‘Laylah said she hated me at breakfast.’
‘Oh dear,’ Sophie Double-Barrel said very sympathetically. ‘They all do it, I’m afraid. What did you say back? That’s the really important bit.’
‘I said I knew she didn’t mean it,’ Lexy said, swallowing hard. ‘And that I loved her very much and she was making me sad.’
‘Oh, well done you!’ Sophie said with great sincerity. ‘Very good job!’
It was like a head girl at school, even the headmistress herself, giving her a nod of approval. Lexy felt suddenly as if she were Laylah’s age, a surge of relief rising in her as a person in a position of authority told her that she had done the right thing. It was so unexpectedly powerful that the tears filled her eyes now, blurring her vision.
‘Stiff upper lip!’ Sophie said briskly, and she took hold of Lexy’s upper arm, swivelling her around ninety degrees so that Lexy’s back was to the school gates and the gossiping mothers. ‘Never let them see you cry! Deep breaths, one – two – three. Good girl. Now fake a sneeze and get those eyes wiped as you do it. Here’s a tissue.’
Obediently, Lexy obeyed.
‘You know you’re a mother when you always have plenty of Kleenex to hand,’ Sophie said cheerfully. ‘Mummy always did. And one day, after the twins were born, I reached down into my handbag and there was a full pack inside and one already open, and I thought: Oh, here I am! I’ve turned into Mummy, just like I knew I would!’
‘I’ve got to get more tissues, clearly,’ Lexy said, blowing her nose and managing a watery smile.
‘Buy ’em in bulk,’ Sophie advised. ‘Then put a pack into every handbag you have.’
‘I will,’ Lexy said, crumpling up the damp tissue. ‘And thank you. Sorry I went off like that.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ Sophie said. ‘I could see you were having a moment. I’ve been watching you these last few weeks, of course, everyone has. I think you’ve done jolly well, considering. You’re always on time for drop-off and pickup, the kids look washed and fed and happy and behave nicely on playdates. Apparently their lunches are home-made and you don’t give them fizzy drinks full of additives. You’ve pulled yourself together and come home to look after them. Good for you.’
Sophie rolled her eyes.
‘That little madam who’s trying to take your place was working very hard on it, you know. Butter wouldn’t melt. I didn’t like her, I can tell you. I could see she was playing a part. So when I saw you looking very down today, I thought you might need a bit of bucking up.’
Lexy nodded, even as she processed in shock the sheer amount of information that the mothers’ network held on its unsuspecting members.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I worked out what she was like eventually – took me ages, though.’
‘Better late than never, eh?’ Sophie said encouragingly. ‘And you’re doing exactly the right thing now.’
‘Thank you,’ Lexy managed gruffly, ducking her head, worried that this kindness from a total stranger would set her off all over again.
‘I was going to say shall we go for a coffee on Canford Cliffs,’ Sophie said, ‘but you’re in no state for that, are you? Would you like to come back to mine?’
Lexy nodded gratefully. It was a humbling realization, as she followed Sophie around the corner to an old, dented Volvo which spoke as eloquently about her social class as the shiny new Evoques did of the yummie mummies’, that she had never really had a female friend who would have her back in a crisis. The Sams and Michelles would never have told Lexy not to cry; instead, they would have gleefully relished the drama, inserted themselves into it by hugging and comforting her to make clear that their role was the confidante, then spread the story to everyone they knew.
This brisk, supportive woman was like nothing Lexy had ever known before. Small, plump and utterly confident, she looked to be in her early thirties, younger than Lexy herself, which was ironic considering her maternal aura.
‘So!’ Sophie said as she clicked shut her own seatbelt and automatically glanced sideways to make sure Lexy’s was fastened too. ‘Now you’ve proved your good-mummy credentials by doing full immersion in the ghastliness of bringing up your own children, I assume you have a plan for getting your husband back?’
‘Fuck, you’re direct!’ Lexy said; she was gradually getting her mojo back after the stress of the morning. ‘Are you always like this?’
She wasn’t sure how Sophie Double-Barrel would deal with the swear word, but Sophie grinned as she started up the car.
‘Always,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I come from a military family and I married into one. We’re all terrifyingly direct and practical. I like fixing things. I’ll freely admit I see you as a bit of a project.’
‘Plus,’ Lexy said, back to normal now that she was in a safe space, a car where even if she started to cry again, no one would see her and judge her, ‘I bet you want to piss off those yummy mummies too. They were having such a good time sending me to Coventry, and now you’ve messed with them by talking to me.’
Sophie’s grin deepened.
‘There’s a bit of that as well,’ she said. ‘I was getting rather sick of watching you be shut out like that. I wasn’t really sure about whether I wanted to get involved, but seeing you today looking like death warmed up made me want to cheer you up a bit.’
‘I’m really glad you did,’ Lexy said very gratefully. ‘And to answer your question, no, I don’t have a plan for getting Frank back, not yet. I thought I’d go mental if I tried to think about that straight away. I’ve been concentrating on teaching myself to cook for the kids, working out, doing my sobriety journal—’
‘Good Lord,’ Sophie muttered at this.
‘But now, I’m ready to go for it,’ Lexy continued.
A bus came towards them, heading for the ferry, an advert for an upcoming reality series plastered over its entire side.
‘And you know what?’ Lexy said slowly, staring at it. ‘I just got a really good idea for how to manage that . . .’
Chapter Thirty-Three
A month later
‘Hello, contestants! Welcome to Celebrity Island Survivor!’ Dan, one of the pair of hosts who helmed the show, yodelled in the most cheerful voice possible.
‘Blue Team, looking great in those bandannas!’ chimed in Pip, Dan’s brother, who was the other host. ‘Love what you’ve done with them!’
Dan and Pip, barely in their early thirties, were unquestionably the most successful TV presenters in the country. Non-identical fraternal twins, they had been infant prodigies, doing stand-up comedy as a double act, and now regularly presented two of the country’s most famous live TV programmes as well as hosting their own chat show. Dan was straight, and a well-known man about town, while Pip was gay and happily married. They had an answer for everything and had the confidence of siblings who knew each other perfectly: nothing could faze them.
Caroline simply could not believe that she was standing here, in a group of C-list celebrities, taking part in a ritual that she had watched year after year, never missing an episode. The smiling faces of Dan and Pip were so familiar to her that they might have been part of her family. She looked down at herself, wearing the blue T-shirt with the show’s logo on it, and shook her head momentarily in disbelief. Since meeting Lexy, her life had progressed in leaps and bounds so dizzying that it was as if she were wearing rocket-propelled shoes; but this was by far the highest jump into the stratosphere, up where the air was rarefied, even more dizzying than seducing Frank.
That, after all, had been a private triumph. This was a public one. And by now, Caroline had learned how much she loved publicity.
The odds of her becoming a cast member had been hugely stacked against her. For the last couple of weeks, she had kept telling herself that it would never happen, in order to protect herself against the sick, crippling disappointment that she knew would overcome her when she sat on her sofa watching the opening credits of Celebrity Island Survivor, rather than be
ing in them. It had been down to the wire, almost an overnight decision. When another, much more famous contestant dropped out at the last minute, Caroline had had barely a day’s notice that she, one of the backups, was being summoned to take her place.
She had burst into tears when the call had come, sobbed aloud, been unable to utter an actual word for a couple of minutes. Thank God it had not been a producer but her TV agent ringing her with the news, almost as excited as she was, though less teary: he had emphasized from the start that though it was amazing that Caroline was considered newsworthy enough to even be considered as a contestant, nothing was certain, even if she passed the psychological tests.
Those tests! The psychologists had given nothing away, had been friendly but perfectly neutral even when asking the most personal of questions about her family, her upbringing, her ambitions, her sex life. Caroline hadn’t even been sure if she was supposed to answer everything they asked. She had begun to wonder whether this itself was a test. Were they checking to see if she would overshare so much that it meant she had no boundaries, did not have enough self-control to stick it out in the stress of the jungle island environment?
So she had started to politely demur at the most invasive questions, saying she preferred not to answer them, and had noticed that they did not press her further. She hadn’t been able to tell how well she’d done, but she had trusted her instincts, which, after all, had guided her through her tortuous journey of writing Lexy’s book while, at the same time, successfully making herself over and undermining Lexy with her husband.
And clearly, once again, those instincts had served Caroline well. She had been told that she was to keep herself available, making sure she was contactable at all times, her phone charged and accessible. Apparently the majority of the drop-outs happened at the last minute, as the full reality of the deprivation and humiliation for which they had signed up started to dawn on the more pampered and neurotic celebrities.
Ever since her agent had first informed her she was being considered for the show, Caroline had been on the strictest of lockdown diets, just in case. She had dropped several pounds, enabling her to get into a one-piece swimsuit with sexy cutaways and a 50s-style bikini that showcased her breasts very successfully, while the high bottom held in her stomach. No matter how slim she was, she knew that if she did get picked for the show, she would be cast with glamour models and reality stars in string bikinis, whose fake boobs would not shrink as the shortage of rations caused them to lose weight. If she tried to compete with those women in the skimpy clothing stakes, she would look ridiculous. Better to wear flattering outfits, rather than make a laughing stock of herself by looking too overtly sexy.
Which had been harder, Caroline wondered now as she smiled for the cameras, her Team Blue bandanna tying back her hair in a twisted hairband which she had practised endlessly that morning so that she could manage the style without a mirror, as she would have no access to one on Survivor Island. Had it been picking out those swimsuits, knowing that almost the entire nation would see her figure flaws in a matter of days? Or breaking the news to Frank that she was going to compete in a reality show that would bring her exactly the kind of press attention he had so disliked Lexy chasing?
Both had been awful. Shopping for swimwear was bad enough without knowing that you were going to be on national TV wearing it, filmed from all angles. And Frank had been just as upset and distressed as she had anticipated; angry, too, feeling that Caroline had misled him. She had always presented herself as fame-shy, a victim of the paparazzi rather than complicit with them. He felt betrayed, and no matter how much she pleaded that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for her to build her writing career, get herself known to the general public, Frank wouldn’t see her point of view. He had been through this once already, he said. He didn’t know if he could do it again.
Of course, Frank didn’t realize that Caroline had known about the possibility for a fortnight, as she had hidden that information from him. If she didn’t pass the tests, or if after meeting her, the producers didn’t think she was attractive or charismatic or interesting enough for the show, why throw a spanner into the works for nothing? Frank had no idea about the psych tests or the pre-screening process. It was easy for her to pretend that it had all happened in a whirl at the last moment: one swift interview, the approval from on high and the business class, open return ticket booked for Australia, where Celebrity Island Survivor was shot. That she had been scrambling to finish Bad Girl, working practically non-stop from morning to night, not just because the deadline was so tight, but in case she got the summons that might change her life.
Naturally, her publisher had been ecstatic at the news. This casting had catapulted Caroline to a whole new level of fame, infinitely more than they had anticipated when they signed her up. Her editor had read the book as soon as Caroline had submitted it a few days ago and sent back a list of questions and basic edits; Caroline had spent the twenty-one hours of flight time, plus the stopover in Dubai, working through them and crafting responses. The editor would organize the edits, polish up the text and turn the book around with maximum speed to capitalize on Caroline’s newsworthiness at the height of media attention for the show. Ideally, it would hit bookshops as soon as possible after her return from Australia.
I feel as if I’m playing a game of chess with real people and job opportunities, Caroline thought now. Moving them around, jumping them sideways – or wait, is it more like juggling? People keep throwing me more and more balls to keep up in the air, and I’m desperately trying not to drop any . . .
‘So we’re switching things up this year!’ Dan carolled cheerfully. ‘But that’s not a surprise, is it?’
‘It would be more of a surprise if we weren’t surprising you, right?’ Pip added, winking. ‘We’re going to draw mini-teams! You’ll be partnered up with one of your teammates for the first three days. Together, you’ll have to navigate your way to camp in pairs, complete your assigned tasks, cook, eat, sleep, go to the dunny . . . while you’re shackled to each other at the waist!’
As Dan and Pip chortled in delight, the camera crews captured the horrified reaction of the six Blue Team contestants. A runner wheeled forward a trolley on which lay three long chains with padlocks at each end. It was a surreal sight, particularly as they were still in the luxurious, landscaped gardens of the lavish five-star hotel where the show’s contestants and team stayed every year, marble steps fringed by palm trees leading down to the sparkling azure waters of the bay below. Across those waters, the contours of the sprawling private island on which the contestants battled it out could be seen in the distance; the setup was ideal.
‘Here’s the picking bag!’ Pip cried, as a runner handed him the familiar linen sack, stamped with the name of the show. ‘You all know about the picking bag, contestants! Time to find out who you’re going to spend the next three days with at very close quarters . . .’
Caroline darted glances at the other contestants as Dan and Pip chortled once again; they were all doing it, wondering who they hoped to be chained to and who they were fervently hoping to avoid. Next to Caroline was Veronica Breeze, an older woman, her hair dyed a vivid red, full-figured to the point of verging on obese. She had been a well-known television chef twenty years ago, and was camp enough to still have a small but ardent gay following. Then there was Santino dell’Aquila, also a TV chef, as handsome and fit as Veronica was out of shape; they had clearly been cast as contrasts in the hopes that Veronica, who was notoriously volatile, would lash out at her younger and much more charming rival. Beside him was Debbi Miles, one of the glamour models with whom Caroline had dreaded filming, a bleach-blonde beauty queen with genuinely pretty features so far seemingly unmarred by plastic surgery, though the same could not be said of her breasts.
The last two were St John Devizes, an elderly tennis commentator who had just been censored by the BBC, for which he worked, for making increasingly sexist comments about the appearance of women p
layers; the show was hoping, of course, that he would stir up controversy by making salacious remarks about the pretty female contestants and unflattering ones about the others. And then there was Joe Dale, the male beefcake, a boxer who was better known for his endorsements than his success in the ring, the possessor of a face as angelic as his body was buff.
It was better than a comedy to watch the expressions on everyone’s faces as Pip drew the first name from the bag. No one wanted to be shackled to Veronica or St John, so Caroline, Debbi, Joe and Santino looked distinctly more nervous than those two; they, on the other hand, were fairly complacent, calculating that the odds of their being drawn together were comparatively small.
‘Debbi!’ Pip said gleefully, waving the tile in the air for a second. ‘Who’s going to be lucky enough to get gorgeous Debbi?’
‘Ooh, I wouldn’t say “lucky”, exactly!’ Debbi said nervously. ‘I’m really useless, me!’
Pip was fishing in the bag again.
‘It’s . . . Veronica!’ he exclaimed.
Sneaking a look sideways, Caroline saw that Veronica and Debbi’s faces were pictures of distress and frustration. It might be live television, but the giggling of the crew was audible. They were allowed a certain licence; Dan and Pip would banter with them regularly during their pieces to camera, and many of the Australians who worked on the show year after year had become minor characters in their own right.
‘Well,’ Dan said, barely suppressing his own mirth, ‘I can tell that this is going to be a cracker of a year! Shall we shackle ’em up now, Pip, or wait till we’ve drawn the lot?’
‘You will do it,’ Veronica said icily, ‘at the very last possible moment.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Pip said, for some reason saluting as if she were his commanding officer, which had Dan collapsing with mirth.
‘What are you doing?’ he said to his brother. ‘You look like a complete prat!’
Cheated out of being chained to Debbi, St John was now staring so hopefully at Caroline that she involuntarily leaned back a little. As with so many men who criticized women’s appearances, he was no beauty himself. Overweight, with a pot belly that strained at the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt as if he were seven months pregnant, his grey hair was so sparse that it was a miracle of nature that it produced enough dandruff to be visible on his shoulders. His rubicund face, with its gin-blossom cheeks and high colour, was silent testament to the amount of alcohol he consumed on a daily basis, and his full, rubbery mouth never quite seemed to close, his jaw perpetually sagging open to show the shiny underside of his lower lip.
Killer Affair Page 34
