by Penny Smith
He had a rare moment of doubt. Was Keera so high status that she would judge him by his flat? He hadn’t been successful long enough to be able to afford the sort of place he felt would suit him.
Should tonight be the readying of the troops before the storming of the ramparts? She definitely seemed up for it, he mused, as she faked interest in the pudding menu.
‘I don’t know. It all sounds so good,’ she said, eventually putting it down. ‘But I have eaten quite a lot. Maybe some mint tea?’
‘I might order a coffee,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll probably need to go for a run when I get home. Get rid of all this nervous energy you’ve created.’
‘Ooo,’ she said, with a sidelong glance. He was going to make a play for her. How very encouraging. A kiss outside the Ivy would be good for the photographers. And, unlike Katie, she would be sober and attractive.
It was while they were flirting over the coffee and mint tea, moving their agendas ever closer together, that Keera discovered William should have been having dinner with Dee.
‘I hope it’s not going to be an issue,’ said William, trying to sound sincere.
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m assuming you weren’t actually going out with her. As in dating?’
‘Good God, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s very nice, in a homely way, but not really my type.’ He let the implication hang. ‘You know, we went to dinner essentially. That was it. Nothing more.’
As they left the restaurant, she moved very close, turned her mouth up to him as though to ask him something, and the photographer got a nice snap of something that looked like a kiss.
She got home and fell asleep thinking about her five-year plan.
William got home and found a sweet message from Dee saying she hoped his business meeting hadn’t been ‘too unutterably stuffy. Do you fancy having Sunday lunch tomorrow at one of the fab curry houses round the corner from me?’
No, he did not. What a revolting thought. He pressed delete, and went to bed to read the instruction manual for his new juicer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bob’s mother would have told him off for mooching about with a face as long as a wet weekend. He would have felt better if he could have shouted at someone. But he lived in the wrong part of the countryside for an accidental double-glazing salesman.
It was the wrong day to shout at his bank manager. It was the wrong time of year to do anything in the garden that involved chopping. And it was the wrong type of weather to be stomping about the countryside. There should be a howling gale for that, and it was too hot for anything but fuming.
What he wanted more than anything else was for Katie to be taught a lesson that would involve them ending up in bed together and her saying she would marry him and forsake all others.
At which point, he caught himself up short. Was that what he wanted? In which case, why didn’t he just phone her?
No. Because she was obviously the sort of person who couldn’t forsake others. She would break his heart big-time. She would be unfaithful. And he couldn’t cope with unfaithfulness. It had happened before to him and it wouldn’t be happening again. He needed a one-man woman. Not some … He searched for the word … Some slut.
He stopped wearing a path in the sitting-room carpet, and stalked out of the room. He threw on his leather jacket, grabbed his helmet and headed off to the garage.
He was five miles down the M1, risking his licence, when Katie phoned his landline.
She didn’t leave a message.
The Hello Britain! press officer answered a call from the Mail. ‘I’ll get back to you on that,’ he said, and phoned the managing director, who confirmed the story, but said it was obviously imperative that it did not get out. ‘Give them something else,’ he said.
‘Such as?’ queried the press officer.
‘Has Keera done nothing recently? She’s always in the papers. Come to think of it, we are in the papers all the time, these days. This place is as leaky as an old bathtub. We could do without all these tales of incontinence.’
‘Incontinence?’
‘Sorry, I meant incompetence. The old story that suddenly appeared, for example, about the reporter who fell asleep when Katie was interviewing that minister. We need to find out who the mole is. I’ll put an email out tomorrow about it being a sackable offence to give stuff to the papers. As for this other matter, have a word with The Boss and Simon. You don’t need to tell them about the story we’re trying to bury. But we need one juicy enough to get the Mail off our backs.’
The press officer had been planning a rather wild Sunday of repotting his begonias and gently lobbing snails from his borage plot into next door’s garden before a trip to Tate Britain to look at the Constables. He sighed, and rang The Boss, then put the phone down quickly. He had had a brainwave.
He phoned the Mail back. ‘There’s no truth in that particular story,’ he said, ‘but I do know – and this is strictly between ourselves – that Keera and Dee are dating the same man.’
William Baron woke up on Monday morning as a love-rat. He couldn’t have been more thrilled if he had discovered an extra inch at the end of his Love Muscle, as he called it. He knew the value of publicity, and he had no intention of telling any of the reporters that he had only had one dinner date with Keera – and that, allegedly, to discuss work.
His phone had rung so much his ear was hot. ‘I’m sorry, but a gentleman never tells. All I will say is that I’m a single man, and I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of.’ He might have scuppered his chances of a strand on Hello Britain! (although there was always hope), but his newborn company had been given a gigantic kick up the radar. And, looking on the bright side, Dee had discovered it was over without the need for a tedious conversation. Friends of hers were quoted as saying she was ‘devastated’. He was, apparently, ‘the first man she’s loved since her ex-boyfriend revealed he was gay’.
Cracker.
If he played this right, he could be on Celebrity Love Island next time round.
At Hello Britain!, the tension was so tight that even a gnat couldn’t have stepped on it without pogoing out of the window.
Dee had considered taking the day off. Katie had told her to get over herself. ‘Consider it a small chapter in your autobiography. I know you liked him, but the man is patently stupid. To prefer Keera to you is folly. She’s a swamp donkey. And he’s a bum creeper, going after the person he thinks will do his career most good. You’re better off out of it.’
‘Why do I keep getting knockbacks, though? Just when I climb out of a hole, another opens,’ said Dee, in a small voice.
Katie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Yes. And they’re always “arse"- holes. But you’re talking to someone who’s also lurched from one hole to another. It reminds me of when I was twelve and got caught in rough seas in France. Every time I stood up I got knocked down by another wave. But I survived. Albeit by hoisting myself up by pulling down the trunks of a man standing next to me. Anyway, the point is what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’
‘You know I hate homilies,’ said Dee.
‘So do I,’ said Katie. ‘I was checking you were listening. Now, I may not be the example to which aspiring journalists – nay, aspiring humans – flock. In fact, as a recent email put it, I’m not going to be an example, I’m going to be a terrible warning. But this is what I’d do.’
And Dee listened to the instructions.
On Monday morning, Dee smiled as Keera flew past the door to Makeup with a furtive glance. And then with each throw to the weather, she made a comment.
‘Here’s Dee with the weather,’ grimaced Keera, in her favourite blue suit.
The vision mixer cut to Dee, young and pretty in a short, floaty dress. ‘Thanks, Keera. Well it’s looking a bit barren in the weather department today…’ she said, with a bad pun on William’s surname.
The vision mixer cut to a two-shot of Keera looking confused and Mike smiling. Both girls were having a dif
ficult time, and he was above it all. What a pleasant aspect it was from where he was sitting. He didn’t like Dee, and Keera had been painted as a scarlet woman in the Mail article.
On the next throw, Keera kept her mouth closed and looked pointedly at Mike.
‘Any damp around today, Dee?’ he asked, with a shark’s smile.
‘Only in some of the area here,’ she said, wafting her hand generally towards the south. Thirty-love, she reckoned. Nevertheless, she rushed to take off her makeup immediately she finished her last bulletin so she could escape the building before Keera came through. She hurtled through the newsroom, accompanied by a smattering of applause from those she considered her friends, and threw herself into the back of the Mercedes waiting to take her home. She was on the mobile immediately. ‘How did I do?’ she panted.
‘Bullseye, double top,’ said Katie, approvingly. ‘You were brilliant, as I knew you would be because she’s only one step removed from a whelk. Listen, I’m at a loose end for the rest of the day. Shall I come over and we can go out on to the tennis court and liberate your inner Annabel Croft?’
‘Has Bob phoned?’ asked Dee, solicitously.
‘Nope. Obviously that’s all over,’ said Katie, trying to keep her voice upbeat.
‘God, what a pair,’ sighed Dee, sliding down in her seat. ‘Do you think we need to buy a flat together, get the Zimmer frames, the sticky bathmat and the handle by the loo?’
‘It may yet come to that,’ said Katie, darkly.
The press officer who had done the evil deed popped down to Mike’s dressing room to tell him the whole story – how he had sacrificed the girls on the altar of publicity to save Mike’s skin. He liked Mike. He thought he recognized a fellow sufferer. ‘About this story we’ve squashed … categorically denying it,’ he started portentously, ‘on the assumption that you did not leak the aforementioned information to anyone, and knowing that it was not the managing director, and presuming that the person in Finance has not revealed it …’ He stopped.
‘Yes?’ asked Mike, brusquely. He found the press officer creepy.
The press officer rested his tightly clad bottom against the table, revealing a thick visible panty line. ‘It would be wise to play your cards close to your chest. We think there’s a mole here. There has been a distinct increase in activity, which has been noted. The MD is determined to weed out the nasty little animal in our midst.’ He looked significantly at Mike.
‘What?’ asked Mike, irritated.
‘There may be stories put about from now on, that are not true. They will, basically, be planted. So that we can find out who the mole is.’
‘Well, you’re doomed to failure, then,’ snapped Mike. ‘If more than two people hear a story, you’ll never find out which one phoned the papers. They’ll both deny it, and then where will you be? Unless you’re going to get court orders to seize their phone bills. Or their bank accounts. Bloody stupid idea. The MD needs to get a grip.’ He turned to sign an autograph on a mug for Save the Whale.
The press officer withdrew, miffed, since it had been his idea for the rogue stories.
Mike stripped down to his snug-fitting white Y-fronts, and put on some casual trousers. ‘As if any of the presenters would be selling stories for peanuts,’ he muttered, under his breath.
He stepped over the suit he had left on the floor, walked down the corridor and poked his head round the door of Wardrobe to ask Derek to have it dry-cleaned. ‘I’ve dropped tea on it,’ he shouted, over his shoulder, as he continued on his way to Makeup.
‘Hallelujah,’ muttered Derek. ‘A suit I’ll be able to steam without gassing myself. Let’s leave all the other stinky suits hanging in the cupboard,’ he said nastily, putting down the needle he had been threading. He wandered up to Mike’s dressing room.
It was always such a mess. It was no wonder Mike hadn’t noticed that one of his mobile-phone bills had gone missing …
‘Oh, Keera,’ said Mike, pasting on a smile like a pair of lips on a Mr Potato Head; ‘I’ve sent you an email about a mate of mine. He’s a copper at Scotland Yard. May be quite useful meeting up with him. Awards ceremonies, corporates, that sort of thing. Anyway, I’ve sent you all the details. I’ll leave it up to you. He’s apparently very good-looking, according to women I know. If that makes any difference,’ he added as he swiped a baby-wipe over his face.
He knew that his alleged mate had nothing whatsoever to do with corporate events, but hoped that would be enough bait to tempt her into phoning him.
Keera’s supreme self-confidence had taken a mild knock that morning. She had heard the suppressed laughter in the gallery down her earpiece during the throws to the weather, and realized they were laughing at her. But she had won the man, hadn’t she, in a fair contest? On the other hand, Dee didn’t seem that bothered. Was it a prize worth having, if your rival didn’t really want it? It was rather taxing.
She massaged moisturizer into her clean skin, gazing at herself in frank admiration. ‘Vanda, can I borrow some of your makeup, please?’ she asked, and put on a light foundation, a ray of blusher and a hyphen of eyeliner, then went to the morning meeting.
There was a hush as she walked into the room. Simon looked up from his notes. ‘Keera, hi. Well done today. A difficult situation.’ And he continued the meeting.
As everyone filed out half an hour later, he asked her if she could stay behind. She sat down again, saw herself crossing her ankles in Princess Diana fashion, and checked her manicured hands as they lay in her lap.
‘Do you still want to go ahead with this William Baron strand?’ he asked, his bony hands playing with a biro. ‘I can totally understand if you don’t want to – under the circumstances.’
Keera looked out at the sky for a moment, as if to focus. In reality, she was giving Simon her favourite profile. As if she hadn’t already considered the question, she thought. Did he think she was a moron?
‘I don’t know,’ she said, after appearing to cast about for an answer. ‘I mean, obviously it’s not very nice for Dee if he comes in. But she seemed all right with it this morning – unless she was putting on a stiff upper lip, as they say. What did she say about it when you asked her?’
He seemed faintly surprised by the question. ‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be doing the strand. It’s not her call. Is it?’
‘I suppose not,’ considered Keera, turning her face slightly more into the sun for maximum flattering lighting. ‘I think…’ she mused ‘. I think I would still like to do it. I think our viewers could really benefit from William’s experience. I know that, as a lifestyle guru, he could be said not to have organized this part of his life very well, but when the heart is involved…’ She tailed off. Then she started again: ‘And, of course, what he advocates is making plans in all areas of your life, and trying to stop being chaotic.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Funnily enough, Dee is exactly the sort of person who could benefit – she’s all over the shop, isn’t she?’ She chose a little silvery laugh from her anthology of humorous responses.
It sounded more Cruella de Vil than Tinkerbell, but Simon wasn’t complaining. And he hated Dalmatians. He smiled back. ‘Naughty,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I must say, I think it’ll go down very well with the viewers. I know we’re talking about your personal life here, but it will give an added frisson. If you don’t mind that?’ He left the question hanging.
Keera snatched it out of the air, breathed it in, and let it out in a soft ‘No …’
The weather broke in a proper Thomas Hardy Return of the Native way, just as Katie had wanted. The thunder was loud enough to make her look out of the window to check whether or not Battersea Power Station had taken off. Sheet lightning gave it a dramatic backdrop. She loved her flat on a day like today. It was like having front-row seats at a rock concert put on by the rock god. She wandered over to her CD collection and selected Janácek. That was what was needed. A lot of trumpety sounds and cymbals.
An ho
ur later, the sky had been thoroughly washed and the sun came out to dry it properly.
Katie nipped down to check on her post. Bills. Bills. Bills. ‘More bills than a flock of falcons,’ she mumbled to herself, as she went up the stairs. ‘If that’s what a collection of falcons is. An unkindness of ravens. A murder of crows. A parliament of owls. A nuisance of cats. Yes, it’s a sign of madness,’ she said, ‘talking to yourself. Oh, and there are hairs on the palms of my hands. And I’m talking to them. And here I am on the stairs, looking through my post and talking. But if I’m mad, I wouldn’t know it. So the very fact that I think I am … How can there be so many bills?’
She opened a few as she climbed the steps. Council tax. Darn. She should have paid it when she was working. Water. Gas. Electricity. Is this a conspiracy? Two phone bills. As she let herself back into the flat, she opened the rest.
A few were on direct debit, the others involved having to get out her cheque book. While she was at it, she grabbed her last bank statement and a calculator. She was going through her savings in a spectacular fashion. Living is too bloody expensive, she thought. It’s not as though I’ve done anything expensive. Dinners. Few bottles of wine here and there. Obviously last Thursday night. But that was a one-off. Nothing spent in Yorkshire, apart from the Oddbins trip. Train. But that was cheap. She went through her bank statement with a fine-toothcomb. Maybe I’ve had my identity stolen. I may have been cloned. I may not be me. There is only one way to check. If I can eat a whole tub of Marks & Spencer trifle, I am still me.
She went out to the King’s Road. While she was securing trifle, she bought a bottle of pink champagne. And a pair of black patent shoes.
‘Bloody stupid,’ she tutted, as she got back to the flat and put them on. ‘What I should have done is Sellotaped over another black pair.’ But they did look gorgeous, she thought, as she admired her feet walking backwards and forwards from the sofa.
