Christmas on Primrose Hill

by Karen Swan

  ‘What, so we’ll get Nettie . . . singing it?’ Daisy asked doubtfully.

  ‘No! She can mime it – we’ll do a spoof video for it. Have her looking sad by a window, her ears all droopy, a picture of Jamie in a frame on her lap . . .’

  Caro sat back in her chair and grinned. ‘That’d be so funny.’

  ‘It could say he has to forgive her if we get to £100k. I mean, he can hardly very well not, can he? And we can get people to retweet if they agree he should take her back, getting it trending again. He can’t ignore that. We could do with another hashtag too,’ Daisy said. ‘Something like “hashtag lovebunny” or “hashtag secondchance”.’

  ‘It’d have to double as today’s upload,’ Jules said, rubbing her temples and looking stressed. ‘There’s not time for two skits. We’ll barely get this done as it is.’ She looked around the table. ‘Are we in?’

  ‘We’re in,’ Mike said, giving the table one of his customary slaps as he rose to standing. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Great. Let’s go.’

  ‘Another cupcake?’ Jules asked. ‘My treat.’

  Nettie looked up at her from under her lashes. She could scarcely bring herself to tear her attention away from the screen. She shook her head fractionally.

  Jules sighed and got up, ordering a fresh round of tea and returning with a carrot cake, two saucers and a knife a few minutes later.

  ‘What? You’re looking thin. You’ve been doing too much walking lately. You’ll start slipping down the pavement cracks if I don’t keep an eye on you.’ She cut the cake in half and slid one piece, on a saucer, towards Nettie.

  ‘I don’t understand why he isn’t responding,’ Nettie said, oblivious to the temptation under her nose. ‘I mean, it’s at nearly half a million retweets already, and eighty-six grand. That’s a lot of people calling for his forgiveness. How stubborn can one man be?’

  ‘Very, apparently. Anyway, they’ll be responding all right – in a soundproofed room somewhere off the M4. Dave will be doing his nut over this.’

  Nettie’s eyes flicked up. ‘Why Dave?’ She stiffened in suspicion. ‘Have you been communicating with Gus?’

  ‘No!’ Jules protested, spraying crumbs over the table. ‘But it’s obvious, isn’t it? Jamie’s had a fit of pique and very visibly let down a small charity that needs his patronage and which he was waxing lyrical about last week. What a flake! The press’ll destroy him. This is a PR dis-as-ter.’ She winked. ‘They’ll be having crisis talks right now, I promise you. He is having a shit day.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. We’re stuffed if something doesn’t happen soon. I’ve got to be on that train in an hour if I’m going to get up to the studios in time.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Jules said dismissively. ‘Dave’s a businessman. He won’t let Jamie damage his brand like this. Jay’s just throwing his toys out of the pram, but he’ll come round.’

  ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘Who? What? What’d I say?’

  ‘Jamie. You called him Jay, like you’re in his posse.’

  ‘Entourage.’

  ‘Exactly. And you’re not. I don’t care if you’re shagging his guitarist. You’re my friend, not his.’

  Jules cocked an eyebrow. ‘Has it come to this? Oh my Gawd.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Just chill, babe. It’ll all come good.’

  Nettie looked around the cafe, their usual haunt when it was too early to go to the pub. The neon-pink ‘Primrose Bakery’ sign in the window cast a fondant glow onto the pistachio walls, the elaborately iced confections in the display cabinet as intricate and highly coloured as jewels. A mother and her tweenage daughter were sitting at the next table, comparing their manicures. Nettie looked away quickly, trying to pretend to herself that she hadn’t noticed them, that she didn’t remember that bond.

  She examined her own nails. Last night had been a mistake, she saw that now. She’d had enough time to calm down, watched the clips at least twenty times herself, a sick feeling steadily growing in the pit of her stomach as she saw the look of betrayal in his eyes as she ran off stage, victorious and so pleased with herself.

  She had gone too far – justified or not – and jeopardized the final days of what had been a phenomenally successful campaign. She should have just said sorry. She’d never see him after this Friday anyway. How bad would it have been to just DM him an apology? She would still get the last laugh. People were going to be laughing and sharing the clip for a long time to come. In fact, he may never live this down. Every interview he ever gave – well, if he ever gave one – every article written about him would feature her trick and his incensed, selfish response. She would haunt him for the rest of his career, although that was scant recompense compared to what she was facing – having Jamie Westlake as the One Who Got Away was a far worse fate.

  An idea came to Nettie suddenly. ‘Text Gus.’

  ‘What? Why? You told me not to.’

  ‘I know. Tell him I’m going to go on the show anyway to talk about the campaign and that if they ask me about why he isn’t there, I’ll obviously have to tell the truth that he’s being a bad sport. I’ll say how devastated everyone is by his abandonment of the campaign. Use that word. Abandonment.’

  Jules’s shoulders slumped slightly. ‘Nets, I don’t want me and Gus to get drawn into—’

  ‘Could you just do it? Please? What choice do we have? He’s obviously not going to be bullied by the entire Western world.’

  Reluctantly, Jules fired off a text. ‘And make it look like you’re warning him, like you’re on their side,’ Nettie said, biting a nail as she watched Jules’s fingers fly over the screen. ‘Did you use the word—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Jules pressed ‘send’ and replaced the phone on the table, casting Nettie an unhappy look.

  Nettie gave her a ‘what?’ look back, the two of them sitting in antsier silence as the minutes ticked past.

  Jules had begun picking the cake apart crumb by crumb when her phone rang suddenly.

  Jules looked at it in surprise, before slowly bringing it to her ear. ‘Yes?’ she said in a sing-song, telephonist’s voice. Her expression changed. ‘Oh, hi, Jay . . . Of course.’ She held the phone out to Nets. ‘It’s for you.’

  Nettie took a deep breath, giving a thumbs-up sign as she took the phone. ‘Hello?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘If you think I’m letting you sit on that sofa and destroy my reputation for a second time, you can think again.’

  Jamie’s voice was a low rumble, like a faraway explosion finally reaching her and splitting open the earth at her feet. She felt her heart fall to her gut at the sound of his anger, his contempt for her wringing the breath from her lungs.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. How could they have gone from lovers to enemies in the space of a couple of days? She forced herself to rally, not to be cowed.

  ‘I take it that means you’ll be there, then,’ she said in a voice that quivered only a little.

  ‘You’re damn right it does.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. I know Tested will be very relieved.’

  There was a pause down the line. ‘Fuck you, Nettie.’

  He hung up, leaving her reeling as she dropped the phone down from her ear.

  Jules reached over the table in concern. ‘Christ, what happened? What did he say? You look like he just hit you.’

  Nettie swallowed, managed a smile. ‘It’s fine. He’ll be there.’

  ‘Really? You look terrible.’

  Nettie blinked, forcing herself to stand and pick up the packed bags by her feet. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. There’s no time for chatting, Jules,’ she said, taking a shaky breath. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They had taken a punt on the pressure campaign working and couriered the unwieldy bunny suit ahead of her journey. It was far too bulky and conspicuous for her to travel with and was already hanging up in her dressing room when
she arrived.

  The room itself wasn’t vast – not like Jamie’s at the O2 – but it was freshly painted with a desk and sofa, and, to her astonishment, a bottle of champagne, a fruit bowl, a basket of muffins, a bouquet of white roses and a handwritten note of welcome from the head of guest relations. She only had half an hour till she was supposed to be on – it wasn’t like she needed hair or make-up – and she wondered when she was supposed to eat and drink it all.

  ‘Gosh, is all this for . . . me?’ she asked, sure she must have been shown to the wrong room.

  ‘Of course. We’re so excited to have you on the show,’ Debbie, the press officer, said as she rearranged the roses. ‘Alex and Matt can’t wait to talk to you about the campaign. It’s just incredible what you’ve done. Do you know one of our researchers said you’d achieved more in terms of fundraising and raising the profile of male cancers in this last fortnight than has been achieved in the previous thirty years?’

  Nettie was stunned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep,’ Debbie nodded. ‘In fact, we’re running it as the lead lifestyle story on Breakfast next week. The number of men – particularly younger men – booking to go to their GPs for tests has increased by eight hundred and forty-four per cent.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ she said, feeling humbled and ashamed that while she’d been bemoaning wearing the suit and trying to wheedle her way out of the skits at every opportunity, the campaign had been making a real and tangible change to men’s health. What had started as a desperate blag to keep her job after a drunken prank, a pathetic attempt to keep the attention of a rich and famous man, had snowballed somewhere along the line into a health marketing campaign that was actually working! Of course, Jules’s scheme to get her married to Jamie Westlake and have his babies hadn’t quite gone to plan, but . . . She bit her lip. ‘Is Jamie here yet?’

  ‘No. We’re expecting him in seventeen minutes.’

  ‘Seventeen minutes?’ Nettie’s eyes widened and not just because the number was so precise. ‘But isn’t that cutting it fine? We’re on in just over twenty, aren’t we?’

  ‘Don’t worry. His helicopter pilot’s already radioed ahead so we know they’re on schedule. Jamie’s performed on the show before, so he knows the drill. He’ll go straight to make-up and see you in the green room.’

  Nettie swallowed. ‘Oh. OK, then.’ If Debbie wasn’t worried, why should she be?

  ‘So I hope everything you’ll need is here,’ Debbie said, her eyes skimming over the VIP welcome and making a final check that everything was as it should be. ‘Daisy was adamant that we need to keep your identity a secret, and only myself and the presenters know your name, but if you can change into the suit first, before coming to the green room, OK? That way, no one will be able to put two and two together.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And . . . well, I don’t know what you usually wear under the costume, but a word of warning – it is very hot under the lights. That jumper, for example, would be a mistake.’

  Nettie looked down at her chunky marled sweater. There was significantly more snow in the North West than there had been in London and she’d dressed for the weather for once. ‘Oh right, thanks.’

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘No, I think I’m fine, thanks. This is . . . amazing.’

  ‘Any problems, I’ll be in the green room. It’s just straight down this hall, to the right. There’s a sign on the door – you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  Debbie turned to leave, hesitating as she got to the door. ‘Would you mind if I ask you something?’

  Nettie looked up. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I, uh . . . I don’t usually do this. You can imagine, everybody who’s anybody comes here sooner or later, but . . . well, would you mind signing your autograph? It’s for my son. He’s twelve and officially your biggest fan.’

  Nettie stared back in astonishment. Someone wanted her autograph? ‘O-of course,’ she said, gathering herself and patting her coat pockets for a pen. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Debbie gave a relieved smile, her hands folding over her heart. ‘Oh, that’s so kind of you. Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t ask. It’s not forbidden as such, but you could say it’s an unspoken rule not to do it, but I don’t think my son would speak to me ever again if I didn’t ask you.’

  Nettie smiled, dazed that this was happening. ‘Um, is it OK to do it on this jotter here?’

  ‘Great. His name’s JoJo.’

  ‘“Dear JoJo . . .”’ Nettie murmured, her tongue poking between her teeth slightly as she concentrated. She stopped. ‘Oh God, I nearly signed it, “From Nettie”!’ she laughed, correcting herself in time and signing, ‘Blue Bunny Girl’.

  Debbie took the autograph with a delighted smile. ‘Thank you so much. I will officially be crowned Top Mum tonight.’

  ‘Great title to have,’ Nettie grinned, nodding as Debbie closed the door softly behind her.

  Nettie stood alone in the dressing room, the pen still in her hand and taking in the glistening fruit and scented flowers, the stuffed sofa and chilled champagne. So this was a taste of it – life on the other side, how the stars lived, a glimpse into the luxuries and privileges that came with fame. Being treated as someone special, being pampered.

  Of course, her experience within it was faceless. Three point eight million people now followed her Twitter feed every day, but no one knew her name or what she looked like. They didn’t know where she’d gone to school or the regrettable men in her past. They certainly didn’t know about her deepest shame, a missing mother who chose not to come back.

  Copies of the day’s newspapers were fanned out on the desk and she picked up the one on top, flicking the pages listlessly, depressed by all the paparazzi shots of people whose names she knew but didn’t know why, climbing out of taxis or posing at drinks parties. Why did they chase fame, these people? What was it they hoped it would give them? She couldn’t think of anything worse than losing her privacy, of living in the glare of a spotlight.

  She stopped at a page – a double-page spread – that seemed to glitter with gold dust. It was a round-up of the Jingle Bell Ball, a montage of all the night’s stars variously commanding the crowd with arms in the air and white-toothed smiles. She was there too, of course. It surprised her, though it shouldn’t have – she, or rather the Blue Bunny, had been one of the stars of the night, but she’d never thought about it beyond revenge; the team hadn’t thought about it beyond Web reach.

  Somehow, seeing the image of her and Gus hugging on stage, part of that world, brought what she was doing into three dimensions. It was easy for her to hide herself in that suit; it was so huge it physically removed her from each situation, but as she looked at Jamie’s face as the water hit him – her paws in the air in a ‘what?’ position, the crowd open-mouthed – she saw that for him, it wasn’t some surreal joke that had accidentally tapped a public nerve and grown into a monster. This was his career, his reputation, his life. And she’d made it the butt of her joke.

  No wonder he hated her.

  In the bottom corner, she saw a small photo taken at the after-party. Jamie was sitting on a sofa, Coco to his right, her legs draped over his lap again, both of them looking to the camera with slitted, suspicious eyes, as though they’d been caught in the act of doing something illicit.

  Had they? She blanched at the sight of them together, feeling like her heart was being pinched. What was the truth about the two of them? Jamie hadn’t, in their brief time together, mentioned Coco’s name to her – he certainly hadn’t acted as though he was with anyone else on Saturday night, but Coco had seemed jealous when she’d guessed he had slept with her.

  Nettie looked away, remembering what they’d called her: That little mouse . . . freak bunny girl . . . a groupie. It was none of her business anyway, not her concern. Tossing the newspaper onto the sofa, taking a breath, she walked over to the costume, innocuous on the peg in its hanging bag
. Who would have thought one big bunny could have caused so much trouble?

  With a sigh, she brought it down and began to get undressed.

  She walked into the green room several minutes later. Debbie was there, standing by a table and talking on her phone. She hung up when she heard the door close, her face brightening into an excited smile as she saw Nettie, or, rather, Blue Bunny Girl standing there.

  ‘Oh, it really is you!’ she exclaimed, rushing over.

  ‘It’s me,’ Nettie said, throwing her arms out a little, feeling silly again.

  ‘Would asking for a selfie be too much?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Debbie clicked. ‘If I tweet this now, saying you’re on in two, we should see a sudden surge in the viewing figures.’

  ‘Two minutes?’ Nettie echoed, looking around the empty room. ‘But where’s Jamie?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in make-up. Don’t worry – they’ve got a live link to me. I was speaking to them just then; he’s coming down in a moment.’

  ‘Wow. That’s close,’ Nettie said quietly, wondering whether this tight schedule was in fact a way to avoid seeing her till the last moment.

  ‘Oh, we’ve had worse than that before, believe me,’ Debbie laughed. ‘Honestly, why we all want to do live TV is beyond me. We’re living on our nerves most of the time, but I guess we must like the rush.’ She shook her head.

  The door opened again and they turned as one to find Jamie standing in the doorway. It was as though a god had walked in: the actual composition of the air seemed to change and Nettie sensed Debbie shift.

  Nettie offered a little prayer, yet again, in gratitude that she was wearing a giant bunny head that hid her face and allowed her to stare at him, unabashed and unregulated, immediately followed by her usual curse that she was wearing this damned giant bunny costume in front of one of the sexiest men in the world.

  She watched in silence as he came over, wearing jeans and a khaki shirt that colour-matched his eyes, his attention resolutely not on her.

  Nettie felt a stab of apprehension as she remembered the anger in his voice on the phone. What was he going to do? Sabotage her back on live TV?