by Penny Smith
‘Will do,’ she said, and logged on to the computer. ‘Anything in the papers I need to know about?’ she asked innocently.
‘Don’t think so,’ replied Richard, equally innocently. They had been talking about it since the papers came in, and had a sweepstake on how long it would be before she mentioned it. He couldn’t jeopardize his position. He was on two minutes and forty seconds from her entry at the newsroom door, and the clock was ticking. They were up to one minute thirty.
Keera wandered over to the newspapers and started flicking through them as she waited for her computer to boot up.
Bingo. Page three of the Sun. Along with the page three ‘stunna’ Nikki (‘I think Arsenal will win the FA Cup this season’). She paused. Why had no one said anything about it?
She glanced up. Everyone was staring at her. She opened her mouth. Richard checked his watch. Two minutes thirty-five seconds. He’d won. He smiled.
Keera saw what he was doing, and felt confused. What was going on? She shut her mouth. Another ten seconds had gone.
The input editor looked surreptitiously at her watch. Excellent. If she won, she could take a taxi home instead of getting the tube.
Keera saw the movement. Something was up, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She took the Sun and went back to her desk. The input editor seemed disappointed. But a reporter on a computer at the end of the office perked up.
Keera couldn’t hold off any longer.
‘Erm,’ she said, and stopped. A VT editor, who had been hovering, checked the big clock at the far end of the newsroom. Bingo. He’d won. Fifteen quid would come in very useful at the pub after his shift.
Keera had no idea what the hell was happening, but she had a vague feeling it was to do with her. And she wasn’t going to fall into their trap. She read the piece. It was very complimentary. Talked about her cracking figure, the fact that thousands of men lusted after her, and here she was, finally giving them what they wanted. The headline was ‘Morning Glory’.
She couldn’t help herself. ‘Anyone seen the Sun this morning?’ she asked.
Keith, the cameraman who had been insouciantly flicking through a copy of Lens and Microphone Nonsense for Spods, adjusted his watch, looked smug and demanded the envelope. Richard handed it over. ‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ he said sourly, and went back to his computer.
‘What’s all that about?’ asked Keera, suspiciously.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Anything a problem so far?’
‘No. I’ve only just got into the programme.’
An hour later, she finished, and went to her emails. There was an ominous one from The Boss, asking her to see him. She bit her bottom lip. It could only be about two things. The worst-case scenario was that she’d been fingered for the leaks. It was unlikely, but she had her alibis ready. The second was the GQ cover: she hadn’t exactly told him the full extent of the photo shoot. And she had perhaps gone rather further than she ought to have done during the interview. She honestly didn’t remember saying half of it. But on the other hand she was sure there had been a number of racy questions, to which she had assented. The interviewer had been handsome and rather flirty, he had gone so gradually into the smutty talk that she hadn’t noticed until it was too far along. Not that she regretted it in any way. Her publicity agent had told her that she’d have to ‘do the business’ or she wouldn’t get the cover. It was as simple as that. But with hindsight she should have kept the fantasies out of it.
Hey, what was the worst that could happen? She would say sorry, get her knuckles rapped, and keep her head down for a bit.
She wished she’d worn a short skirt and a low top. Too late for that. She comforted herself that no one had ever been sacked from Hello Britain!, apart from Katie, and that was because she was too old and talked rubbish.
However, she went down to Makeup with the edge taken off her swagger. As she left, the noise quotient went up as three people brought out their copies of GQ for more of a fingering. Bob had spent the weekend considering his options. He lay in bed watching television, in the absence of anything constructive to do. He had been listening to Radio 4’s Today programme but had got bored as it went from one political interview to the next. He had quite enjoyed a very long-winded question from James Naughtie, which had elicited a one-word response from the Chancellor. But that wasn’t enough to keep him tuned in. He had turned the radio off and clicked on the television.
He had to confess that Keera Keethley was an exceptionally pretty girl. A bit thick, but nothing wrong with that. He flicked on to the BBC. Still dull. A report about a lack of youth centres. He used to love the youth centre, hanging out with his mates, an occasional game of pool. Snogging Teresa April round the back of the building, the first fumblings before he finally had his way with her. God, she was good. It had been months before he discovered that the love bites on her thighs were not self-inflicted, as she had claimed. They had come courtesy of Dave Marsh, a boxer from Leeds. He had been visiting his aunt, and copped off with Teresa – who, apparently, always put out. Bob had been so in love with Teresa April, but there was something offputting about a nymphomaniac. Did kissing everyone when you were drunk constitute nymphomania?
He reached for his mobile as Keera’s lacy bra made a brief appearance on Hello Britain!
‘Good morning, Harry. And how are we this fine Tuesday?’
‘A bit hung-over. I’ve been given a rather nice commission, and we were celebrating. I think the port was off.’
‘It so often is, I find.’ Bob smiled. ‘Are you still going to Kerry next weekend?’
‘Certainly am. Are you going to come?’
‘If I can get a flight, I will. Who would I be sharing with?’
‘Choice of three at the moment. Me, Joe or Kevin.’
‘Kevin? You have to be joking. He snores like a walrus. And Joe wheezes. But, then, you sleep-walk and scare the life out of me. It’s a difficult decision. Do I have to make it now?’
‘Nope. It’s two hundred quid per person for hotel and activities. It doesn’t matter whether you do all of them or none. Same deal. Saves all that nonsense about “Well, I only did half an hour’s fishing and you did loads of golf.” And it encourages us to get out of bed, no matter how rough we’re feeling. There are nine of us at the moment, and we’re all on the seven-thirty a.m. flight out of Stansted, if you can get on it.’
‘I’ll fire up the computer and see what I can do. Anything I need to bring?’
‘Pepto-Bismol. Nurofen. Big pot of Vaseline?’
‘Obviously,’ said Bob, watching Mike sneer at something Keera had just said. ‘It goes without saying. I’ll speak to you later. ‘Bye.’
Keera came off air feeling discomfited. She phoned her agent. ‘This magazine article,’ she began … ‘They can’t sack me, can they?’
‘Of course not. It’s brilliant publicity for them,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, something Mike said to me. But that’s all right. I’ve got to go and see The Boss about it. At least, I assume that’s what he wants to talk to me about.’
Dee, overhearing the conversation, hoped – vainly, as it turned out – that Keera would be ignominiously sacked, and that Katie would be triumphantly reinstated. Instead, Keera’s prophecy came true. She was given the smallest of knuckle raps, barely bruising the skin, and promised not to do anything else without going through the press office. She kept her fingers crossed behind her back as she said that. It would be at least two months before the profile piece for Cosmopolitan came out. Time enough for her to play the finky-diddle with the men who held her future in their hands.
In a building not a million miles away from Hello Britain!, Gemma was putting the finishing touches to the programme proposal suggested by Adam. It was called: Dare to Bare. It was about stripping celebrities and was, tentatively, a three-part series. Her suggestion – and she thought this was genius – was that it would be hosted by a presenter or presenters who would take off more cloth
es each week. The last programme could be presented entirely in the nude, with strategically placed items, à la Calendar Girls. Or The Simpsons, the Movie.
After ‘Presenter’ she had put two names: Keera Keethley and Veronica Flade, a Rubensesque celebrity who had done a plastic-surgery series for them, and whom she knew Nick secretly fancied.
Could go either way, she smiled to herself, as she handed it to Adam.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kerry was going to be the equivalent of the Gumball Rally for livers. All ten men were up for a weekend of debauchery, four in particular. Bob was nursing wounded pride and determined to get as hammered as possible as quickly as possible.
Harry was on a pink ticket from Sophie, and was determined to recapture life as a single man.
Kevin had just sold his bathroom business and was determined to celebrate.
Joe had been sacked from his job in the airline industry and was on a mission to forget. He wasn’t so much determined as programmed to self-destruct by Sunday.
They were sharing two rooms, which they planned to see as little as humanly possible.
By the time they got off the plane, they had already had a few sharpeners, a few chasers and a couple for the road.
It was a handsome group that checked into the hotel. As the receptionist handed over to her night-shift replacement, she commented, ‘There’s something for everyone there. Shame I’ve got the in-laws down for the weekend.’
Harry, as team leader, reminded them that it was an early round of golf the next day. ‘I could only get an eight o’clock game. They’ve got a stag party in.’
‘How very unoriginal,’ said Bob. ‘Fancy having a stag party in Kerry. Who on earth would do anything so prosaic?’
‘Bloody good fun, wasn’t it?’ smiled Harry. ‘Anyway, I’m going for a quick walk. I’ve got leg-ache from sitting down so long. And it’ll give me an appetite for the oysters and Guinness I’m planning on having in … ooh …’ he consulted his watch ‘… two minutes. No. In all seriousness I’m walking down to the lake to see if I can spot the large trout I’m catching tomorrow afternoon, then going up the hill to see if I can get a signal.’ He waved his mobile. ‘See yez all later,’ he said, in cod-Oirish.
Bob went with him. For ten minutes, they swung along companionably, not saying much.
‘How’s things?’ asked Harry, eventually.
‘Cool,’ said Bob. ‘Feeling better already.’ He was actually thinking how lovely it would have been if it was Katie, not Harry, walking with him to the lake, the low sun throwing out its last dregs of gold and bestowing a satin sheen on the water. Right, he thought. This is pointless. She obviously doesn’t care as much for me as I do for her. It’s better this way. God, I’m sounding like shit dialogue in a crap rom-com film. I won’t think about her again. I need to think about the hospice garden. Every time I think about Katie I’ll think about the garden. Oh, God. I can’t stop thinking about her. This is hopeless. He groaned.
‘What?’ asked Harry.
‘Sorry. Nothing. I may have left my nasal tweezers at home.’
Harry laughed. ‘Yeah. Right. Obviously the first thing you put in your bag when you’re going away for a weekend with your mates, followed by your best underpants, and your big book of knots.’
‘Damn. Knew I’d forgotten something else. I’ve brought a gross of condoms and no book. What can I have been thinking?’
They continued the walk, and Bob tried to stay in the moment.
That evening, there were oysters, pies, chips and boiled potatoes.
Bob did a thoroughly good job of forgetting Katie for at least ten minutes at a time, due to the many pints of Guinness he consumed. ‘Have you noticed,’ he asked, in the last coherent sentence he spoke before slumping sideways, ‘that everything we’re eating and drinking is brown?’
‘And the point is?’ asked Kevin, checking whether he had any more money in his pockets. ‘What we should be discussing is where we’re going to find women.’
‘You won’t find them in there, unless they’re very small ones,’ said Joe, burping lightly.
‘Why should you never shag a stupid dwarf?’ asked Matt, a wiry actor who mostly did adverts for cheap sweets.
‘Because it’s not big. And it’s not clever.’
‘I had a small one, once,’ said Harry. ‘She was so tiny I called her Rumpelstiltskin.’
‘Don’t you mean Thumbelina?’
‘Thumpelina? Was she a punch-bag?’
‘Who?’
‘Your little one.’
‘Who are you saying’s got a little one?’
And the evening wore on.
At one in the morning they started singing ‘Danny Boy’. Nobody could remember any words beyond the pipes calling. Despite their early start the next morning, it was three before most of them made their way to their rooms, with much shushing and many admonitions to be quiet. And trouser-coughing. And belching.
Only one person didn’t make it to breakfast.
‘He thinks he ate a dodgy oyster,’ said his roommate, to general guffawing.
Bob got to the third hole before pronouncing that golf was idiotic. ‘What is the aim of this?’ he asked. ‘It’s a game for people who’ve had their frontal lobes replaced with dingleberries from a sheep’s bottom. I will meet you at the nineteenth hole, where I’ll be testing pints and checking that the salty snacks are up to snuff.’
He stomped back up the hill. At the top, he turned. It was what the Irish called a soft day. He was in the lightest of clouds, which cast a translucent glow over the golf course. It muffled the sounds and moistened his face.
The nineteenth hole was a bit cold, and it was possibly too early to be having the hair of the dog, so Bob ordered coffee and took a newspaper from the table. He was just reading an article about the upcoming Puck Fair Festival in nearby Killorglin, when an attractive woman with dyed bright red hair, cut into a sharp bob, came in and ordered a pint of Murphy’s.
He looked at his watch.
She saw him do so, and raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, I know.’ She smiled. ‘It is a bit early. But I’m a late arrival and the rest of my group appear to be nursing hangovers. I thought I’d try to catch up.’
Her voice was low, husky, a bit posh.
‘Oh, I wasn’t criticizing,’ he said, taking in her outfit of black trousers, vest and a pair of boots so high they almost doubled her height. ‘Bit overdressed for golf, though, perhaps?’
‘Ha. Yes. I decided I’d do nothing but stand around decora-tively for a couple of days, since the only options were this or fishing. And I’m not that keen on either. One involves standing around endlessly waiting for something to happen. And the other…’
‘. involves standing around endlessly waiting for something to happen,’ he finished.
‘Exactly,’ she said.
She looked at him sitting there with his paper and his coffee. And she liked what she saw. Handsome. Tousled blond hair. Good age. No wedding ring. ‘Can I join you?’ she asked.
‘Please do,’ he said, gesturing to the chair alongside him. ‘I was only reading this until my mates finish their round of golf, which should be in – what? – about …’ he peered at his watch again ‘… three weeks.’
She laughed. ‘Yes, it does seem to take for ever, doesn’t it? I would have gone for a walk, but I appear to have forgotten to bring anything even remotely waterproof, seeing as I checked the weather and it’s supposed to be sunny.’
‘It’s early still. You may get your walk later. I’m assuming you brought some other item of footwear – or were you planning on hiking up a mountain in those?’ he asked.
She wriggled her toes in her boots. ‘I bought them the other day,’ she confided. ‘Spent rather a lot of money on them, and thought they’d be lonely sitting at home on their own. They requested a weekend away. Very unsuitable, obviously, but I’m a marine biologist, so I spend most of my days up to my ears in rubber. And not in a sexy way,’ she a
dded, as she caught his smile. ‘I’m here on a stag weekend. Yes. I know. Eighteen boys and me. I think the groom wanted to make sure nothing too terrible happened. I’m a friend of his wife and, apparently, I know more filthy jokes than anyone else in the world. And I can generally hold my drink. Having said that, because I’m a woman I’m allowed to have halves without being patronized. Everyone else came yesterday, and I flew over on the stupidly early plane this morning. Hence the lack of hangover, and the decision to have a pint of Murphy’s. There’s nothing quite like it.’
‘Funnily enough, I’m over here with a bunch of guys who came over for a stag weekend years ago. There are ten of us. Where are you going tonight?’
‘So you can avoid it?’
‘Not necessarily. We can offer you support and encouragement.’
‘Right. You mean drinking games, and activities that involve so much alcohol your swim bladders go. You can’t help but feel sorry for the poor locals.’
‘I think they invented most of them,’ he responded.
He addressed himself to his coffee for a moment, then looked up into the deepest blue eyes he thought he had ever seen. She really was quite gorgeous.
‘By the way, I’m Bob – Bob Hewlett.’
‘Clare McMurray,’ she said solemnly.
‘Our stag weekend involved a sheep,’ he said conversationally.
‘Ah. Couldn’t afford the stripper?’
‘She was better-looking. One of the party was going to bring something called Barbara the inflatable love sheep. Another of the boys decided it lacked a certain finesse and bought a sheep from a local farmer. It accompanied us to dinner. Wore a nice bow-tie for the evening.’
‘I see. A male sheep, then? Interesting. Did it have its hoofs buffed?’
‘Naturally. To a high shine. And a blow-dry.’
‘As long as that was all,’ she said severely.
By the time the golfers started to arrive, Clare and Bob had been flirting for a couple of hours and had agreed to meet up later.
‘Aye aye aye,’ remarked Kevin, coming over with his Bloody Mary. ‘I wondered why you cut short the game. Particularly when you were doing so well.’
