Coming Up Next

by Penny Smith

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ tutted Ben.

  ‘Arse-k and you shall be given?’ she essayed.

  ‘Just give it up with the bad puns,’ her brother advised.

  ‘I keep telling her, too,’ sighed Dee, ‘but I think it’s seeped into the fabric of her being. Like mildew on damp clothes. Talking of which, it does smell musty down here.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Reminiscent of your flat,’ suggested Katie, ‘where I once found a three-year-old cheese sandwich stuck underneath an ornament, as I recall.’

  ‘It was cheese fondue. And it was not three years old.’ Dee frowned.

  ‘It was definitely a toddler,’ said Katie. ‘It was well beyond the crawling stage.’

  Ben laughed. ‘You two should do a stage show,’ he said. ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledumb.’

  ‘Hey, you.’ Katie dug him in the ribs with a pointy finger. ‘Less of the dumb, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Dumb is absolutely the right and proper word. To be used about girls who make it so that it’s impossible for their family to speak to an old family friend. Poor Mum was hoping to go and do more painting round at the Old Coach House. But, oh, no, Katie goes and puts her sticky paws all over everything, and we’re having to pussyfoot about the place.’

  Katie’s mouth went down at the corners. ‘Can we not talk about this, please?’ she begged. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. OK, so I’ve cocked up. And I really did like him. But if he can’t cope with a little extra-curricular snoggage, it’s just as well it’s over now. Because while there’s drink in the world, and an opportunity to drink it, I will over-indulge at some stage, and either have to be stuck on to a wall by the mouth or kiss someone. Because that’s what I want to do when I’ve had a few. And it’s a damn sight better than some people who want to fight when they’re drunk. Or have your actual full-blown sex when they’re drunk. So can we please, please, stop talking about it?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Nil by mouth from now on, eh?’ queried Ben, pursing his lips.

  There was another pause.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ asked Dee.

  ‘Five pints of whisky for me, please,’ said Katie.

  ‘Yurk. I’ll be kissed by my own sister,’ said Ben, making a face like a snail on a slug pellet.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Dee. ‘She can kiss me. I could do with a kiss. Do you really want something to drink, though? I’ll go and get the beers in. Or water, if you’d prefer, Katie.’

  ‘Oh yes. I love going out and having a nice glass of water. Excellent stuff. No. Can I have a beer, please? Whatever they’ve got.’

  ‘And me,’ said Ben.

  Dee wandered off.

  Ben sat thoughtfully for a moment, listening to the buzz. The show wasn’t starting for another ten minutes. Oliver still had time to make it. ‘You know, I don’t think it’s a bad idea. Tweedledee and Tweedledumb. Even if I do say so myself. It could be like The Vagina Monologues, with fewer vaginas. Or more, if you preferred. You could tour the provinces. Sell mugs and T-shirts. Pick up as many men as you like. Live out of a suitcase. Eat crisps.’

  ‘Tsk, it was all going so well until then. I couldn’t cope with the crisps. Too crunchy by half. Could I do chocolate instead?’ asked Katie.

  Adam and Nick were having a quick post-meeting meeting, pre-dinner. The weekend had been constructive so far, with some genuinely creative ideas coming out.

  The brief had been: ‘Let your imagination run riot. It doesn’t matter whether it’s impossible. What programme would you like to watch, and who would you like to present it?’

  There had obviously been a lot of George Clooney suggestions from the girls and Angelina Jolie from the boys. But then they had settled.

  ‘I’m quite keen on developing Gemma’s idea of a programme where you look seriously at the ageing process and what can be done now to help,’ said Adam. ‘All the medical stuff right from the conventional to the unconventional – like injecting sheep foetuses or whatever. All the blood and gore, lots of computer graphics. It might be a bit too expensive for us, unless we get a guaranteed big budget. But I think it’s got legs.’ He wandered over to the window to check whether the pretty waitress was still windsurfing on the lake in the very skimpy bathing suit.

  ‘I think it has a fine pair of legs, judging by the short skirt it was wearing at lunch,’ said Nick, coming to stand by him. ‘But Naomi has a fine pair too.’

  ‘I’m thinking we might be over,’ said Adam.

  ‘I thought it was about to end in marriage,’ said Nick.

  ‘That’s what she thinks,’ admitted Adam. ‘But I’m not sure I could cope with the mess.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, that’s a ridiculous reason to end it. Six months ago you could barely make it through the meeting for Disgusting Diseases without rushing off to jump on her.’

  ‘I know. I think I’ve run out of sperm,’ said Adam.

  Nick smiled.

  Adam took a swig from his bottle of water. ‘She’s such a mess and so disorganized that nothing’s ever easy. We can’t find anything. She’s always forgotten to do something. It’s a palaver,’ he said.

  ‘A posh man’s jumper, a palaver,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ha. Like a crèche. A car crèche.’

  ‘Or sex. Sex of potatoes.’

  ‘Enough. As I was saying, Gemma’s idea on ageing is very good. And Sol’s trying to work on space for the science slot. Although it might be impossible to achieve. One giant leap too far for the money. But great idea.’

  They continued talking as they descended the staircase and went into the leather-chaired library for pre-dinner elderflower cordial and gingerade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There was a snidey piece in the Mirror on Monday about Keera and William Baron. ‘Where There’s a Will, There’s a Wa-hey’ was the headline. But Keera couldn’t have cared less about gossip columnists. Only one thing was worse than being talked about, and that was not being talked about. She liked being in the papers.

  Plus, her agent had been on to GQ and they’d told him the magazine was out this week. She’d get loads of publicity. Of that she had absolutely no doubt. She also didn’t care that her cavalier attitude towards Dee’s cavalier had cost her a few friends at Hello Britain!

  ‘You lose some to win some, Sheila,’ she had told her mother at the weekend. She had been taught to call her parents by their first names from about the same age as she was being taught how to dress her Barbie. ‘There will always be those who are lost by the wayside as you make your way to the top of the mountain.’

  ‘Do be careful, though,’ her mother had said, putting a doily on a plate. They had talked about her magazine cover (‘How very exciting, Keera’) and her new man (‘How exciting, Keera’) and at the end of the phone call her mother had cheered her on her way.

  And she had then got on to her friend Pat, who worked at the Co-op. ‘She’s going out with a very nice young man, apparently,’ said Sheila. ‘He’s in the papers today. Very handsome. Something to do with coaches.’

  So when Keera went in on Monday morning, and found that some people were a fraction offhand with her, she put it behind her.

  What was that thing people said? Revenge was a dish best eaten cold? No, not that one. The best form of revenge is victory? Not that it was revenge, exactly. Maybe there wasn’t a quote about it. What she meant was that she would show them who was going places, and who wasn’t, so yah, boo, sucks to you. Kent was still being sweet to her, and that was useful because the email that had gone round recently, threatening instant dismissal to anyone found speaking/leaking to the papers without permission, had given her a moment of mild fright.

  But she had thought it over and decided there was no way anyone could connect the stories to her. She had used Kent’s email (he had given her his password when she had first needed to use the computer in the newsroom), and any phone calls were from her publicity agent.

  She might give it a break for a while, though.


  As she was coming off air, the press officer was opening the big bundle of magazines delivered every week. He flipped through his advance copy of GQ, and was shocked. He didn’t like Keera. He had liked her, but then he had overheard her telling The Boss that he made her flesh creep. He couldn’t believe she’d got this photo shoot past those at the top. It was obscene.

  He read the article.

  The woman’s deranged, he thought. Calling herself a serious journalist. Laughable. If she’s a serious journalist, I’m a sweaty heterosexual. He peered closely at the photograph. For God’s sake, you could almost see what she had for lunch in one photograph. No wonder the panther looked horrified.

  Disgusting.

  Blah-blah-blah, he read … War correspondent. Pah. Blah-blah-blah … Don’t make me laugh. Like you did a searing interview with anything that had more cells than an amoeba.

  Blah-blah – what? That’s revolting.

  He closed the magazine, and took it up to the managing director’s office. ‘Is the MD in?’ he asked the secretary, who was de-leafing a wilting rubber plant.

  ‘Go right in. I don’t think he’s busy.’ She nodded.

  The press officer placed the magazine squarely in front of the MD.

  Who did a double-take. What an extraordinary photograph. He felt a slight stirring as he gazed at the stunning picture of his main presenter draped round a panther wearing nothing but a smile.

  ‘I know,’ said the press officer. ‘Outrageous, isn’t it? Did she run it past you?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. But, as you know, it’s really not my shout. However … obviously she should have spoken to you about it. I’m assuming she didn’t.’

  ‘No, she did not. I would’ve told her it was inappropriate,’ he said. ‘Plus, I would’ve sat in on the interview and made sure she didn’t bring the station into disrepute.’

  ‘Has she? What has she said?’

  ‘That she likes to stand naked in front of the open windows in her flat.’

  ‘Perhaps unwise, but not a sacking offence, I would have thought,’ said the MD, slowly.

  ‘And that she, erm … has a pleasant time in the bath while thinking of The Boss.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the MD. ‘Although I’m not sure that’s a sacking offence either.’ He tried to stifle a smile.

  ‘OK. How about that she used to shoplift?’

  ‘Again, unwise, but we all have things in our past that we’re perhaps not proud of.’

  ‘She sounds proud of it.’

  ‘Tell you what, leave the magazine with me, and I’ll discuss the matter with The Boss.’

  The MD poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down to read the article.

  Typical GQ. They’d gone heavy on the sex angle, and had obviously managed to get Keera to say rather a lot that she perhaps hadn’t intended. He could see the writer leading her on, and her being unable to back down, each step drawing her further into the fly trap.

  He sighed. He supposed she needed to be taught a lesson, if only to stop her being a silly girl.

  He liked her naked ambition. Come to think of it, he liked her naked. He took another look. Yes. Sleek and beautiful, with her big blue eyes and silky dark hair. He also thought she was good for the show. She made him laugh out loud, occasionally. Not necessarily with her. But how much did that matter in the great scheme of things?

  And she was a good foil for the cynical Mike.

  He dialled The Boss’s number.

  Keera could barely contain herself. She had gone straight from work to do a spot of shopping – or, more specifically, to see the magazine in the shops. She gazed at it on the rack in WH Smith’s with barely concealed excitement. She moved slightly away from it so she wouldn’t block other people’s view. And also so that she could watch them looking at it. She was as excited as a python in a rat lab.

  That is me on the front cover of that magazine, she thought. Me. Me. Keera Keethley from Nottingham.

  From Nottingham to Notting Hill.

  From Nottingham to the front cover of GQ.

  I’m so famous they put me on the front cover.

  I’m unstoppable.

  She bought half of the copies on the stand, then went to another newsagent to see what was happening there.

  She sauntered home, swishing her hair. She could hardly wait to look through the photographs and read the interview.

  She slipped off her shoes and sat cross-legged on her large beige sofa and spent a happy half an hour reading all about herself and perusing the photographs. One of her sultry looks had gone slightly wrong, she thought. She’d have to do more work on that one before she tried it again. But, on the whole, she was pleased with the result.

  She wondered how much the papers would do on it the next day. She hugged herself, stretched like a beautiful cat, then got up and padded to the fridge for a celebratory tomato juice.

  Mike had caught sight of the magazine on his way to lunch with the producers of his new show and was repulsed. Silly tart, bringing Hello Britain! down with her antics. What did she think she was doing? So much for her I’m-a-serious-journalist line. You didn’t see the women from Newsnight doing things like that. He had a good mind to call his agent, tell him to get on to Cosmopolitan and ask if they’d like a nude picture of him. Hopefully they’d say yes. Then he could turn them down and mention that was what he’d done, show what real journalists did with invitations to get their kit off. And tell the newspapers, too.

  At Wolf Days, the glossy magazines had been delivered and were being looked through for inspiration for new programmes. Gemma was leafing through Heat. ‘Hey, Rose, do you think this skirt would suit me?’

  Rose was engrossed in an article about Kerry Katona. She raised her head. ‘No. It makes her look fat. And she’s a model.’

  Another producer went past, and stopped to peer over Gemma’s shoulder. ‘Nice shoes. Where are they from? Hmmm. Fifty quid. I might go and get a pair this lunchtime.’

  Rose looked up. ‘You didn’t mention the shoes,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘That’s because they’re not good for those of us with cankles,’ replied Gemma.

  ‘You haven’t got cankles.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I know they’re not, strictly speaking, cankles as in my calves hanging over my ankles. But they are cankle-ish. And not only are those round-toed shoes but they have a sort of ankle-strap thingy as well. Guaranteed to make your feet look wide and huge. Like a – like an enormous pair of marrows. And, anyway, you have enough shoes.’

  ‘Enough shoes? Are you mad? Enough air. Yes. Enough food. Yes. Enough money. Debatable. Enough shoes? Never. Ever.’

  ‘Never enough shoes?’ asked Adam, who was late in after an early altercation with Naomi involving marriage and babies.

  ‘Never,’ said Rose, firmly. ‘In fact, I can’t believe there isn’t a whole series – a whole series of series – devoted to shoes. I may write up a treatment right this instant,’ she added, to make it look as if they really were doing some work. Not that Adam was like that. He believed that if you gave people a bit of leeway they’d come up with the goods.

  He grabbed GQ from the pile of magazines that hadn’t yet been snaffled and stared quite hard at the front cover. Very nice. Gorgeous body. And what a healthy-looking television presenter, too. He turned to the article. As he read, an idea formulated. He sauntered into Nick’s office to toss it around.

  Nick thought the idea not only had legs but perhaps an entire corporeal surrounding.

  They called Gemma in and told her to write up a proposal for the Channel 5 slot they were pitching for.

  Summer was proving a glorious addendum to the beautiful spring that had bathed the country in sunlight since April. Keera couldn’t decide whether to take a copy of GQ or whether she could safely assume it was already in the office. She had spent hours on Monday afternoon, trying on various outfits for the next day. In the end, she had settled for tight white trousers, a black and white stripy V-neck top, blac
k patent sandals and a white handbag with the black and white cover of GQ poking out of it. She stood in front of the mirror before she left. Yes. Elegant. Understated. She smiled at herself, then struck the sultry pose. Hmm. It really did need something. She pouted. She looked good pouting. She’d practise sultry later. Now she needed to get to work and shine, shine, shine.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said graciously to the driver of her Mercedes as she stepped in.

  ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said. ‘The usual on the radio?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said, and he tuned in to Heart FM.

  Keera turned on the car light, and started reading through her briefs. It was the usual mix – a wallow in the main news of the day and a few frivolous items, plus a showbiz or two.

  She noticed that, despite her conversation the afternoon before, she hadn’t got the big interview of the day. No doubt Mike’s handiwork. She might need to have another word with The Boss. Not today, though. Wrong outfit for that. Oh, good. She was doing the item about men and trunks. Should they ever wear budgie smugglers? She had strong views on that. Absolutely not, unless the man’s body was as fit as a weightlifter’s snatch. No, that wasn’t the right expression. Anyway, she thought William Baron would look good in them. He certainly looked good out of them. She smiled. Their relationship was going rather well. She’d been relieved when he’d told her that he’d never done the evil deed with Dee. It would have made the situation at work just that bit more difficult.

  As it was, her entry into the newsroom was not greeted with the required fanfare of trumpets and laying down of cloaks.

  The input editor nodded, and Richard, the news producer, said good morning rather distractedly. He was having a terrible time. One of the freelancers had just produced a VT that was almost unusable. And the other had gone AWOL. He now had two VTs that needed to be done, and he hadn’t finished writing up the programme.

  ‘There are some gaps in the show,’ he said, swivelling his chair to speak to Keera, ‘but generally it’s all there. Let me know if there’s anything confusing.’