by Penny Smith
Katie had about two hours of blissful drunken sleep before the quest for water sent her to the kitchen. The dog turned in his basket, farted, then went back to twitching and worrying about next door’s ferret.
Katie returned to bed.
Got up again.
Went to the bathroom.
Went downstairs for more water.
Went back to bed.
Then decided that what she really, really wanted was more wine.
She opened the cupboard and perused the contents. 1986. Was that a good year? Château Lagune. Definitely something that shouldn’t be drunk alone. Methylated spirits? Oh, that must have been Mum. She squinted. A Spanish Rioja squinted back.
She poured a large glass, went into the sitting room and turned the television on low. Rock Hudson hove into view in a black-and-white film involving doctors and nurses. He nudged another male doctor and said, sotto voce, ‘She’s the one I want.’
Katie giggled. ‘No, she’s not. He wants you,’ she whispered at the screen.
She didn’t remember seeing the end of the film – or the end of the bottle – when she was woken by the dog, giving her a wet patch. ‘Erk,’ she said experimentally. Her mouth tasted disgusting. I wonder if this is what my kidneys would taste like if they were marinated.
In the bathroom mirror, she viewed the cushion crease on her face, which resembled a fresh scar, and prodded a spot that had arrived on her cheek. Must’ve taken the overnight bus, the bastard, she thought, which is what I’ll be doing soon, now that I haven’t got a job.
Tears welled.
Ben walked in wearing his boxer shorts, his hair looking like it had been licked by the morning gorilla. ‘Oh, God … Bit early for that already,’ he said, as he yawned and scratched and reached for the toothpaste.
‘I wasn’t crying. I yawned too big and made my eyes water,’ said Katie, stalking out of the bathroom.
A little later, Ben headed off for the journey back to London and work.
Her mother flitted about with unhelpful suggestions. ‘You could always go back to writing for a local newspaper,’ she said at one point.
Katie rolled her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Mum, I’ve come a bit further than that. That’s like telling you you could go back to painting by numbers. Or Dad that he should try making coconut pyramids.’
‘I love coconut pyramids,’ announced her father, as he flicked through his mountain of cookery books to see what he fancied making for dinner. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to do anything for a while, do you? You must have got some money stashed away. Why don’t you give yourself a month off and then make a decision? You could even stay here while you do it …’ He noticed his wife’s expression. ‘. for a couple of weeks,’ he finished lamely.
Katie shot her mother a look. ‘Thanks, Dad. And if you don’t mind, Mum, I will stay for a few days, then go back to the flat. No point in eating you out of house and home, eh?’
‘Or drinking us out of house and home,’ said her mother, who had not seen quite so many bottles for a family dinner since her daughter had last come to stay for a weekend.
The next day, Katie mooched round the house.
The day after, she woke up to find the house surrounded. ‘Sorry,’ she said to her mum and dad at a crisis meeting round the kitchen table. ‘I thought they’d have given up. After all, it’s not that much of a story. Must be a slow news day. To talk or not to talk, that is the question.’
‘And answer came there none,’ added her father. ‘And that was hardly odd because they’d eaten every one.’ Alice in Wonderland had been a favourite bedtime story and was often quoted inappropriately.
Katie sucked her bottom lip, then her top lip, then both of them together. Then made a decision.
‘I’m going to phone my agent,’ she told her parents, ‘who will no doubt recommend that I go out and tell them I have nothing to say on the matter, although I wish Keera well in one of the best jobs in television. Then I’ll say I have a number of projects in the pipeline, which can’t be discussed at the moment because, as we know, I have bugger-all. No, Mum. Obviously I won’t say that.’
‘How are you?’ Jim asked.
‘Been better. How are things there?’
‘We’ve been fending them off. Saying you’ve been having meetings with various people to discuss your new projects. Too hush-hush to talk about at the moment, obviously.’
‘Same old rubbish that old has-beens always spout, eh?’ said Katie.
‘You’re not a has-been. You’re a coming-round-again. A born-again presenter.’
‘A BAP – a sort of BAP that’s the last on the shelf.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Anyway, I was hoping to have a week or two to compost here in Yorkshire, and not say anything about those toads at work. Sadly, the press studs are on the gravel, hoping to tempt me out, and I’m thinking of getting the support of the blond and gorgeous Hercules and my Victoria’s Secret bra.’
‘You think the dog’s a good idea?’
‘You think the bra’s a good idea?’
Jim laughed. ‘Well, you sound like you’re going to be OK.’
‘Thanks. But, let’s face it, we both know there are lots of women out there who can do the job and who aren’t on the slippery slope to fifty. I knew I should have had a penis implant.’
‘You still can. I’m sure I have a number here …’
‘Very funny. I’m off to put on a face, a bra and a dog.’
‘Just remember to put them where they’re supposed to go.’
‘Thank goodness you reminded me. I was just about to adjust my la-bra-dor straps. ‘Bye.’
It took her an hour to get ready, mostly because her escape from London had involved no luggage and she had to root through the detritus of her past in the wardrobe in her bedroom. Luckily, the eighties were coming back in …
Her dad was chatting to the reporters and had given them cups of tea and coffee, telling them she was on her way back from a walk. Peering out from behind her bedroom curtains, Katie smiled. He was in his element, holding court, being witty and erudite.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror, put on a bit more lip-gloss and went downstairs. ‘How do I look?’ she asked, as she stood poised in the hall, with Hercules gazing up at her expectantly.
‘Nice dog,’ said her dad.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I always like to have a handy Lab coat when there’s an emergency operation.’
‘Good luck,’ said her mum, as she opened the front door. ‘I quite fancy the one from the Daily Mail. He smells lovely.’
The Daily Mail ran the worst article. ‘Katie Fishes Bottom of the Barrel’ was the headline on page three. The best was in the Sun. ‘The Dogs of War – Katie Fights Back’.
‘Hercules looks good,’ said her mother, as she peered over her daughter’s shoulder, and burnt the toast.
The papers had been pored over at Hello Britain! since the first editions had dropped at eleven the night before. Keera had tried hard not to look smug and ended up looking smug and arch at the same time. Mike had harrumphed and said he wasn’t reading the rags until he’d finished the show. ‘Nice dog,’ was his only comment.
Richard, the day’s producer, said under his breath, ‘Unlike you.’
The show that day had sparkled as Mike and Keera seemed to have decided they needed to prove something. Off-screen, though, they had been demanding. Mike had complained about every script and was throwing papers on the floor, describing them as ‘absolute shit’.
Richard was in the gallery, sitting next to the director and the director’s assistant, listening to the tirade and rolling his eyes. Eventually he had had enough. He leaned forward, opened the button to connect the microphone to Mike’s earpiece and said, ‘If you think they’re so shit, why don’t you get in a little earlier and rewrite them, instead of turning up five minutes before you need to go to Makeup and shouting about them now?’ Richard could tell from Mike’s face that he’d be
for it later, but what the hell? He was fed up with being shouted at by an egotistical wanker – even if he was one of the best presenters around. There was no need to do all that posturing in front of everyone else: he could easily have had a word in private but, no, he liked to get out there and puff up his toady chest even more than it was puffed up already.
And as for Keera! That damn stupid question she’d put to his reporter – who, even now, was getting it in the neck from the smitten editor. ‘Why is anorexia so popular?’ she had asked.
Judith, the reporter, had winced and said, ‘I don’t think “popular” is the word I’d use.’ Afterwards, she had got on to the squawk box and instructed Richard to tell her not to use that word the next time they did the Q and A.
‘I’ll speak to her,’ Richard had said.
When they’d done the interview again an hour later, the bloody woman had gone and said the same word. Just to make a point.
‘If only she had a mere shaving of the intelligence she feels she has,’ muttered Richard, as he gazed at the beautiful profile of his female talent. Richard had been a big fan of Katie. The weeks that Keera had stood in while she was off had felt like months to him. He had been stunned to hear she was Katie’s permanent replacement. It meant a lot more work for him: not only did he have to write the links and pussyfoot around Mike’s gigantic ego, he had to explain the links and pussyfoot around the minefield of dealing with Keera.
She was in with so many people. She’d go straight to The Boss and tearfully tell him they’d been getting at her. Next thing you know, he’d be defending his use of the word ‘twat’. Even though ‘complete twat’ would have been more appropriate.
He watched her on air now, flirting indecently with a member of a boy band. If she crossed her legs in that Kenny Everett manner once more, he thought, the boy closest to her was going to stop talking. Poor sod didn’t know where to look, with her flashing her knickers like that.
She was having the time of her life, sitting on the sofa that should have been occupied by Katie – a woman who could hold her own in a political interview, who could coax the best out of a difficult interviewee, who would never have asked why anorexia was popular – as though it was football or dog racing.
Mike and Keera signed off the show, Keera doing her little wave and a giggle – one of the newspapers had commented on it and she had now decided it was her ‘signature pay-off’.
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the morning meeting where a post-mortem was being held. Keera had sent her apologies: she had a photo shoot for OK! magazine and they wanted to get her straight after the programme to talk about her marvellous new job.
The editor was swinging on his chair and looking casually out of the window as the rest of the group responsible for putting out the show waited silently for Richard’s arrival.
‘Richard,’ said the editor, pushing his fringe to one side, ‘the scripts today were a disgrace.’
Richard shot Mike a filthy look. Mike stared back innocently. ‘No worse than normal, I thought.’
‘No worse than normal? Well, bloody pull your finger out. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be the premier breakfast station in the land, and we have scripts that are no worse than normal?’
‘I was taking the piss. Which particular scripts are you talking about? Take me through one and I’ll attempt to defend it.’
‘Show me one that was good and I’ll allow you to.’
The two men faced each other.
There was a silence, then Richard finally said, ‘Well, shall we get on with the rest of it?’
‘I want a word with you later about dealing with the talent, too,’ said Simon.
‘Great. Something to look forward to.’
It was ten o’clock in the morning. Richard had done his twelve-hour shift and was wondering if they were going to feel more and more like twenty-four hour-shifts now that he had lost the one person who had made the exceptionally long nights a little less gruelling. He used to drive home, but he’d been so knackered one morning that he’d dropped off at the wheel and disappeared down a hole in the road. He was lucky he’d not taken out two of the workmen – fortunately they had decided to brew up and were sitting on a low wall a few feet from the scene. Now he took the tube. If he slept, he’d wake up at Ealing Broadway and could take a cab back to Acton.
He was on his way down the steps at the station, when his mobile rang. It was Katie. ‘Hello. Can you speak?’
‘I’ll be on the tube in a moment. How are you?’
‘Getting over it, I think. Still can’t quite believe it, obviously. It feels weird not to see the sunrise every day. But I miss you – well, you and the others I got on with. I don’t miss the awful bear-baiting in the morning meeting. Or the money. Joke.’
‘I assume you’ve seen the papers?’ Richard grasped the elephant in the room by the scruff of its neck.
‘Yup. Anyone say anything interesting when they saw them?’
‘Well, nobody said much to me, but they know better. Obviously. Mike said he’d read them later.’
‘Oh,’ said Katie, sounding disappointed. ‘And the beautiful Keera?’
‘She loved it. Particularly the bit about your new projects. She asked in a concerned way whether we thought you’d be all right. Like she cared. As for me, I thought you looked very nice with Hercules. His hair is perhaps a little shinier than yours, but your nose was definitely wetter.’
‘Look, I’m staying with Mum and Dad for a bit before coming back to London. Can you keep your ears peeled for anything you think might be useful?’
‘Like how to make a small bomb to put under the sofa?’
‘Mm. But it would have to be a Heat-reader-seeking device. I still hold out vague hopes of presenting with Mike again. Actually, I’m going to phone him now. He generally has his ear to the ground. He might know if there’s anything out there.’
Richard grunted, wished her luck and clicked off the phone.
Katie found Mike sympathetic.
‘I sent you a couple of texts. Did you get them?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘They’ll probably come through in a lump when I least need them. Like some of my friends. Anyway, what did they say?’
‘Oh, just the usual. Sorry to hear you were dumped on. How I’m having to try bloody hard to get it to work with Keera. She’s not like you. You’re a joy to present with, but my hands are tied. I can hardly walk off like some child who’s had his ice-cream stolen. Much as I’d like to. But listen, I was at the BBC the other day and I mentioned your name to the chaps and chapesses I’m working with on a new show that’s right up your street. It’s a sort of Pop Idol meets Woody Allen. They choose ten people, out of a cast of thousands, to become directors. They get to produce a ten-minute short with all the help they can possibly need and at least one famous soap star will act in their masterpiece. They’re looking for two presenters … one in the studio to link everything together, and the other on location to speak to everyone involved – chat to the would-be directors, the soap stars, et cetera et cetera. I suggested you should be the one doing the location stuff.’
‘God, that would be fantastic! And what a great concept! Should be perfect. A few golden nuggets among the dross at the beginning, then ten people who’ll never be heard of again after they’ve sold their soul to the television devil. How long would it be for and when does it start?’
‘They’re still in the early stages. A few months before they get all the contestants and check them out. It won’t happen until July at the earliest. But I’ve been pushing for you, so fingers crossed.’
For a nanosecond the conversation perked Katie up. Then she remembered the rather pressing problem of her enormous mortgage. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. She looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. She had put a bottle of wine in the fridge for a sharpener while she made calls round her mates in the business to see if there was any voiceover work she could do.
But she hadn’t been particularly clever in her ch
oice of friends over the last few years. They were loyal, intelligent and fun. They knew marvellous facts. They could tell her whether it was true that earwigs were the only insects that suckled their young, the origin of the word kiss, the best way to get to Ikea, how to operate her mobile phone. But they were not very useful if you’d been sacked. ‘The trouble is, Hercules,’ she commented, as she circumnavigated the golden rug, ‘that I’d prefer to eat my own head than spend an hour talking about a piece of jewellery on QVC. But I may, at some stage, be grateful for an offer.’
She poured a glass of wine.
‘And there’s the distinct possibility they wouldn’t employ me anyway because I know next to nothing about lampshades and cubic zirconia. Do you think I should retrain as a carpet-maker and specialize in dog rugs?’
Hercules farted. Sniffed under his tail. Put his ears down and walked over to his basket.
CHAPTER SIX
Mike let himself quietly out of his house. His trophy wife was sleeping, her hands covered with moisturizer and encased in white cotton gloves. The Patterdale terrier they had bought at vast expense from a breeder in Devon looked up expectantly as he was collected from his bean bag on the landing. Mike tied a red spotted handkerchief round Buster’s neck, and tiptoed down the stairs. He had taken the precaution of parking the car away from the house – not that Sandra would have woken up. She was always exhausted from the four hours’ exercise she did every day and the lack of food that kept her in sparkling bony condition.
He opened the passenger door and Buster took up his position on the velvet cushion Mike kept under the carpet in the boot. He didn’t want to have to make up any excuses to Sandra about what it was for. And, anyway, it smelled unmistakably of dog. ‘All right, boy?’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go and make mischief.’
The next morning Keera was ultra-solicitous. ‘Are you all right, Mike? You look knackered.’
