Coming Up Next

by Penny Smith

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s his favourite.’ She noticed them exchangeing a glance. ‘He doesn’t really wear a dress.’ She smiled.

  ‘What a shame,’ said Nick, with an edge of relief. ‘Now, you won’t want to be given a whole lot of names you’re going to forget by tomorrow, but I know the director would love to meet you,’ he said. ‘Have you ever worked with Nat Walters? He’s fantastic on live programmes, very cool under pressure, and a soothing voice in the ear when all around is collapsing.’

  Katie was taken through to the garden.

  ‘Welcome to the OB shed,’ he said, opening the door to a larger version of a Wendy house. A bear of a man was talking to a younger man wearing the regulation jeans and T-shirt, and pressing the buttons on the mixing desk.

  ‘Can I introduce Katie to you?’ asked Nick. ‘Katie, this is the director, Nat, and Rob, the TD.’

  The technical director smiled at her. Katie hadn’t felt so excited since her first day at Hello Britain! She hoped she wouldn’t be as rubbish as she had been then. She had forced herself to watch the tape at the end of her first week. In her pink jacket she had resembled an overfed salmon. She had lurched from one link to the next, like a rabbit in the headlights. Thank goodness the regime at the time had been generous and understanding.

  She was taken round the house, and told what was going to go where, and the back-up plans for the inevitable hitches.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Katie, enthusiastically. ‘Hopefully, it’ll be a ratings winner and we can all go and buy houses like this. Eh, Adam?’

  He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her to the banisters, and neither was displeased with the contact. Although Nick was.

  ‘We’ve booked a local restaurant where they do particularly fine fish, if you fancy that?’ Adam said. ‘We thought we’d take Nat, Gemma and the head cameraman, Darryl. If that’s all right with you?’

  Katie thought for a minute. ‘Well, I was planning on going to an all-night sprat-counting contest in Poole but hey, what the hell? There’ll be others. Lead on, Macduff.’

  On Friday morning, Bob woke up and, for a minute, forgot that he had been thinking about something when he went to bed that had made it quite difficult to sleep. Then he remembered.

  He flicked on Hello Britain! as a bit of distraction. A grey politician was droning on about taxes. He wasn’t in the mood. He turned to the BBC. A grey man in a grey suit droning on about taxis. He pressed the programme button and went through about twenty channels before landing on Challenge. He watched a man with an unfeasibly large head ask questions of four celebrities he wouldn’t have recognized even with their names written across their chests. He answered some of the questions out loud. Two hours later, he was on the verge of watching a programme on one of the terrestrial channels, featuring people shouting at each other about who had slept with whose mother. It really was time he got up. He pressed the off button and lay there for half an hour staring at the ceiling and thinking.

  His drunken evening with Clare had made him feel essentially grubby. He’d had too much Guinness to do anything. Their morning parting had been slightly embarrassing, as they’d rushed to apologize for their behaviour.

  ‘I don’t normally do this sort of thing,’ they’d both said, almost simultaneously.

  They’d swapped numbers, but both felt it was unlikely they’d see each other again.

  He turned the television off and sent a text.

  In Dorset, Katie lay in her hotel bedroom watching Hello Britain! She wasn’t surprised that the ratings were so high. It was very entertaining. Now that she had her own show, she was forced to admit that Keera had a certain naïve charm. Her questions were truly appalling, and some of the guests were completely discomfited. And although she knew Mike found her a trial, it was fun seeing his expressions, and wondering how he was going to extricate the programme from the madness.

  Mike had sent her a sweet message, saying he was looking forward to coming on the show. ‘Break a leg, and all that.’

  Secretly, he was furious. Ever since the moment when he had silently slid the knife into Katie’s career, he had found it difficult to appear normal with her. He had taken as many precautions as possible to ensure that she would never find out about his act of betrayal. But there was always the outside chance.

  And he felt he had done it for the best possible motives. He’d thought she was getting too big for her boots and trying to dominate the show in a way that undermined the natural order. Men were designed to be top dog. He needed a new partner. And silly little Keera had been the obvious solution.

  A quiet drink with the editor, and the plot was hatched. He had started a whispering campaign and there’d been orchestrated phone calls, emails and letters sent to the right people. No one – he felt relatively secure in this – no one could have known that there even was a plot and that he was in the thick of it.

  But could he, in all honesty, sit opposite Katie Fisher, knowing himself the architect of her downfall … and pretend?

  And, what was worse, pretend to be thrilled that she had a new, possibly more high-profile job?

  He had phoned his agent before he agreed to the request.

  His agent had been confused: ‘Why would you not want to do her programme? It’ll be great for you because it’s late night. It’ll get good ratings because viewers will tune in in their millions to see how the fallen heroine manages to extricate herself from the ashes. And you can promote your new show. I repeat, why would you say no?’

  ‘I hate to sound like a prima donna,’ he said, without a hint of irony, ‘but don’t you think it’ll look like I haven’t done as well as she has?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said his agent, ‘but I think it would do you a lot of good to be seen on it. And Wolf Days are a good production company. It would be as well to get in with them. And it’s a different audience, which is no bad thing. You’ll have a laugh.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’

  ‘Don’t do it, then.’

  ‘How much are they paying?’

  ‘Above average. A grand. You get a car there and back – obviously. And they’re offering a hotel room if you want to stay.’

  Mike thought of Sandra. Last night they had gone to yet another charity do. Her red dress was so tight and low it was like he was seeing a clothed X-ray. The diamond necklace he had bought her early on in their relationship, when he had found her boyish figure exciting, hung straight down with no flesh to hinder it. ‘Fine. Tell them I’ll do it – and I will stay overnight.’

  Katie had spoken to him as soon as she had found out he was coming down. ‘Thank you so much, Mike. It’ll be great. We can catch up on the goss. And we’re all going out afterwards to celebrate – or commiserate. I’m sure you can join us. If you fancy it,’ she added anxiously.

  ‘That would be great,’ he answered, digging a fingernail into his palm.

  The other two guests were an actress from a major American drama series about to be shown every night on Channel 4, and the male author of one of the bestsellers of the year, who was reputed to be a serious goat.

  Katie had written out a staggering number of questions, which she whittled down to ten for each guest. Adam and Nick had stressed that they wanted the interviews to be fun. ‘We don’t want them confrontational. If they don’t want to talk about a certain subject, let’s keep off it. Unless it’s the elephant in the room. In which case mention the elephant on your way to another area of the room, as it were. We’re hoping for more on the lighter side. Someone telling us about their collection of cat furballs, rather than how much therapy or coke they’ve had. Most of the people we’ve got lined up will be fine. We haven’t got any weirdos that we can see. Talking of which, if anyone’s had obvious facial surgery, let’s not get bogged down in whether they have or haven’t. Obviously, if they appear to be speaking out of their hips, not their lips, you’ll have to say something.’

  ‘Even
if they can’t.’ Nick laughed.

  Adam continued, ‘Rose and Gemma are good producers. They’ll check on minefields, topics to be avoided, et cetera.’

  Katie was feeling so positive she hoped she’d only need her questions as back-up.

  Mike got into his car, having packed an overnight case with a couple of alternative outfits for the show – and a couple of alternative outfits for his possible late-night entertainment – and set off down the M3. He inserted a CD of Abba hits and was singing away in what he felt was a pleasing baritone, when he realized that the police car behind him with its blue lights flashing, was actually stopping him.

  He pulled over, annoyed. He’d only been doing 80 mph. This was definitely going to be a rant on his radio show.

  The demonization of the motorist.

  Some yobbo gets injured burgling a house and gets away with it because the homeowner hasn’t thought to provide a trampoline under the bedroom window. But a motorist gets penalized at every turn.

  He got out of the car and waited as the policeman approached him.

  Mike smiled at him. ‘Good evening, officer,’ he said, ingratiatingly. ‘I hope this is just to ask me for my autograph.’

  In Dorset, the morning flew by, with checks for sound, lighting, wardrobe and constant phone interruptions from Katie’s friends and relations.

  Dee was thrilled that Ben was bringing Oliver, and was gushing all over the phone.

  Ben was annoyed that he was to be a gooseberry.

  Her mother and father were driving themselves and having disputes about the best way to get to Dorset.

  And then she got a text from Bob: ‘Good luck for tonight. I’ll be thinking of you. Bobx’

  Katie read the message near the garden OB shed and smiled.

  Did that mean … ?

  Could she hope … ?

  Should she reply … ?

  Who should she phone for advice … ?

  She checked her watch. Noon. Yes, she had time.

  Not Dee. Rubbish on the boyfriend front.

  Not Ben. He would tell her off again.

  She phoned Andi.

  Fifteen minutes later, with a hot ear, she considered the two suggested options. She jotted a few words on a spare piece of paper.

  Apology.

  Lovely to see you.

  Miss you ?????

  She phoned Bob.

  Just when she was sure it was going to voicemail, he picked up.

  ‘Hello, it’s Katie,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Yes. I know. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Excited. Trepidatious. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Erm … you know, I’m sorry, truly sorry, about that thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That thing. Yes. But is this a conversation you want to be having with your show hanging over you, metaphorically speaking?’

  ‘Possibly not. Are you busy tonight?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Going to the cinema.’

  ‘Oh, right. And then watching the show?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to come down. But it’s a bit stupid, really,’ she rushed on. ‘I mean, it’s in Dorset and you’re in Yorkshire. Which almost couldn’t be further. But you could make a weekend of it? Although it’s a bit late now. And I would have asked you earlier if I’d known you were speaking to me again. And I am so sorry. So very sorry …’A lump rose in her throat. To hear his voice was making her feel weepy.

  ‘As you say, it’s a long way,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you after the show. I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to sort everything out before my friend arrives.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘No, not Harry.’

  She heard herself ask the next question, even though she knew the answer might hurt like hell. ‘Male friend?’

  ‘No. Girl.’

  There was the sound of thick air.

  ‘Good luck for tonight,’ he said. ‘Bye.’

  His girlfriend. She felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

  His girlfriend.

  Of course he had a girlfriend.

  He was gorgeous.

  Why wouldn’t he have a girlfriend?

  But, oh, no … a girl who was going to be wrapped round his golden loins. She sat looking out of the window with glassy eyes. Why had she rung him? Why? How bloody ridiculous. On the day of the first show. How to do a programme when you’re dying inside, by Katie Fisher.

  Adam came in to find her gazing morosely into the middle distance. ‘Do you fancy anything to eat?’ he asked, then looked closer. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she replied hurriedly, sniffing … ‘Phone call I shouldn’t have made.’ She took a punt on his being understanding. ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

  Adam was relieved. Ex-boyfriend. That was good. She hadn’t been very forthcoming when he’d probed that subject earlier. An ex was good. ‘We could go for a walk to the pub, if you want? There are sandwiches and snacks here for the crew. But if you want a breath of fresh air …’

  They strolled along the street, Adam thinking lascivious thoughts, Katie thinking that it was odd how even in the depths of lost love (was it love? or thwarted lust?) she could still have enough energy to find Adam sexy and keep thinking accidentally about him naked.

  The pub was exactly as a country pub should be. Low beams. Gleaming wood bar with a selection of local ales and cider on tap. She thought about the outfit she was wearing for the programme. It wouldn’t do to look too bloated. ‘I’ll have a pint of Badger, please,’ she said.

  After half an hour of serious flirting with Adam, she felt much better. If not in high spirits, then a seventeen per cent fortified wine.

  From then on, they were tearing up the pea patch. A sense of controlled panic gripped them as time rushed on. And at seven o’clock, as a lull had stepped gently through the doors, an enormous hiatus burst in with muddy feet.

  Or, rather, Gemma rushed in, shouting, ‘Mike Dyson’s been arrested. His agent phoned. What are we going to do for a guest? Where’s Rose?

  ‘Rose! Rose!’ she shouted, running out into the garden.

  ‘Been arrested for what?’ asked Katie, appalled.

  ‘Something to do with kerb-crawling, sex things. Don’t know yet,’ Gemma flung over her shoulder.

  A meeting was hastily convened as the details emerged. Mike had apparently been arrested in his car as he travelled to Dorset. What they didn’t know yet was that he had foolishly put some of his kit in the boot in case the opportunity arose to do a little late-night perusing. And that the police were, at that very instant, viewing a collection of gimp masks, whips, handcuffs, restrainers and condoms. And that Mike was contemplating the end of his career.

  Katie couldn’t believe it. That Mike had murdered someone, maybe, but sex? No! She’d always thought he was incredibly straight. If anything she’d sometimes thought he wasn’t interested in sex at all.

  Nick’s house was turning into an Escher etching, with people rushing up and down stairs as the hour drew nearer for the broadcast. Gemma and Rose were on their mobiles, trying to get a stand-in. They kept looking at their watches in a hunted manner.

  ‘How come the hands go round so bleeding fast when there’s no time?’ asked Rose, of no one in particular.

  Katie had already given them several home and mobile numbers to ring but it was Friday evening. And they were in Dorset.

  ‘I knew there was a reason why people didn’t do this sort of thing from their own homes,’ said Adam, stomping upstairs to find Nat.

  Everyone who wasn’t running was on their mobile phone, trying to get a stand-in guest.

  Gemma and Rose were co-ordinating.

  Nick found Katie as she was going over her notes to tell her about their contingency plan. ‘We’ve got some standby VTs. We’ll probably have to use one and expand the other interviews. Maybe even ask viewers for comments and read out any good ones. We’ll busk it
, if that’s OK with you?’

  ‘Very Hello Britain!,’ she responded. ‘Nothing I like better than being on the hoof.’

  He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling attractively at the edges. He really was a very handsome man, she thought. He and Adam were like the princes in the fairy stories she had been obsessed with as a child. Was one an evil prince, who, if chosen, would turn into a frog on the wedding night?

  What was she on? She gave herself a mental shake, rattle and roll.

  Half an hour later Ben arrived in a huff, with Dee and Oliver in the first throes of fizzing physicality. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he told Katie, giving her a hug. ‘They’ve talked non-stop all the way from London. God save me from the early days of anyone else’s tedious nascent romance.’

  ‘You’ve loved every minute of it,’ joshed Oliver, holding Dee’s hand.

  ‘Yeah. It’s been the most scintillating evening he’s ever had,’ said Dee.

  ‘You look very good,’ Katie told her brother, plucking at his shirt. ‘Is that a Paul Smith blouse I see before me?’

  ‘Maybe. How’s it going?’

  ‘Weeeell …’ she said, and told him the news. ‘We’re going to try to watch it on the ten o’clock, if we’re sorted by then. It’s a bit chaotic at the moment.’ She showed them the green room, and got them beers.

  Her parents were next to turn up, swiftly followed by Kathy and Carina.

  Katie raised her voice over the hubbub. ‘Can I leave you all here while I go and get changed? And don’t wreck anything. This is Nick’s house, and he’s rather attractive. I know that’s got nothing to do with the price of fish. But don’t. And, Dad, no looking at the books. And, now I come to think of it, hands off Nick and Adam, Kathy. They’re both mine.’

  And she left the room, blushing slightly as she passed Nick and Adam, who were having a conversation on the stairs. Had they heard? How much did she care? She smiled as she disappeared into the bedroom she had been assigned as a dressing room.

  Twenty minutes later she was dressed, and the makeup artist was doing her face, as the newscaster on television revealed the details of Operation X, the Met’s crackdown on prostitution, brothels and illegal immigrants. ‘Mike won’t like that picture of him,’ she commented, as a photo of Hello Britain!’s main presenter flashed up, showing him with what looked like a squint.