by Anita Notaro
During a break for coffee, Libby phoned her friend Moya, who was the wife of one of David’s business colleagues. Libby had as many friends as others had takeaway coffees. She could click on her e-mail any evening and find thirty personal messages. She was air-kissed and breathlessly hailed as somebody’s ‘darling’ several times a day. Her voicemail was permanently crashing under the volume of ‘let’s do lunch’ messages.
Moya and Libby had liked each other instantly when they were first introduced years ago, although their relationship had never really progressed. Now they kept in touch mainly by phone and e-mail and were forever promising to meet.
‘Libby, I was only thinking about you the other day.’
‘Hi, Moya. How are things?’ They chatted easily for a few minutes and Libby ran a few ideas for the show by her.
‘It sounds fabulous. I can’t wait.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bit too pretentious, too middle class, do you?’
‘God, no. Most of my friends would be glued to it looking for ideas. And everything you promote will be copied in hundreds of ghastly mock Tudor mansions in south County Dublin.’
‘Most of your friends have two cleaners, a housekeeper, an au pair and a lady who comes in to do the ironing,’ Libby laughed, knowing that she was exactly the same.
‘That’s true, but you know, so many people have more disposable income now. My domestic had lunch in a sushi bar the other day, for heaven’s sake. Everyone’s entertaining and the food is becoming more and more exotic. Even barbecues now have monstrous equipment – patio heaters, citronella candles and God knows what else.’
Libby could almost feel her friend’s nose turning upwards. They chatted on for a while and Libby felt a bit less unsure of the idea.
Later, she phoned Carrie Ferguson, her old and probably closest friend from college whom she hadn’t seen in at least five years. Carrie had met and married Peter, a farmer, and they’d quickly moved to a small village near Galway and had three baby girls, one almost every year.
‘Libby, it’s great to hear you. How the hell are you?’
‘Carrie, I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. Things have been just crazy here.’
‘I can imagine. Every time I open the newspaper I see your photograph. How’s David?’
It took them ages to catch up and Libby asked her opinion too.
‘Well, I wouldn’t do much entertaining out here in the sticks, to be honest, but I’d definitely watch it and dream, for the same reasons I buy all the glossy magazines. I think that with a bit of effort I could be like all of you lot. Some chance.’ She laughed good-humouredly.
‘I’m just not completely convinced,’ Libby told her friend.
‘Well, you’re selling the dream of the perfect lifestyle – log fires burning, candlelit table, crystal glasses and a woman who throws together an exquisite four-course meal when people arrive unexpectedly. I’d happily sit down to watch it in my oldest jeans and eat a packet of chocolate biscuits and think that I could do it too.’
‘Me, I just call in the caterers,’ Libby laughed without a trace of self-consciousness.
‘And then you go down to your well-stocked wine cellar and choose a vintage champagne to greet your guests with. I ring Peter and beg him to go to the off-licence in the village where they sell nothing but Chardonnay.’
‘Bet you wouldn’t change a thing, though.’
‘That’s only on good days. Sometimes I feel like selling up and moving back to civilization.’
‘I wish we saw more of each other.’ Libby had a sudden longing for an evening out with a real friend, instead of the sort she usually found herself seated next to at dinner parties. Moya was great, but you wouldn’t be telling her secrets.
‘Is everything OK?’ Carrie had heard something in her old friend’s voice.
‘Yes, fine, too busy if anything.’ The rare moment of reflection was gone. ‘Too many parties, so little time.’
‘Wish I had that problem.’
They promised to stay in touch and both knew they probably wouldn’t. Still, Libby felt better about herself and, more importantly, about the new series.
Next up was a discussion on key crew members. The production company had hired a hot new director and Libby wasn’t convinced he was right for this job, although so far she’d only met him twice. She had never been one to play safe with crew. Some presenters liked to work with the same cameramen, directors etc. all the time. Libby, however, had worked in TV long enough to realize that a look could quickly become dated.
Nigel, the latest hotshot, seemed to think the series should look like one long pop music video and was talking about using only hand-held cameras and fast cutting sequences, which Libby felt might look great but not show much of the food.
‘Our audience are twenty-, thirty- and forty-somethings who wouldn’t normally watch MTV on a regular basis,’ she’d reminded him coldly at their last meeting. To her annoyance he didn’t seem to take her seriously. Libby’s instinct was to have a second director who had a good knowledge of cooking and food presentation but, as usual, it came down to money, as it seemed to more and more on this particular series.
Luckily, her fee had been negotiated months before the present round of cutbacks and her agent had already secured a substantial figure plus a generous wardrobe and personal allowance. Libby was now at the stage where she could command huge extras such as her own private car and driver, nominate her own team of hair and make-up artists and select her clothes and stylists from almost anywhere in the world. She knew the TV channel were selling her whole lifestyle, hoping to attract a huge audience and bring in a considerable amount in sponsorship to boot. She felt justified in asking for all that she wanted, but of course she did none of the negotiations herself.
It was one of the things she’d learned from David, who advised her to get herself a first-class agent, in a top firm with offices worldwide. She had insisted on a clause in her contract whereby her approval was needed when deciding on a new format – almost unheard of in television – which was where she was at now.
During the morning David phoned and Libby retreated to her private office to take the call.
‘How’s it going? Are you giving them hell?’
‘You know, suddenly I’m not sure about this one. I think they’re skimping on resources and the lead-in time is not as long as it should be. I’m a bit worried.’
‘Well, get Melanie on to it, that’s what you’re paying her for.’
He sounded preoccupied as always these days. Phones buzzed and doors banged in the background and he was tapping on a keyboard as he spoke. Even though she was used to it, it irritated her today, for no reason.
‘David, could you just stop what you’re doing for a second?’
He was quick to respond. ‘Listen, why don’t we go out for a quiet dinner tomorrow evening and you can tell me all about it?’
‘When did we ever get to have a quiet dinner in our lives?’ She felt silly being so tetchy. ‘I need to sit down at home and go through it all in detail but then I will run it by you, thanks.’
‘OK, hon. Gotta go. Clients arriving. This could be make or break time.’
‘What do you mean?’ She was annoyed more than concerned, wanting David to show more interest in her project.
‘We’ve got a lot of their money tied up in pharmaceutical companies and the market—’
‘Sorry darling, now I’ve got to say ciao. Jeremy is prancing about like a hyena. Must go. Big kiss.’
‘Remember, don’t agree to anything you’re not one hundred per cent happy with. Your career is too important, much bigger than one miserable series.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve a lot more fight left in me yet.’
‘That’s my girl. See you tonight. Don’t wait up, I think it’ll be a late one.’
‘Love you.’ She knew he was already somewhere else.
‘You too.’ She heard a sharp click.
‘Bye-bye darlin
g,’ Libby said to no-one, smiling as she hung up.
She knew why she relied on her husband so much. As usual he got straight to the nub of the issue and was positive and assertive without being the least bit truculent. She always felt guilty about showing so little interest in what he did. It was just so boring compared with the razzmatazz of her world. Still, she thought as she gestured at Jeremy to come in, once she’d run through everything with David she’d make the right decision. She always did.
Much happier, she went back to the meeting.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch. Some great hot looks were proposed for Libby and the new fashion stylist certainly seemed to know her stuff, even if she’d taken a while to get going. She had finally prepared a mood board to give a feel of the look she wanted to achieve for the series. Libby liked it – and her – immediately. It was a sort of Salma Hayek meets Cameron Diaz look, sexy in a very laid-back ‘I could be anyone’s mother/lover/wife’ type way and it was a radical new approach for Libby, who tended to go for a classy, slightly conservative look on television. This was all layers and colours and textures, and much more funky than she normally went for.
Also, the food stylists had some clever ideas for the menus and food presentation. There was to be a book to accompany the series and the proposals for the website looked great.
The producers took Libby to one of the top French restaurants for lunch and a photographer was spotted snapping away through the front window, much to the owner’s chagrin. He lowered the slatted wooden blinds and apologized profusely, but Libby waved him away.
‘Don’t worry, Charles, I’m used to it by now, they just want to make sure I really do eat occasionally,’ she said and smiled, tucking into the most amazing boeuf bourguignon, tender slivers of the finest organic fillet of beef cooked slowly in perfumed claret with herbs and baby vegetables. It was divine and the deep, velvety Châteauneuf-du-Pape was exactly the right accompaniment.
Libby was not unaware that the entire restaurant was watching the incident. She licked her lips and her laugh became huskier. Might as well ensure it was a decent photo, she decided, spotting the photographer at the opposite window and angling her head in a flattering way. She noticed a good-looking man opposite staring at her breasts suggestively. Despite her protests, she was enjoying herself.
‘George, do stop fussing, I’m fine,’ she told the annoying waiter, who was clearing away imaginary crumbs and trying to protect her. She shooed him playfully away and went back to pretending she wasn’t looking at the young man who could have been Orlando Bloom’s brother. Running her fingers along the back of her neck and allowing her hand to rest just above her cleavage, she could see him sipping his wine and ignoring the two older men who were trying to keep the conversation going. She felt powerful and sexy and was enjoying the harmless flirtation until a young woman approached their table.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if I could have your autograph.’
‘Of course.’ Libby smiled and decided to be extra gracious. She took the biro and notelet offered and signed with a flourish.
‘Your programmes are fantastic.’
‘Thank you.’ She handed back the pen and paper.
‘And your books are really beautiful.’ Libby smiled vaguely and said nothing, simply picked up her knife and fork in a gesture of dismissal obvious to everyone, but the woman wasn’t daunted.
‘This is for my mother, she’s nearly eighty and she never misses any of your shows. How would she get a photograph of you?’ Libby didn’t particularly want to be associated with eighty-year-old grannies, it was bad for her image. She decided she’d had enough. One ever so slightly raised eyebrow in Jeremy’s direction and the producer sprang into action.
‘If you’d like to give my office a call, I’m sure my secretary would be happy to oblige.’ He handed her his business card and placed his hand firmly at her elbow. Libby looked away and began to talk animatedly to Ben, their trendy new accountant, and when she looked up again her admirer had gone. The granny reference cast a faint shadow on the proceedings and everyone sensed their star was slightly miffed.
The waiter insisted they have a second bottle of wine on the house, but they all wanted to keep a clear head for the afternoon, so they made do with dessert, Libby treating herself to chocolate crème brûlée with champagne vanilla cream.
The rest of the day passed in the blink of an eye. Libby was feeling pleased with herself again as she made a couple of quick phone calls, signed the last of her fan mail and sipped a cup of peppermint tea while her secretary fussed about, preparing a file of photos and notes for her to take home and study the following day.
‘Hurry up, please, I need to be out of here in ten minutes.’ Libby gave the temp a filthy look. It irritated her enormously that her own secretary was on extended maternity leave, abandoning her to a series of irritating impostors.
She had a massage and facial booked for five and as she entered the luxury salon she felt the tension in her neck easing.
‘Hard day, Miss Marlowe?’ the receptionist asked as she helped Libby slip off her coat and took her keys to have her car parked for her.
‘Busy enough, Laura, I can’t wait to have someone stretch out my back and dance on my shoulders. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’ Libby liked the reverential tone so she was sweet as pie.
‘Well, everything’s ready for you.’ Laura opened the door to a treatment room and Libby’s senses were assailed by the scent of essential oils and fragranced candles and fresh flowers. She undressed and sipped from a crystal glass a relaxing elixir of fruits and herbs and berries that was supposed to have many restorative qualities. Libby slipped between the cool cotton sheets and smiled as she always did at the old-fashioned touch – a hot water bottle for her feet. Music played softly: it was a magical sound of waves lapping and birds singing, and she could almost feel the sunshine on her shoulders even though she was indoors and it was dark and January.
For two hours she was pampered with creams and oils until her whole body felt stretched and supple and soft and her skin tingled and smelt wonderful. She had brought a pair of fine, cotton stretch pants and a big fluffy sweater in her gym bag and now she dressed snugly and tied her hair back in a ponytail. She emerged feeling no pain and stepped into her car, which was parked outside the door waiting for her. Normally they had the motor running on a cold evening. Libby turned on the engine and shivered slightly and resolved to complain to the owner, a friend of David’s. The young man who had been on duty for the last couple of weeks was just not up to scratch.
Mrs O’Connell had left supper ready, a snack as Libby had requested, on an inlaid tray dressed with snow-white linen, silver cutlery and sparkling crystal. Food was in the fridge – a dish of homemade brandy pâté and a plate of wild smoked salmon with lemon wedges and capers, needing only a crack of black peppercorns. Crusty ciabatta bread had been sliced thinly and was already in the toaster, ready to pop, and there was warm, moist brown bread and country butter for the salmon. Everything exactly as she liked it.
God knows it had taken long enough to train the housekeeper, who had been with David’s family for yonks and was used to doing things her way. Libby recalled the battles she’d kept from David in the early days of their marriage. She poured herself a glass of chilled Cloudy Bay, jumped into her thick white dressing-gown and flicked through the post. The best part of getting a facial was not having to take off your make-up that night. Libby sighed happily as she arranged the tray and took it to her bedroom where she curled up like a baby on the massive cream couch and flicked channels happily as she ate.
Chapter Five
THE DAY PASSED agonizingly slowly for Annie, who was afraid to move from the flat in case they rang and didn’t like talking to machines. She didn’t have a mobile, the charges were simply too horrific to contemplate. She’d stopped on the way home to do some shopping, feeling even more self-conscious about her ‘party’ look, if that were possible.
&nb
sp; Annie lived on a very tight budget and knew she ate all the wrong things. Largely her trolley contained convenience foods – tins of beans and spaghetti, frozen brown burgers and plastic chips, packets of cheap biscuits and plenty of processed white sliced bread. She bought all the own-label value brands rather than the well-respected and expensive ones and only ate meat once or twice a week. She hardly ever bought fish or fresh vegetables. Frozen everything was a hell of a lot easier and, she wrongly assumed, cheaper.
She struggled onto the bus not sure which was heaviest, her shoes or her shopping. A well-dressed woman gave her a pitying look and another of the ubiquitous teenagers a longing one.
Walking from the bus stop to her home always made Annie smile and despair. Sometimes, the teenage kids kicking a football gave her a wolf whistle and today they had something to whistle about. Annie burst out laughing at the ‘Jaysus, where’d ye get those knockers’ delivered to her retreating back. She stopped to nuzzle the horse kept in one of the tiny front gardens and felt sad as usual as she saw the frayed rope that ensured he stayed home alone. She knew the family looked after the animal, it just never seemed right that he should loom like a giant in his tiny playpen and as always she saw the faraway glazed look in his beautiful face.
She nodded hello to the elderly man trying in vain to sweep up the litter dancing about in the January wind, lurid ice-pop papers, cellophane-covered blue and red cigarette boxes and brown, oily, chip shop bags that formed the basis of their late winter gardens.
The flat was freezing. As a rule she didn’t turn on the heat during the day, so she quickly washed and scrubbed away her heavy make-up, wincing at the cold water but feeling instantly better. Shedding the shoes was like putting aloe vera on sunburn and pulling on thick fluffy leggings was instant balm for cold, chapped legs.
I need a good haircut, Annie thought, eyeing her unkempt tumbling, reddish locks, back to normal after vigorous brushing and shaking out of the gluey hairspray she’d applied lavishly that morning in order to complete the trashy look. She was of average height and weight with sparkly, emerald green eyes – her only good feature, she thought savagely, as she glanced disgustedly at her freckles in the cracked mirror on the back of the wardrobe door, thinking she looked like a real scrubber. Today was not a good one: her eyes were puffy from all the washing and a faint trace of liner still lingered no matter how hard she rubbed. She scurried around cleaning the house in comfy, faded tracksuit bottoms and several layers of well-worn, nobbled jumpers, hair caught up in a ponytail in a vain effort to tame it.
