad had gone quickly, with no suffering. Wasn’t that better than lingering in pain?
‘He gets plenty of enjoyment out of life, believe me,’ Craig said, reading me like a book. ‘And to answer the rest of your question, there’s no girlfriend.’ My face zinged with warmth. ‘Let’s just say my lifestyle hasn’t lent itself to having a serious relationship.’
‘You must have met a lot of women on Players.’
His jaw clenched. ‘Not really my type, and none I’d want a serious relationship with.’
‘Is the show you mentioned pitching, Ordinary Lives?’
He slid me a look. ‘Do you mean, Behind Closed Doors?’
Whoops. ‘I saw your notes,’ I confessed, a flush enveloping my whole body.
‘I know.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘You didn’t put my notepad away properly.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to spying.’
‘It’s OK.’ Craig’s smile broadened. ‘But I like my title better.’
‘Well, keep mine in mind, in case the producers want to change it.’
He held my gaze, and my heart danced against my ribcage. ‘The night you arrived,’ I said, pushing the words out with difficulty. ‘When I answered the door, did… did you see… anything?’
He nodded gravely. ‘A very surprised, and possibly tipsy, woman in a face mask, clutching a cat with a chicken part in its mouth.’
I tried to read his expression, which didn’t waver. ‘And… and that’s all?’
His face softened. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I could have throttled Ollie for catching you out like that, but I promise I didn’t look… for too long.’
I gave an embarrassed laugh and covered my face. ‘Oh god.’
His fingers gently circled my wrist and drew my hand away. ‘I wasn’t filming, anyway,’ he said. ‘There was never any footage to delete.’
When we arrived back at the cottage I noticed Barry’s Explorer had gone, but Sheelagh’s car was parked on the drive.
Craig was looking, too. ‘I might try them again this afternoon,’ he said.
‘The Lamberts?’ I was glad we weren’t pretending he was only here to film Ollie, though I wasn’t sure how Ollie would feel when he found out. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried them already.’
‘I have,’ he said, as we got out of the car. ‘But he wasn’t keen. I think Sheelagh might talk to me if he’s not there.’
‘There’s something funny going on,’ I said, once we were inside, and I told him about seeing the woman at the Lamberts’ house the night before.
Craig looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe Sheelagh will open up.’
‘Is that ethical?’ I sounded like Annabel now. ‘I mean, probing people’s feelings for entertainment?’
‘A show like this could help other people going through something similar. It’s not just entertainment.’ He faced me squarely, his gaze earnest. ‘But I would never let anything go out if it didn’t feel right, or I thought it might hurt someone.’
‘That’s OK, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you Saint Craig, shall I?’
He swatted my arm. ‘Go and put the kettle on.’
‘I was hoping you’d forgotten,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘Besides, there’s somewhere I have to be.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
I parked outside Nightingale Primary School, and called Mum.
‘Is Ollie there?’
‘Oh, Lily, he is!’ She sounded overexcited. ‘I couldn’t believe it when he showed up at the shop this morning.’
‘He came to the shop?’
‘I told him about it the other evening, and he remembered what it was called.’
‘I suppose Crafty Bitches is a memorable name.’
‘Annie nearly fainted when I introduced them,’ she rushed on. ‘She used to prefer Sebastian Dooley-McBride, because he plays the flute and so does she. But Annie says he got too big for his boots, when he got that Hollywood offer, so she switched her allegiance to Ollie.’
‘Let me guess; she thought he got a raw deal being kicked off the show?’
‘We all did!’ Mum sounded surprised that I might think otherwise. ‘It was obvious that Tattie Granger was playing him off against someone else. Somebody not on the show, according to Annie. She records it and watches it on Catch-Up TV as well. She said Tattie looked right at the camera with a knowing smile when Ollie was dragged away.’
‘Oh, well, that’s settled it,’ I said. ‘He definitely got a raw deal.’
Mum tutted. ‘Anyway, he’s going to be faaabulous at directing, I can just tell. He got the gist right away and everyone’s so excited he’s here they’re falling over themselves to please him.’
‘Even Stuart?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mum’s voice softened. ‘Bless him, he’d like to move into directing… Ollie promised to give him some tips about how to communicate a vision for the show and managed to win him over.’
In the background, Ollie called, ‘Let’s run that scene again with more feeling, yah?’ and I felt an exasperated pang that he hadn’t established the same rapport with my neighbours.
‘Are you and Stuart seeing each other?’ I hadn’t meant to say it, and from Mum’s sharp intake of breath it was the last thing she’d expected me to ask.
‘We’ve been out for dinner a couple of times and he… he makes me smile,’ she said, after a lengthy pause. ‘But he’ll never replace your father, Lily. Nobody can.’
Hearing the layer of anxiety in her voice prompted me to say, ‘It’s OK, Mum, you’re entitled to have a boyfriend.’ I didn’t mean it. The thought of her laughing with a man who wasn’t my dad; of someone like Stuart being in our house, sitting at the table where Dad helped me with my homework, and built Lego spaceships with Chris, made me want to howl. But I knew it might happen one day and I had to prepare myself.
‘I think you’d like him,’ she said tentatively, and I made myself murmur something appropriate. From the little I’d seen of them at the theatre, Stuart seemed respectful of Mum, but I hadn’t been looking at him as potential boyfriend material.
‘Would you like a word with Ollie?’ she said, clearly keen to switch topics. ‘I thought his cameraman might have come. Isn’t he supposed to be filming?’
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ I said. ‘As long as you send Ollie back to switch on the lights tomorrow.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Though I suspect Annie’s planning to drug him and take him home with her.’
‘Now, that would make an interesting show.’
‘Are you ready, Fiona?’ It was Ollie again, and I tried to picture him in director mode, but could only imagine him j
ousting with an umbrella after what Craig had told me about his performance at the nightclub.
‘Sounds like I’m wanted,’ Mum said, with the playful giggle that Ollie seemed to inspire in older women. ‘I’d better run.’
* * *
After she’d hung up, I went straight online and tapped in Ollie Matheson, punch-up. It felt a bit disloyal, somehow, but I wanted to see it for myself. See whether he’d really had a ‘raw deal’, or if his fans were deluded.
While the clip loaded, I checked my face in the car mirror. It looked like it used to when I was teaching: hair held back off my cheeks with a couple of clips, and a light layer of make-up to stop me looking shiny. Beneath my knee-length coat I’d teamed a black skirt and fitted blue sweater with heeled boots, and had immediately felt more purposeful.
‘You’re dressed to impress,’ Craig had observed from the kitchen table, as I’d collected my handbag. He’d been fiddling with his camera and picking at leftover food.
I’d gone a bit hot. ‘Too much?’
‘Yes, if you’re going swimming.’
‘Hilarious. I’m visiting the local primary school, actually.’
Something had flashed through his eyes and was gone before I could pin it down. ‘You’re applying for a job?’
‘No,’ I said, crossly. ‘I promised someone I’d ask the head teacher for… something.’
His eyes had narrowed, but he merely nodded and said, ‘Good luck,’ before turning back to his camera. I could have sworn he was stroking its shiny casing as I left.
The Players clip loaded and I lifted my phone and peered at the screen. The setting, predictably, was a bar, studded with velvet armchairs. Gleaming chandeliers hung above the heads of expensively clad toffs with shiny hair, all holding champagne flutes.
Ollie – who looked somehow smaller onscreen – was jabbing the air in front of a man with particularly glossy black waves, and a sneer on his hawkish face.
‘I know you made a move on her, Cuttlingtonson, you bastard.’ Even swearing, Ollie sounded posh. ‘You might have got away with cheating at water polo, but you won’t get away with this.’ The sneering man must be Quincy, the one Sheelagh had professed to be angry with, and it was easy to see why. My fingers itched to slap his supercilious face.
Quincy gave a big, bold laugh, and swept a hand through his hair. ‘You need to get out of my grill, dude. I wouldn’t touch your trollop with someone else’s bargepole.’
The woman at his side – presumably Tattie Granger – gave a dramatic gasp. ‘Thanks a lot, Quince,’ she snapped. She tossed her poker-straight, honey-blonde hair and turned Bambi-like eyes on Ollie. ‘Are you going to let him talk about me like that?’
‘If it wasn’t you, who was it?’ Ollie demanded. He looked more fed up than angry, which clearly wasn’t the effect that Tattie was looking for.
‘He called me a trollop,’ she reminded him, as if Ollie hadn’t been standing there at the time. ‘Are you going to let him get away with it?’
‘Ollie hasn’t the gonads to throw a punch,’ drawled Quincy, picking an olive from a bowl on the bar and popping it in his mouth. ‘He doesn’t know what his little-girl fists are for.’
‘Oh, I think he does,’ said Tattie, goadingly. ‘And he knows how to defend a lady.’ It was as if the twenty-first century hadn’t happened. ‘Don’t you, Ollie?’ she pushed, when Ollie didn’t move, and it was almost with a sense of resignation – as if he didn’t have a choice – that Ollie drew back his arm and aimed his fist at Quincy’s jaw.
As Quincy’s head snapped back, several cast members swooped in, and, among the ensuing scuffle, Tattie looked straight down the camera, a smile playing around her glistening lips, before the screen went blank.
Mum had been right. And Sheelagh. Ollie had had a raw deal. Anyone with eyes could see Tattie had engineered things – though I wasn’t sure I understood why.
* * *
After slipping my phone in my bag, I stepped out of the car, wondering – too late – whether I should have called the school first. Jill Edwards was bound to be busy with the end of term approaching, but it was lunchtime and she might have a few minutes to spare.
Childish shouts and laughter reached me, as I spotted the sign for Nightingale Primary School. As I approached the green-painted railings surrounding the playground, I saw a group of well-wrapped-up five-year-olds with a smiling teaching assistant, clustered around a dark-haired man. Drawing closer, I noticed he was holding a little brown dog and was showing the children that it only had three legs.
‘It’s making me very sad,’ said a little girl with spirals of brown hair and a duffel coat slipping off her shoulders.
‘You don’t need to be sad,’ the man said, crouching down so the girl could stroke the dog’s silky ears. ‘Hovis doesn’t know that he should have four legs.’
‘Does it hurt where his leg should go?’ One of the boys shoved the girl aside and briskly patted the dog’s nose.
‘No, it doesn’t hurt him at all.’ The man smiled at me as I passed. He was wearing medical scrubs and I guessed he must be a vet. ‘He was born this way.’
‘My great-granddaddy’s only got one leg,’ the little boy was saying as I crossed the frosty playground to the low, red-brick building. Inside, I paused to breathe in the heady, familiar scent of plasticine, poster paints and fairy cakes, instantly transported back to Kingswood Primary and my class of five-year-olds, their expectant faces turned up like flowers to the sun.
Feeling oddly choked, I opened my eyes to see Jill Edwards striding towards me, her rather stern expression converting into a smile.
‘Miss Ambrose,’ she said, arm outstretched. ‘Sheelagh said you might drop by.’
As we shook hands, I saw Sheelagh over her shoulder, ushering a small, crying girl along the corridor in my direction, probably to see the nurse. She didn’t look at me as she hurried by, and I was surprised by how much it hurt.
I’m not responsible for what comes out of Ollie Matheson’s mouth, I wanted to say. And, by the way, your husband’s having an affair.
But Ollie was my guest and he’d insulted Barry in my home. And even if she suspected her husband was cheating on her, and she was secretly in love with Ollie, she was bound to side with Barry.
‘Come through to the office,’ said Jill Edwards, leading the way, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the parquet floor.
The corridor walls were decorated for Christmas, covered in paintings of big-bellied Santas and oddly-shaped reindeer, and draped with tinsel and handmade paper chains. I peered into one of the classrooms as we passed, and felt a pang when I saw a teacher sitting behind a tidy desk, biting into an apple as she marked some work. That could have been me, a year ago. Only I’d have been eating cake.
‘That’s Miss Anderson,’ Jill said, breaking her stride. ‘She’s the one who’s leaving us.’
Miss Anderson looked up with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said, hunching her shoulders around her ears, and I guessed it wasn’t the first time she’d been moved to apologise. Good teachers were like gold dust and I knew she’d be missed. Had I been missed? None of my ex-colleagues had been in touch after I’d left, which had hurt almost more than my break-up with Max. ‘I’ve told you, Jill, you have to blame Jason for landing a job in New Zealand and dragging me there with him.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Jill Edwards. I had a feeling she wasn’t joking. ‘I’m so glad you changed your mind,’ she said when we were seated in her office, which was decorated in soothing shades of sage and cream. ‘About the interview,’ she added, when I looked at her blankly.
‘Oh, no… I haven’t,’ I said, unfastening my coat as I tried to get comfy in a chair designed for bottoms smaller than mine. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
Opposite, Jill folded her hands on the desk, her face lapsing back into sternness. ‘Why are you here then, Miss Ambrose?’
‘Please, call me Lily.’
She continued to stare, like an interro
gator waiting for her witness to crumble.
‘I, er, it’s… I came to ask a favour, actually.’
‘A favour?’ Her eyes shrank. ‘I’m not in the habit of doing favours for strangers, Miss Ambrose.’
Oh heck. ‘It’s not for me,’ I said hastily. ‘And it’s more of a suggestion, really.’
She looked resigned. ‘Go on.’
‘I know you must be busy with Christmas at the moment…’
‘We certainly are.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you know, we suggested that on the last afternoon of term the children bring in some board games and most of them had no idea what we were talking about?’
‘Oh, I know!’ I said. ‘We tried that last year and one of the mums came in and complained that her daughter had asked her what “nomopoly” was, as if I’d been teaching them swear words.’
‘I suppose we have to move with the times.’ Jill was watching me closely.
‘Or introduce them to some of the old games,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘I took in my old Monopoly set and some Cluedo, and some simple packs of playing cards, and taught them Snap and Go Fish, which is great for learning numbers. They loved it.’
‘What a clever idea,’ said Jill. ‘Sounds like you were a real asset.’
I sat back. I knew what she was trying to do. ‘Anyway,’ I said, picking my bag off the floor and putting it down again. ‘Would it be possible for Alfie Blake to give a talk to the children about his job? In the New Year, obviously.’
‘Alfie Blake?’ Jill straightened. ‘He used to attend this school. Recently started working for his father.’
‘He showed me round Seaview Cottage,’ I said, and told her about him being picked on in Cooper’s Café and how I thought it might instil some pride in him to talk about what he did for a living, as well as inspire the children. I got a bit carried away and started talking about how bullying could lead to low self-esteem and how we had to take care of our young people, as though Alfie was my younger brother, rather than an estate agent I’d met twice.
Jill held up a hand as I started talking about suicide rates being high among the young, male population.
