Coming Clean (24 page)

“OK.”

“Georgia, Isobel and I have decided we’re going to share a house and be lesbians. Boys suck.”

I held my daughter a bit tighter. “Some do, hon. There’s no doubt about that.”

W
e formed a picket on the pavement outside the GLB offices. Des had arrived with a giant
HANDS
OFF
COFFEE
BREAK
banner made out of an old bedsheet. The wobbly uppercase lettering had been written in green emulsion. Apparently he’d had some left over from last summer, when he’d given his front door a fresh lick of paint. I was given one end to hold; Nancy agreed to take the other, but not before she’d whined about how holding up a banner for any length of time was going to give her pins and needles in her arm.

Des had also managed to locate a brazier, for which—since the temperature had dropped to below freezing—we were all supremely grateful. A picket wasn’t a picket without a brazier. It was the essential strike action accessory. Whenever you saw people picketing on the TV news, they were always huddled around one. Nothing said “We Shall Overcome” like a brazier glowing militant red.

Today the entire
Coffee Break
team was in attendance, all bundled up in hats and scarves. Nearly everybody had come with garden chairs and rugs. Wendy even brought one of those sleeping bags with arms and legs. Nancy muttered something about how being on strike in the bitter cold was no reason to lower one’s sartorial standards and said that Wendy looked like a blimp.

People poured instant coffee from flasks brought from home. Nancy was the only one who insisted on getting a latte from Starbucks. While we sipped our coffee, Des announced that he wasn’t expecting everybody to show up every day in the cold. He’d worked out a rotation. “Thank God for that,” Nancy said. “Because standing outside in this wind is going to play absolute havoc with my skin.”

Nancy’s mood didn’t seem to have improved since the last time we’d spoken. I asked her how things were between her and Brian.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, ostentatiously rubbing the top of her arm. “We don’t seem to be making much headway. I was so upset about him deciding to call my vulva Becks that I called Virginia and asked if we could have an extra session. It was dreadful. Brian got angry and really let rip. He accused me of being too bossy and domineering in bed. He said I lie there barking orders at him and that I shout if he gets it wrong. The result of all this is that he doesn’t feel like complimenting my vulva. He said that I’ve undermined him and that all his confidence is gone. He says that’s the real reason he needs Viagra and that it has nothing to do with his age. The upshot is he doesn’t feel like complimenting my vulva—or any other part of me, come to that. He said I’m difficult and domineering outside the bedroom, too. He called me a diva. Tell me honestly, do you think I’m a diva?”

“Well . . .”

“I know I can be demanding—especially at work—but I honestly don’t mean it. The thing is, I just get so uptight because I want everything to be perfect. I know I shouldn’t take it out on other people, but I can’t help it.”

“I get that. On the other hand, you can be pretty scary.”

“That’s what Brian said. I’m starting to realize that this problem we’ve been having in bed isn’t his. It’s mine. Virginia thinks I should start having therapy on my own to get to the bottom of my anxiety and temper. Do you think I should?”

“Going into therapy’s never easy. It forces you to come face-to-face with yourself and that can be really uncomfortable. In the end, though, I think it can be worth it.”

“You’re right. I should take the risk. Brian is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I don’t want to push him away. I have to do it.”

“Good for you. I think you’re making the right decision.”

“I hope so. Now can we put this banner down for five minutes? My arm’s gone completely numb.”

Just then a taxi pulled up. STD got out, paid the driver and, making a show of ignoring the picket, marched towards the office. Over the next few minutes, the rest of the GLB management arrived, James Harding among them. It was then that it struck me—the point we’d all been missing and the reason STD didn’t give a damn if we went on strike. I went over to Des. “I’ve just realized something. Are you aware that most of the GLB management started their careers in broadcasting?”

“So?”

“So . . . don’t you see? STD’s got a ready-made team that’s fully equipped to produce the new-style
Coffee Break
—at least for the time being.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll second that.”

•   •   •

T
he next day, the latest issue of
Radio World
appeared on the newsstands.
Coffee Break
’s planned relaunch was the cover story. This was hardly a surprise, since STD was big buddies with the editor. The piece was more like one of those brownnosing puffs that appear in
Hello!
than journalism. There was a heavily airbrushed half-page photograph of STD, who was quoted as saying: “I am proud to be part of a new, innovative radio show that will honestly reflect the concerns and interests of ordinary people.”

On Wednesday, the new-style
Coffee Break
hit the airwaves. Those of us manning the picket listened on Nancy’s iPad:

“Good morning, folks, and welcome to your newly revamped, new-style
Coffee Break
, presented by me, Shirley Tucker Dill. For the next hour I’ll be bringing you all the hot showbiz gossip. Find out if Kim Kardashian is set to join the
X Factor
panel and . . . is it possible that Sharon Stone is about to become U.S. secretary of state? Coming up later, we’ll be talking to the man whose porridge exploded and left him lying in a pile of rubble. Also in the studio, the middle-aged mum who has just spent a hundred thousand pounds on a total body lift, and the woman who lost half her body weight on the Cap’n Crunch diet. But first, here to talk about her debut novel,
A Dark and Horny Night
, is Paris Hilton look-alike Nokia Moet . . . Nokia, welcome to the show, and I have to say you’re looking very lovely. Maybe you could talk us through the outfit you’re wearing . . .”

We shook our heads in disbelief. Nancy looked as if she might burst into tears. “What has this woman done? What has she done? I would just like to say on behalf of everybody here today that I feel violated—utterly violated.”

“She’s made a laughingstock of herself—that’s what she’s done,” Des said.

I looked at him. “I wouldn’t be quite so sure. She’s bound to get a rave review in
Radio World
and after that she might start pulling in a whole new audience.”

•   •   •

T
hat night, Gail and Annie rang to say they’d heard the program. Annie described it as “beyond dross.” Gail said it was so appalling that she was going to write a letter of complaint to the British Broadcasting Authority. Even Greg called to say how horrified he was.

“We all are,” I said. “But what if it catches on? There’s such a market for this sort of trash.”

Greg said I was just feeling tired and stressed and that I shouldn’t lose faith in the taste and integrity of the public. I promised to try, but I wasn’t holding out much hope.

“By the way,” I said. “I have one small piece of good news. I’ve rented the attic bedroom.”

“You’ve got a lodger? Bloody hell—that’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? So who have you got—a student?”

“Actually, it’s Huck. He was living with his parents and they were driving him round the bend, so I suggested he move in here. Seemed to make perfect sense.”

“Of course. Why not?” I picked up something tentative and hesitant in his voice.

“Greg, are you sure you’re OK with this? You don’t have a problem, do you?”

“Don’t be daft. Why should I? We need all the money we can get right now.”

•   •   •

H
uck arrived on Saturday morning carrying a large rucksack and a holdall.

“Goodness, is that all you’ve got?”

“That’s it,” he said, smiling. “When you’re always on the move like I am, you learn to travel light.”

“But what about books and DVDs?” I said. He bent down and pulled an iPad out of the holdall.

“All I need’s on here,” he said, waving it at me.

The Ikea van had arrived earlier and now there were umpteen flat packs lying upstairs, their contents waiting to be assembled into a bed, dresser and wardrobe. I’d offered to get somebody in to build the furniture, but Huck said that since I’d paid for it, the least he could do was put it together.

“Have you had breakfast?” I said.

“Um . . . not as such.”

“Coffee and a bacon sandwich suit you?”

“You bet.”

Huck was scheduled to work that afternoon, and since it was already past ten, he was pretty eager to get cracking on the furniture. I suggested that I bring breakfast upstairs.

Ten minutes later I was climbing the steep attic stairs. One hand was holding a plate of bacon sarnies. The other was gripping the handles of two mugs of steaming coffee. Why I hadn’t thought to use a tray, I had no idea.

By now Huck had made a start on the wardrobe. He was sitting on the floor screwing a hinge into one of the white melamine doors.

The moment he saw me, he got to his feet, relieved me of the plate and mugs and put them down on one of the large pieces of melamine. As I was thanking him, I noticed the sheet of instructions spread out on the floor.

“Ah, how refreshing—a man who actually reads instructions. Greg would never look at them as a matter of principle. It was the same when he got lost. He thought asking for directions was a challenge to his masculinity.”

“Well, I’m hopeless without instructions,” Huck said.

“Oh, so was Greg,” I said, handing him a mug of coffee. “Most of our furniture ended up looking like weird sculptures that had escaped from the Tate Modern.”

We sat on the floor drinking coffee and working our way through the stack of bacon sandwiches.

“So Greg doesn’t mind me moving in?”

“Greg? God, no. He’s only too grateful.”

“So how are things between you two?”

“I guess it’s all quite civilized really. So many divorcing couples end up at war, but we’ve managed to stay on pretty good terms.”

“But you’re still struggling with the breakup?”

“A bit, but it gets easier with time.” It didn’t occur to me that his interest was anything more than friendly concern.

He picked up the second hinge, along with some screws.

“Do you remember when we were at university?” he said. “And we used to go to those Unite Against Fascism meetings on Thursday nights?”

“Of course. How could I forget all the heated discussions about whether we, as militant antifascists, could mobilize more people than the anarchists.”

“Then you and I would go to the pub for a pint and discuss the part played by the class war in the formation of the British Union of Fascists in 1932 . . . except I don’t remember what conclusion we came to.”

“I’m not sure we came to any.”

The second hinge secured, he was looking at the instructions to figure out what to do next. “I had such a crush on you in those days,” he said without looking up.

I started laughing. “What? You had a crush on me? But you dated all those gorgeous girls. Why on earth would you have had a crush on me?”

“You were just as gorgeous.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You were. And anyway, all those girls were airheads. Most of them ended up as posh party organizers and marrying hedge fund managers called Tobias.”

“As opposed to Marxists called Huckleberry.”

He roared.

“So why didn’t you ask me out?” I said.

“I was too scared.”

“Scared? Why?”

“Because you were clever, and back then I felt threatened by clever women.”

“Hence the airheads.”

“Yep.”

“Well, I have a confession, too. I had a massive crush on you.”

“Get away.”

“Come on. Don’t act so surprised. You were really cute.” I stopped myself from saying “and you still are.” “Every girl I knew had the hots for you.”

“Yeah, but like I said it was only the bimbos. Most of the intelligent girls thought I was this pretentious, lefty pseudointellectual.”

“I didn’t.”

I decided I would stay and help with the furniture construction. I’d just unpacked the parts to a dresser named Trondheim when I heard the landline ringing downstairs. “I’d better get that. It might be Greg. He’s got the kids this weekend.”

•   •   •

I
dashed into my bedroom and picked up. It wasn’t Greg. It was Phil.

“Phil, it’s the middle of the night over there. What’s wrong? Are Mum and Dad OK?”

“I can’t sleep. And nor can Betsy. We’ve been lying awake for hours.”

“Why?”

“OK, well, Mum and Dad went out yesterday and I kinda let myself into their bungalow.”

“You kinda let yourself in. Phil, either you did or you didn’t. Which is it?”

“I did.”

“You idiot. I can’t believe you did this. Not after what happened last time.”

“You just don’t get it, do you? I’m the one who’s been landed with the job of confronting our father about this hooker. Finding some evidence that he isn’t well wouldn’t necessarily make it easier—it’s going to be a difficult conversation anyway—but if I had an explanation for his behavior, I could play the concerned doctor instead of the furious, moralizing son. I’d just feel more comfortable in that role.”

“Phil, of course I get it. I know this is going to be a horrible conversation, but I can’t believe you went snooping after the trouble you almost got into last time. Didn’t Betsy try to stop you?”

“She didn’t know.”

“OK, so I take it—since you’re calling me in the small hours—that you discovered something.”

“Yes, but nothing that indicates Dad has Alzheimer’s. Unless the symptoms include developing a porn habit.”

“Excuse me? Our father is into porn?”

“I found a pile of DVDs in the bedroom.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“It’s true. Among many, many others, there was
Lawrence of Her Labia
,
Forrest Hump
and
Saturday Night Beaver
 . . . And they were all in Dad’s dresser, where Mum could easily find them.”

I tried to make sense of what I’d just heard. “OK, let’s look at this rationally. Some men are into porn. Dad would appear to be one of them—even at his age. Under normal circumstances I’d say it’s none of our business. But if looked at alongside the fact that he’s seeing a hooker and that Mum would be destroyed if she found out about either of these things, let alone both, I think it is our business. You have to speak to Dad and soon.”