by Penny Smith
Keera was sitting on the sofa, swotting up on the Press Association copy off the wires about immigration when Mike came in at five seconds to on-air.
‘Morning.’ He nodded to the floor managers and cameramen. ‘These bloody early starts don’t get any easier, do they?’
Nobody made much response – they all got up at least two hours earlier than he did, and for a squillionth of his vast salary.
The director, Grant, spoke in their earpieces. ‘Cue Mike,’ he said, as the titles showing saccharine pictures of the two hosts cosying up together faded from view.
And they were on the roller-coaster, three and a half hours of ‘fun, facts and chat’.
Dee was in a foul mood, but doing her best to get over it. She missed her early-morning conversations with Katie in the dressing room. And Katie’s silly, and often rude, humour in Makeup. By the time they got on air, they were usually giggling over some hideous image they’d conjured up together. Instead there was Keera, with her self-absorption and her irritating little comments designed to get you on her side. If she tells me once more that she thinks I’ve lost weight … thought Dee, as she ran through the graphics and waited to deliver the weather forecast. She was carrying at least an extra stone, after finding her boyfriend in bed with her hairdresser. It had pushed her into the welcoming bosom of the Cornish Pasty Company, which she passed on her way home from work. Her thighs were getting on with each other so well that if they got any closer she’d get friction burns from her tights.
‘Sorry,’ she heard Richard say in her earpiece. ‘Sorry, Dee. We’re going to have to nudge you round to after the break. We’ve overrun.’
She smiled into the camera at him, so that he would see her on the preview shot in the gallery.
They went into the two-minute break. She checked through her graphics again.
Mike watched her bending over, and glanced at her capacious bottom. She caught him looking.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Just thinking how badly slapped together my bacon butty was this morning,’ he smiled, delivering the line as they were about to go on air.
Feeling instantly unattractive and unconfident, she fluffed her way through the entire thing, talking about the frog lifting in Suffolk and winds gusseting at forty miles an hour in the north of Scotland.
Between weather bulletins she sat in the star changing room, feeling distinctly tearful. She had to get a grip, go on another bloody diet. On the other hand, only the other day, William Baron had given her his number when she had been moaning on in the green room, and told her that if she needed help to lose weight he’d be only too willing. He had said that with a very direct look deep into her eyes. And then he had said, ‘Not that you need to lose any weight, of course.’
Dee didn’t trust her instincts at the moment. He was handsome and funny. He smelled nice. He was immaculately shod. He was probably gay.
She went into the studio to do her next hit.
Keera was interviewing a low-ranking immigration minister. ‘So,’ she said, listening to Richard in her earpiece, then repeating the question he had told her to ask. ‘So … why is immigration so bad?’
‘No,’ shouted Richard, in her ear. ‘I said, why has illegal immigration been allowed to get so bad?’
Keera reached round to her back and turned down the talkback button. She could no longer hear anyone from the gallery. It gave her a little thrill. She was skiing off-piste without an instructor. ‘I mean,’ she said, enjoying her freedom, ‘what would we do for cleaners if there were no immigrants?’
The minister looked confused.
In her earpiece Dee could hear Richard saying, ‘No, I didn’t bloody tell her to ask that.’ She smiled. In a weird sort of way it was quite refreshing to hear someone asking a random question.
The interview continued its erratic course until Mike decided to rescue the situation with a few questions he had heard Richard trying to shout at Keera, which put the minister on the spot.
Keera threw to the break and then, smiling sweetly, turned to Mike to ask him if he would mind awfully not coming in on her serious interviews. ‘Just at the moment,’ she said, ‘while I’m finding my feet. I think it probably undermines my authority with the audience. You’re so brilliant at them, but I do need to appear competent. Is that OK?’ And she squeezed his thigh in an intimate manner.
He looked at her speculatively. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought it was getting slightly off track. But I won’t do it again.’ Then he added, ‘By the way, they’re wondering in the gallery whether your talkback is working.’
Their on-screen relationship was barely out of nappies, and already the crew were sensing that Mike was contemplating infanticide. There was a veritable stampede to get to the morning meeting to watch the fireworks. But there wasn’t even so much as a sparkler. Keera had phoned from her dressing room to say she was going straight out on business.
Her agent had organized a meeting with the PR from a watch company. Although the presenters were strictly banned from promoting anything, there were ways of getting round it, and Keera was determined to meet as many top-brand PRs as possible. She had heard you could earn quite a lot on the side from ‘accidental’ product placement.
Richard, meanwhile, had to defend himself against accusations from Simon that he had let Keera down. ‘I did try to get her to ask the questions that had been mapped out by the producer,’ he said, ‘but her talkback suddenly went.’ He left a beat. ‘And then, rather oddly, it came back on again, shortly after the interview finished.’ He gazed innocently at the editor, knowing he would now be aware of exactly what he thought about the alleged equipment failure.
The meeting continued with a discussion of the next day’s stories.
‘And by the way,’ said Simon, ‘can we not have any more old has-beens in the entertainment section? Julie Christie must be a hundred and eight. And our viewers are more interested in Hollyoaks than Hollywood.’
Down in the dressing room next to Keera’s, Dee had been given a message from the presenters’ secretary asking her to ring a mobile number, which belonged to William Baron. While her heart did a little extra beat, she told herself it would just be a follow-up to the offer of personal-training sessions. Did she actually fancy getting down to her skimpies, being hot and sweaty, in front of the Baron?
She stared pensively at a picture on the board she had in the dressing room of herself at an awards ceremony. She had been younger then, and a lot slimmer. Why do we never think we look good until it’s too late? she thought, remembering how fat and frumpy she had felt that night.
No, she decided. She would say thanks very much to Mr William Baron, then go running. Or walking. Or swimming. Or eating less. Or only eating vegetables that began with c.
Oh, it was so wretchedly boring when all she wanted was a pasty and a pint of beer.
She dialled the number. He answered on the second ring. ‘William Baron.’
‘Oh. Hello. Good morning. It’s Dee here, calling because you left a message.’
‘Good morning,’ he said, drawing out the words.
She wasn’t quite sure if she was supposed to be saying something. Then they both spoke together. ‘You go first,’ she said, as they apologized over each other.
‘Yes. Sorry. I called because when I saw you the other day, I mentioned I could help you out in the personal-training area, not that I’m sure you need it,’ he added.
Nicely rescued, thought Dee, who was always ready to hear the implied criticism of her lack of self-control in the food-and-drink department. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked carefully.
‘Well, I thought we could maybe meet up, have a drink or something and discuss if there was anything in particular you thought I could do for you, lifestyle-wise.’
There was a slight hesitation before Dee answered. She was going to say that all she needed in life was a dependable man. How to sound desperate … ‘That would be good,’ she said.
> And before they put down the phone, they had organized a date.
Katie woke up with a hangover and the feeling that something unpleasant was waiting for her.
Now, what was it she had been worrying about?
Then she remembered.
She steeled herself for the worst.
And then discovered she had been inadequately steeled.
She was prepared for photographs that would make her look like a drunken slut. What she hadn’t bargained for was that they would make her look like an old and dumpy drunken slut.
So when Dee phoned from work to share her glad tidings of an impending date with a glorified personal trainer, she had been hard pushed to sound as thrilled as she probably should have done, considering her friend’s recent history.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dee.
‘Haven’t you seen the Mirror this morning?’ asked Katie. ‘I felt sure that certain elements at Hello Britain! would have drawn your attention to it.’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ said Dee, ‘droning on like an idiot. I forgot about you and that Mirror thing. The photographs weren’t too bad, were they? Did you think? I didn’t look closely, but they could have been worse.’
‘I suppose they could have shown me completely naked, so that people could have said that not only was I fat and ugly but I needed ironing as well,’ said Katie bitterly. ‘I thought they were horrible. I feel soiled. I feel like someone’s come into my house and looked at my dirty pants.’
‘Oh, come on, Katie. I mean, I’ll go and have another look, but I think you’re being over-sensitive. Hey, it was you who always said this sort of thing was a price worth paying for an upgrade or two and your favourite table at the Ivy.’
‘I was never old and sacked before,’ Katie retorted. ‘And, also, I’ve got a lunch date with a very handsome man, who may yet run a mile.’ She told Dee about Bob, and all about the very attractive parts of him. ‘Talk about tent pole. It could hold up a marquee suitable for a family of nomads.’ She smiled.
‘So how long have you and Mr TP spent together so far?’ Dee giggled.
‘One very lovely night. And we may, perhaps, be sharing a very lovely lunch. And that might be it. Depending on his attitude to those frigging awful photos.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s all new and exciting. He won’t care what you look like in the photos, he likes what you look like in the flesh. Did you say he was your brother’s best friend? I don’t remember you mentioning him before.’
‘That’s because he was one of Ben’s schoolfriends. I haven’t seen him for years. Anyway. This may be all immaterial – it could be over by this afternoon. Listen, I’ll speak to you soon. Thanks for cheering me up, but I’ve got to lose ten years within a few hours. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve stabbed myself to death over lunch.’
‘Ah, the Caesar salad, then.’
‘The knife in the back, eh? Et tu, Brute. Or in my case, et three – I’m so hungry.’
‘You haven’t changed. Still the mistress of the fine pun.’
‘Ha!’ said Katie, and ended the call.
Keera had been in the next dressing room to Dee, and her door had been slightly ajar; she was awaiting her agent. She had opened it wider when she heard Dee laughing on the phone and realized that she was speaking to Katie Fisher. As the call ended, she smiled and, later that day, made one herself.
CHAPTER TEN
Mike was at home, going through his bank statements and totting up his monthly cash haul when he had the call from a mate of his at the Vice Squad. They had met when Mike had hosted a police conference. ‘Just to let you know, Mike, as a friend, that you might want to curtail the nightly, erm … perambulations. I’ve managed to sort it out with the chap concerned so he isn’t going to put it on the computer. He knew you were a mate of mine, so although he checked the number-plate, he’s not going to do anything about it. He also owed me a favour about a little incident involving a red light.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A different sort of red light, of course. Anyway, I owe him now. Or, rather, you owe me …’
Mike was silent for a minute. ‘Yes, of course. Whatever. I understand. And, obviously, this will go no further?’
‘No, as long as you behave yourself. Consider it a friendly shot across the bows. And maybe, in return, you can introduce me to Keera. I’ve always quite fancied her.’
‘And your wife?’
‘She doesn’t have to know. Anyway, who’s going to tell Keera I’m married?’
‘Point taken. Thanks.’
‘No worries. Email me some dates, eh?’
Bugger. He pursed his lips, picked a sideburn for a while, then went back to his accounts, wondering if there was a different area.
Katie was making a real effort to look good for her lunch with Bob. It was a beautiful day, and the fresh smell of new-mown grass wafted up from the garden. She put on a slim-fitting – snugger than it should have been – short-sleeved dress that she had found in her old cupboard at home, with a pair of high platform sandals she had bought when they’d been in fashion the first time round. Her outfit was perhaps a little over the top for a local lunch, but she needed to feel in control when she presented the newspaper.
Bob looked pleased when he saw her making her way past the tables at the gastropub where they had arranged to meet. She attracted a number of other glances and furtive conversations, as people spotted the local celebrity moving among them, but she had got so used to it over the years it barely registered.
She had eyes only for the handsome man with the blond hair propping up the bar. It was all she could do not to throw herself on him and get to grips with his lips. They ordered a couple of pints and went to a table at the back of the pub, looking out on to the garden.
Katie perused the menu. She wasn’t sure she was terribly hungry, what with the knot in her stomach. The smell of lamb coming from the next table was making her feel bilious. ‘Just one course, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Not hungry?’
‘For food? Not particularly.’
He touched her thigh under the table, and she decided she need never eat another thing. If only she could get the newspaper stuff over and done with. With his hand still on her knee, she leaned down to her handbag and pulled out the Daily Mirror. ‘You know how sometimes, as a presenter, you attract unwelcome – possibly unpleasant – publicity?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What horrible item have you got there? Should I be worried? Have they taken a photograph of my fungal toenail?’
She slid the paper on to the table, with the photos facing him. He looked at them, then said, ‘And?’
‘And I thought it might be a bit offputting.’
‘In what way?’
‘That you might think twice about seeing me, considering that there may even be someone here at this very minute, waiting to take a photo of us on their mobile phone. And also …’ she took a sip of beer ‘ … they might dig up something about you that’s a tad more gruesome than your fungal toenail. Have you tried tea-tree oil, by the way? My mother swears by it. Or has it gone too far? Or one of your exes might do the dirty. Or something…’ she finished lamely. Because while she wanted to let him know that it was a possibility, she really didn’t want him to say he couldn’t see her again. That would be too cruel when she had only just rediscovered him.
Bob looked at her, musing. ‘I’d have to be a complete idiot if I thought you didn’t come with extras,’ he said. He picked up his beer and drank almost half of it, then put it back on the table. ‘And I think I can cope with whatever they throw at me.’
He smiled at her. ‘Now, what are you having to eat? I could eat the arse out of a low-flying duck.’
That had been the end of the conversation.
The food had come, and Katie’s had been taken away virtually untouched.
They had started a conversation about her imminent removal back to London. ‘I need to go and check on the flat,’ she said. ‘Open letters and d
o paperwork. I’m going to call my agent and see if he’s managed to get me any meetings with anybody. It’s a shame I can’t do an advert or two. I got asked to do the voiceover for a car ad a few months ago. They seemed surprised I couldn’t do it, considering the cash they offered me, but you can’t when you’re dealing with the Truth every day. People would think if I said it was the best car in the world it really was. And it wasn’t. In fact, it was as much the best car in the world as this is the best dress to wear if I was planning to eat any more than a blade of grass,’ she said ruefully.
‘It’s a fantastic dress,’ Bob said in a measured way. ‘But it would look much better if it was on the floor …’
And that effectively signalled the end of lunch.
When she arrived home, her parents were busy in the kitchen. Her father was chopping vegetables into narrow strips, her mother was painting a still life of the peelings and a gnome. Mozart’s Don Giovanni was shaking the speakers. ‘Are you two going deaf?’ she shouted.
‘What?’ yelled her father. ‘Can’t hear you. The music’s too loud.’
Katie went through to the sitting room and turned it down to bearable.
‘You don’t get a better ending than Don Giovanni, do you?’ queried her mother.
‘What?’ asked Katie. ‘You sit down to dinner with a dead bloke and get carted off to Hell? I think I’d prefer to sit down to one of Dad’s dinners and get carted off to bed by George Clooney. But each to his own. What are we dining on, dear Papa?’
‘We’re just having Swan Cornetto,’ he sang.
‘Ha, give it to me,’ she sang back, battling against the Commendatore from Don Giovanni.
‘And really?’
‘Fish and chipped vegetables.’
‘Mmmm. Good oh. Now. I have news. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done while I’ve been here. I’d apologize individually for everything, but because I’ve drunk so much, I’ve obviously forgotten.’ She nodded to her mother.
