Of course, they weren’t on television, he would always say, which was the one thing that he held on to, the one thing that made life tolerable. As he pointed out on a regular basis, when you told people you worked in television, they were impressed, period. So it was cable, so it was the dregs of the dregs. Television gave you kudos. Television could lead somewhere. That had become his mantra, repeated whenever he read about a former colleague taking over the reins at American Vogue or joining John Galliano’s top team at Dior. “I suppose I’m what you call a Z-list celebrity,” he would joke modestly with his friends, secretly thinking that he was at least D list, if not C, and comforting himself that even D list was better than nothing.
Magda scowled at Kate. “You may not have noticed, but our ratings are dwindling to the just-above-dreadful level. And if they don’t improve, there will be no more Future: Perfect. So let’s all think of constructive ways to improve the show, shall we, instead of slating good ideas?”
Kate nodded.
“Come on then, Lysander. Give us what you’ve got,” Magda said with a put-upon sigh.
Lysander raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I can do something to fit that… idea,” he drawled in a way that suggested that Kate’s concept was hardly worthy of the term. “So, what, we’re thinking Bree Van De Kamp meets Camilla Parker Bowles? A bit country, but with simmering undertones of pent-up emotion and sexual longing. Some floral, here and there, but tamed, not allowed to … to …”
“To proliferate,” Kate suggested, and Lysander shrugged.
“Camilla Parker Bowles?” Magda said with a dubious look. “That doesn’t sound dominatrix. Sounds more like to the bloody manor born.”
“Don’t worry, Magda,” Lysander said graciously. “We’ll get some rubber in there, even if it’s just rubber gloves.”
Magda, looking unconvinced that Camilla Parker Bowles would propel them into the serious league of makeover shows, turned to Gareth, who did hair and makeup, and who was Kate’s only real friend at work.
“Gareth? Anything to add?” Magda asked with another sigh.
Gareth nodded as grimly as if he’d been asked what the evacuation of the Gaza Strip meant to the peace process in the Middle East. “Well,” he said after a dramatic pause, “it’s a delicate balance. Sensible with a dash of sexy. Easy to do herself, but difficult enough to force her to make an effort. Different enough for her husband to notice the change, but not a shock to the system. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Kate suppressed a giggle. Gareth was the only person on the show who took the makeovers as seriously as she did—more, usually. To him, makeup and hair were life and death matters. As he told her whenever she’d had a run-in with Magda, or, worse, Penny the presenter, “This show changes lives, Kate. We carry that responsibility with us every day. It’s an honor, you know. And people appreciate us so much. …”
“Alright,” Magda said, after looking for a moment as if she wanted to ask Gareth what on earth he was talking about and then deciding against it. “Right, we’ve got no surgery this week, but we’re getting Mr. Fitness in to design her a workout.”
“Using tins from the kitchen cupboards,” Gareth interjected. “Make sure he uses kitchen implements. A workout any woman can do at home …’ “ His eyes lit up as Lysander rolled his eyes in disgust.
“Brilliant,” Magda said briskly. “Okay. Now, where the fuck is Penny?” She slanted an irritated look first at the door, then at the clock.
Penny Pennington was the presenter of Future: Perfect, an appointment that Kate sometimes thought had been agreed on the basis of her name’s alliteration alone—well, that and her cozy relationship with the tabloid newspapers and gossip magazines whose covers she graced whenever she could muster a worthy story. Penny had been a child star in the 1980s, presenting a television show and hitting the Top Ten with a sickly-sweet single, and had never quite managed to repeat her success. The nineties had seen her releasing several songs which never hit the Top Forty, appearing in an advertising campaign for teeth-whitening toothpaste, and every so often cropping up in a celebrity magazine—once for the shock news that “one of Britain’s best-loved child stars was in rehab for alcohol addiction,” once for the announcement that she was getting married to a slightly better known television magician, a few times six months on, reporting that the marriage was in trouble, and eight months on, that it was over. It had been her appearance on I’m a Celebrity—Get Me Out of Here! that had really turned her fortunes. She’d been voted out of the reality show relatively early, but her regular spoilt-brat fits and refusal to take part in any of the Bushtucker trials had led to her being dubbed Penny Petulant, and several “exclusives” in Hot Gossip magazine, Closer, OK!, and Tittle Tattle followed.
Future: Perfect had been the only actual job offer to come out of it, however, with the promise of a salary large enough to cover the rent on a smart Chelsea apartment. But Penny viewed the show with complete disdain, as a stopgap that would kill time whilst she waited for her real celebrity career to kick back in.
On Magda’s cue, the door swung open and Penny herself walked in, her eyes covered in dark glasses and her bleached blond hair hanging like straw around her face.
“So?” she said, waiting as a researcher evacuated her chair so that she could sit down. “What shit am I going to have to work with this week?”
Magda looked at her steadily. “Actually, Penny, we’ve got a nice little angle for the show next week. The woman in Essex, remember?”
Penny snorted. “The one who couldn’t stop stuffing her face with cake?”
“We’re going for country with a twist,” Magda continued, ignoring Penny’s little outburst. “We’re focusing on wardrobe and interiors for this one—and our reference point is Camilla Parker Bowles.”
Penny briefly raised her dark glasses in a dramatic gesture to give everyone a glimpse of her heavily kohled, watery blue eyes, which always shocked because they seemed so at odds with the rest of her appearance. Evidently satisfied that she’d achieved the required reaction, she placed her sunglasses back on her nose. “Even Camilla Parker Bowles doesn’t warrant that kind of put-down,” she sneered, then shrugged. “Fine, so Kate will be buying a couple of tea towels and Lysander’ll buy her a cheap and nasty tweed jacket, I suppose. And as usual, it’ll be left to me to turn this into something that people might actually want to watch.” She sighed and took out her BlackBerry, as if satisfied that nothing else of interest would come out of the meeting.
Magda took a deep breath. “Okay then,” she said. “On to this week’s filming. We’ve got the Moreleys’ unveiling to get in the can— Gareth, I want you close at hand in case their nose jobs look dodgy. And Kate, have the builders finished in their house yet? We need everything ready for Wednesday, okay?”
“No problem,” Kate said, crossing her fingers.
“Good.” Magda handed out some pieces of paper. “Oh, and Kate, we’ve had a few calls from that woman—Mrs. Jacobs. From the golden oldies show we did a few weeks ago? Very upset about something from the number of times she’s called.”
Kate looked up, worried. “You want me to call her back?”
Magda stared at her as if she were mad. “Bloody hell, no. I’m getting the lawyers onto it.”
Kate frowned. “The lawyers?”
Magda nodded. “Stop her suing for damages. Show can’t afford it, Kate. You should think about that sometimes when you have some of your more extreme ideas.”
“Extreme ideas?” Kate said. “Just because I like to be a bit creative …”
“Creating a grotto in someone’s bedroom?” sighed Magda.
“That was ages ago!”
“Building a four-poster bed in a tiny semi in Birmingham?”
“They loved it. They said it was amazing.”
Magda looked at her with disbelief. “Look, all I’m saying is that not everyone likes your designs all the time. I’m sure the lawyers will be able to deal with this one, but it’s worth thi
nking about, okay?”
Kate stared right back. “Carole Jacobs said at the time that she loved her makeover,” she said indignantly. “I remember her saying that she loved the way I used her wedding veil as a mini-net curtain in the bathroom.”
“Well, that’s worth telling the lawyers,” Magda said, sighing yet again. “Don’t take it so personally, Kate. She’s probably only after money.”
“I wasn’t taking it personally until you said people didn’t like my designs,” Kate muttered.
“I said some people,” Magda said irritably. “Now, can we please get on with some work? Otherwise there won’t be any designs to sue us over, will there?”
4
“She said she liked my ideas. She approved the designs, she helped me pick out colors…. Why would she complain now? I mean, how can she complain when she told me how great it was?”
Kate and Gareth were sitting in the Footprint Production minibus on the way back from that afternoon’s filming at a house in South London. Gareth put his hands over his ears, then sighed and turned to her. “Okay, number one, change the bleeding record. Seven hours you’ve been talking about this. Number two, maybe she liked it then and doesn’t like it now. Or maybe a cameraman smashed one of her valuable antiques without noticing. And number three, who cares anyway, because legal is going to deal with it. Just let it go. Pretend you don’t know she called up.”
Kate glared at him. “But I do know she called. I bet you wouldn’t be saying that if she’d called to say she was suing us because her hair looked awful.”
Gareth smiled. “That’s because no one ever complains about my hair or makeup. I’m a miracle worker, Kate, with enormous talents. It’s a responsibility, but I like to think I use my powers wisely.”
Kate rolled her eyes. After a pause she asked quietly, “Do you think my designs are over the top?”
“Finally.” Gareth grinned. “This is what you’ve been worrying about all day, isn’t it? I knew it.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Kate said. “Do you?”
He shook his head. “I love them. Kate, you bring sunshine and light into small terraces with dodgy plumbing. Don’t listen to Magda—she wouldn’t know real talent if it bit her on the arse. Why else would she have recruited Penny?”
Kate attempted a smile. “But Carole Jacobs obviously didn’t like my design either.”
“So what?” he said. “Do you really care what people think?”
She shrugged. “Yes, actually, I do.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well that’s your problem, then. That’s what you need to work on. Develop a thicker skin, that’s my advice.”
“What if I can’t?” She hated the plaintive note in her voice.
Gareth smiled beatifically, put his arm around her, and looked her right in the eyes. “Then get a new job,” he said. “Because if you ask me one more time whether I think Carole Jacobs liked your color scheme, I’m going to punch you, okay?”
The book was waiting for Kate when she got home an hour later. It was wrapped in brown paper and string and had been covered up by a whole heap of junk mail promising the best curry in London, first-class cleaning services, and low-cost mini cabs, but Kate saw it right away, partly because of its size, and partly because all day long in the back of her mind she’d been wondering what it was going to be like. What sort of book could change your life and bring you love— guaranteed?
She picked the parcel up and took it into the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of water and drank it. She almost didn’t want to open the package, didn’t want to spoil the anticipation and expectation. Because whatever this book was, it was bound to be a letdown. No book could do what C*p1d24 had promised it would.
Could it?
Feeling her curiosity build, Kate finally picked up the parcel and began to peel off the brown paper. It was a hardback book, quite small—no more than two hundred pages—and it looked just as it had on the eBay page. Except now it was in her hands. Now it was hers. Kate opened the book and began to read.
Dear Reader,
To the romantic at heart, the world is a place of grave beauty. And yet, to many, the romantic epitomizes an unrealistic dream—a yearning, a hope— that can never be fulfilled. To those people, I say that to be romantic is not to be hopeless. To be romantic is to have high expectations of yourself and others. To be romantic is to have dignity and coyness in equal measure; to value tradition whilst embracing all things new; to be bold and determined whilst also graceful and polite. The romantic sees the golden possibilities that so many ignore. The romantic never gives up or retreats into cynicism.
Of course, the romantic needs no handbook to guide her through life’s pleasures. And yet, a helping hand is always welcome to those determined to succeed. And so, Reader, it is in this spirit that I have written The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook, a book which I hope will be of some use to you as you glide through the adventures that lie before you, whether exotic and exciting or domestic and pleasing. I know that each of you can and will fall in love, that you can and will find the man of your dreams, and that you can and will enjoy a life of happiness, fulfillment, and, above all, romance.
Yours humbly,
Elizabeth Stallwood
Kate read the introduction several times. Elizabeth Stallwood was so right. Kate did see golden possibilities that others ignored. And she didn’t give up or retreat into cynicism. At last here was someone who understood, who saw the world as she did. She turned to the front and checked out the publication date. 1956. Okay, so the advice might be a little … vintage, but at least here was someone who wouldn’t tease her for wanting her own fairy tale and wouldn’t chide her for creating interiors that went beyond a boring color scheme.
Tom and Sal, eat your hearts out, she thought happily as she started to flick through the chapters. It was true, she didn’t need a handbook. But she wasn’t going to turn down a helping hand when it was offered.
5
Opening the Door to Opportunity
We all dream of meeting our future husband, and we know just what we will do when we do. We prepare for the day, keeping our figures trim and buying a dress in just the right flattering shape. We tell ourselves that he won’t stand a chance, that we’ll be witty, enticing, and alluring. We plan and practice the meals that we will cook for him and perfect our smile in the mirror in order to welcome him home after a busy day.
And yet, what preparation do we make to meet him? Just how widely do we spread our nets when we are trying to catch a mate? Do we regularly take a different route to work or visit a different gallery? Do we keep ourselves open to all possibilities?
Sadly, we do not. We hem ourselves in with routines; we say no to things or people that are unknown to us. In short, every single day we limit our possibilities for romance. The right stockings and the latest true red lipstick will be for nothing if you let the man of your dreams slip by because you are too busy following the same path that you tread every day.
And so, ladies, I propose a change. Do something different today. Take a different road to the greengrocer; buy a different cut of meat. Be bold in your choices, accept invitations that previously you may have shunned.
Perhaps this way you will meet your future husband; perhaps you won’t. But either way, by bringing something fresh into your life, you will begin to see the world differently. You will be enchanted again by things you have taken for granted. You will see that beauty is never far from your door. And you will find romance in the small things of life, which are as important as the significant ones.
Remember that if you only stick to what you know, then what you know now is all that you will ever have. And unless your romantic dreams have already come true, what you know now is unlikely to ever be enough.
Kate munched her crunchy oat cereal as she turned the pages of The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook and put a bookmark in when she’d got to the end of the first chapter. Then she finished her cereal and put her bowl in the
dishwasher. Do something different today, she mused. Do something different….
Not that she was following the handbook word for word or anything. This was, after all, a book written for women whose daily activities were limited to going to the greengrocer and welcoming their husbands back after a day in the office. It was hopelessly out of date and really very chauvinistic.
But still, Kate thought to herself as she walked to the bathroom and started to brush her teeth, when was the last time she did something really different?
Then she frowned. Speed dating had been different. Different and awful. Different and soul destroying.
But maybe that was the wrong kind of different. Maybe Elizabeth Stallwood meant that she should walk down a new street; do something that she’d usually avoid. Like bungee jumping (Kate considered hanging from a bridge by a length of elastic to be one of the most awful and terrifying concepts, better only than a parachute jump). Or swimming (enjoyable enough, but the chlorine played havoc with her highlights). Perhaps she should investigate some local evening classes. Or take the bus to work instead of the tube. Maybe the man of her dreams was at this moment waiting at the bus stop, hoping against hope that she might walk into his life….
Kate sighed as she rubbed some moisturizer into her face. Or maybe not. “Work” today meant a house in South London, which would mean a hideously long bus journey spent squished in beside some woman with her five noisy children surrounded by the vague stench of pee that always seemed to hang in the air.
Still, it would be a change from the cramped tube, where the stench was of her fellow commuters’ armpits.
The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook Page 3
