Woman of the Hour (13 page)

‘That’s a special piece of work,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Her point about hope was so moving. I’ll show it to Julius. You’ll need to cut it down to four minutes first.’

But not today, I thought. I won’t show it to him today after the sacking of Sal this morning.

‘Do you think he’ll let us transmit it?’

‘Probably not; but I’m going to try to persuade him. I’d like to see this go out.’

Chalk Farm flat, 9 p.m.

I had a horrible headache tonight. I had taken Flo to Waterloo station and she gave me a big hug before she went through the barrier. I needed that hug. It was lovely because often when we are out together now she won’t show me any signs of affection. I had watched her retreating figure as she swung along the platform. She’s getting tall and she had her overnight bag slung over her shoulder and could have passed for older than fourteen. As she opened the carriage door I waved and blew a kiss. She waved back and disappeared into the train.

Flo stays at Ben’s parents’, Peter and Grace, in Portsmouth and she adores them both. They have lived in that house for years and it’s a comforting place to stay. Before the divorce Ben and I would go down there about every six weeks so they could see Flo, and we would sleep in what had been Ben’s childhood room. Peter and Grace are far more active and involved grandparents than my mum is because she lives so far away in Glasgow. I remember one weekend we went with them to their local pub to have a Sunday roast. This pub had a big garden with those wooden tables with benches on either side and at the bottom there was a slide for children. Peter, Ben’s dad, had taken Flo down to the slide and had stood there patiently as she climbed up and slid down again and again. She was about four years old at the time. They came back up the garden and he seated her next to him. Grandpa Peter always talked to her in a grown-up way even when she was little. He now asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. Flo did not even think about this for a moment but replied at once:

‘I want to be a bride.’

Ben and I burst out laughing and Flo looked put out.

‘Oh, darling, it’s just that being a bride only lasts for one day,’ I said.

How I loved it when Flo was little. I bought myself a large packet of honey-roasted cashew nuts from a kiosk and ripped the bag open and was stuffing them into my mouth as I went down the escalator. Sitting on the Tube as it rumbled along to Chalk Farm I folded down the top of the packet and put them in my bag, only to retrieve them a minute later and scoop another handful of cashews into my mouth. When I came out of the station I had eaten two thirds of the packet. Disgusted at my greediness I left the nearly empty bag on a wall.

When I reached my flat the quietness and the emptiness made me want to cry. This was the second time this week I have been tearful and it’s not like me – I pride myself on being stoical. I spend so much time at work holding down anger or frustration so now I told myself to feel the pain, don’t run away from it. I stood in my living room and let myself become overwhelmed by a sense of loss and sadness. My tears were a release from the tension of the week. Mr Crooks came in and stood mewing piteously by his food bowl. It was empty with dry food crusted round the edges. His water bowl had a film of dust floating on the top.

‘Poor boy, she didn’t feed you.’

It was Flo’s job to feed Mr Crooks. I picked up his bowl and scrubbed it clean, feeling irritated with her for doing that adolescent thing of only ever thinking about herself. It was hardly an onerous task to feed her cat. I gave him a pouch of food and refreshed his water bowl.

I took two paracetamol for my aching head and ran a bath, pouring my favourite rose oil under the tap. The oil turns milky as it hits the water and it has the most divine smell. I lit a candle, turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the fragrant water.

Chalk Farm flat, Saturday morning

It had turned cold and I switched the heating on. I was tidying the flat and had ventured into Flo’s room to look for mould-encrusted plates which she will often stash under her bed. It was then that I felt a draught in her room. There are shutters at the bedroom windows but there was a definite chill coming from outside. I unlocked and folded the shutters back and saw at once that the bottom left windowpane was broken. My first reaction was terror. Someone had tried to break into our flat last night! I thought back. I’d been in the bath and then had an early night. I hadn’t heard a thing. I had taken two paracetamol and these make me sleep more deeply than usual. I examined the broken pane more carefully. The glass had been knocked outwards; shards were lying in the window well below. Surely the glass would have fallen into the room as the pane was smashed? Down among the fragments of glass on the ground was a pile of cigarette butts. Understanding dawned. This was no attack from outside the flat. Flo, and probably Paige, had broken the window and not thought to tell me. They must have thought the wooden shutters gave protection enough.

I got a brush and pan, opened the window to its full extent and lowered myself into the window well. This is part of my property and in front there’s a small raised garden which belongs to the flat above. The window well is not an easy space to get into and I had to squat to sweep up the glass fragments and the cigarette butts. There was a pungent smell, a mixture of damp and of foxes. Strong weeds were growing out of the brickwork at the bottom. I would need to get those pulled out before they damaged the fabric of the building; another task to add to my to-do list. It never stops.

Balham, Sunday morning

I woke in Todd’s large and lumpy bed. He had rolled onto his side taking most of the duvet with him. I slid out and went to his bathroom. It was clean enough in there and I wondered if he had cleaned it for me. Over the bath he had hung a large wooden sign which was yellow and had words painted on it in bright blue letters:

H
OORAY
,
HOORAY
THE
FIRST
OF
M
AY

O
UTDOOR
FUCKING
STARTS
TODAY
.

The paint was peeling. He had bought it in a street market and thought it dated from the seventies. He’s such a lad. I got back into bed and stroked his naked back before heaving some of the duvet over me. He turned and grabbed me and we lay fitted together in the warm nest of his bedding.

We had gone to a music pub the night before. I had expected Todd to favour rock music but this pub did indie folk. There was a singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar and Todd loved it. We were drinking pints of Guinness and in the break between sets I told him about the broken glass and the cigarette butts in the window well. I rarely talk to Todd about Flo.

‘I’m not sure what I should do.’

‘Think back to you at fourteen. Were you a model kid?’

I reached over and wiped the Guinness foam off his top lip with my thumb.

‘Course not. I used to clash with my mum all the time, mainly over clothes and make-up, skirt too short, eyes too black.’

‘Exactly; she’s a teenager and they’re built to break rules.’

‘I’m not worried about the breakage, though she should have told me. But the smoking? She’s only fourteen.’

‘Is it so terrible? I bet she’s a good kid.’

‘She
is
a good kid. But I hate the idea of her smoking. I think it’s a girl thing, you know, more than boys. I’ve often seen young girls coming out of the school gate and lighting up.’

‘I thought it was all e-cigs these days?’

‘Not my Flo. She’s fallen under the spell of an older girl, Paige, and she comes from a smokers’ house. Their kitchen reeked.’

‘If you come over heavy and do the banning thing it will make smoking even more desirable.’

It was helpful talking to Todd about Flo. It made me feel less alone and I wondered why I hadn’t done it before. Apart from Fenton I rarely tell anyone what is going on in my head.

We got up an hour later and Todd cooked us a brunch of scrambled eggs and pork sausages.

‘I do love a man who cooks a good breakfast and these sausages are sensational,’ I said.

‘They’re Gloucester Old Spot, the best sausages I’ve found over here.’

‘And not burned to a cinder either. I’m impressed.’

‘You implying we Aussies only know how to barbecue our meat to a crisp?’

I grinned at him and pushed down the plunger in the cafetière. I had heated milk to go with our coffee and I poured us each a mug. He was watching me and I noticed a tiny shift in his face as I pushed the mug over to him.

‘Thanks. I didn’t say anything last night because I didn’t want to spoil our evening...’

‘What is it?’

‘I have to go back to Australia for a few months. My dad is ill.’

‘Your dad?’

‘He’s got cancer.’

‘Oh no. Todd, I’m so sorry.’

‘Mum says there are things they can do but... she asked me to come home.’

‘Of course, you must go at once.’

‘I’m flying out next week. It won’t be for ever but...’

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t want to say he wouldn’t be back until his father had died. I put my hand over his and stroked his knuckles. He didn’t say anything and I felt my response was inadequate. I got up and hugged him and my eyes filled with tears. My emotions are all over the place at the moment.

‘Why the tears, Liz? You always seem so strong, so untouchable.’

I blew my nose and tried to smile.

‘Untouchable? After last night?’

‘You know what I mean. At work. You come over as the consummate professional, calm and in charge and a little bit haughty.’

He was not the first person to have said that about me. I am able to be calm and professional at work, most of the time. I wondered if my team thought of me like that too. It’s a front. And I can’t seem to be calm at home; I’m an emotional mess at home.

‘It’s not what it feels like inside, believe me.’

‘It’s a turn-on for us fellas,’ he said.

‘I was thinking about my dad,’ I said.

When we parted in the late afternoon we hugged each other tight and there was such a closeness between us, the warmest feelings I have experienced for ages. It’s the first time I have let Todd see me feeling vulnerable, and now he is going away.

StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

Great excitement at the station this morning as Ashley Gascoigne, the A-lister, arrived to be interviewed by Fizzy. She had made a special effort and was looking more glamorous than usual with her strawberry-blonde hair piled up on top and wearing a dress of palest pink which suited her colouring. A crowd of fans had gathered outside the station and they were thrilled when Ashley stopped to sign autographs. They were all taking selfies with him which would be shared on Twitter and Instagram at the earliest opportunity.

Celebrities are often disappointing when you meet them face to face. They are usually smaller and less striking than they look on screen, as if the camera has made them more heroic. But Ashley Gascoigne was extremely good-looking and charismatic in the flesh. He has curly dark hair and intense brown eyes and I found myself feeling flustered as I took him to the green room. He had three people with him: his assistant, his publicist and his stylist. I welcomed them and offered them refreshments. Ziggy was in the green room serving the coffees and teas and I loved that she was unfazed by the proximity of Ashley Gascoigne. I thought Julius might come down to say hello but he stayed away. He watches the show from his office. He says you get a false sense of things if you watch it from the gallery. It is true that when mistakes happen on air they look more catastrophic from the gallery. Ashley’s publicist asked for a green tea and drew me aside. She wanted to know if the station had a back exit.

‘Yes, there is. Don’t you want to leave by the front though? I’m sure there’ll be some press there,’ I said.

‘We don’t need it and he’s already done the autograph thing. Get our cars to meet us at the back. I want a quick getaway.’

I didn’t like her. She hadn’t said please and she gave the impression that she was a woman used to giving orders and to people jumping to attention. But all her power came from the reflected glory of Ashley Gascoigne. I asked Ziggy to make sure the taxis were at the back of the studio at the end of the interview.

I accompanied Ashley to the studio door and the floor manager took him in. I sat in the gallery next to the director and we had scheduled fifteen minutes for this interview, far longer than our usual slot, as I wanted to make the most of having such a big name on the sofa. Fizzy was enjoying it and was on great form. We rolled in three clips during the interview, including the famous one of Ashley stripping and washing in a river, which had had the womanhood of Britain swooning. Fizzy said after the clip that this trumped Mr Darcy swimming in the lake and Ashley took this with good grace. We went to the ad break and I came out of the gallery and saw his publicist shouting at Ziggy. I hurried over.

‘What’s going on?’

‘This idiot girl hasn’t got the cars where I asked!’ the publicist said.

‘But I told them to go out the back,’ Ziggy said, hugging her arms around her ribs tightly.

‘Where the fuck are they then?’ she hissed.

‘No need to talk to her like that!’ I said.

The publicist turned to me. ‘What?’

‘Don’t speak to my runner like that.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, I get it. Now you’ve had your interview you don’t care. Last time I’ll let him be booked onto this crap show.’

Ashley was coming out of the studio door with his assistant at his side and the publicist shut up. I wondered if he knew what a bitch she was. I went over to him and thanked him warmly for coming to StoryWorld.

‘My pleasure, I enjoyed it,’ he said.

‘We’ve booked your cars for the back exit as requested and they should be there any minute.’

I walked with him to the exit and when we got outside the two cars were waiting for them. There was also a handful of fans who had gathered there. Ashley stopped to chat to them briefly and to sign more autographs. I shot a glance at the mean-spirited publicist and gave a small smile. Ashley and his assistant got into the front car and she stepped into the second car with the stylist and they drove off. I’ve made an enemy there. I walked back in and Ziggy was hovering in the reception area as if she was waiting for me.