Never Too Late (37 page)

on the first day at a new school. People sped past her at every moment, bearing clipboards and important expressions.

The denim-clad teenager who’d brought Olivia up to

the make-up department had nearly had a seizure en route

when the mobile phone hooked on to her jeans went off

with a jarring trumpet call.

‘What? I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!’ she screeched into

the phone, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Olivia was

with her.

Wow! Olivia thought. If even the gophers had mobiles

and attitudes, what the hell would the programme’s

movers and shakers be like? Bloody nightmares, she

reckoned.

‘You’ve lovely bones,’ sighed the make-up lady, getting

to work on Olivia’s eyes. ‘It’s a joy to work with you. You

weren’t a model, were you?’ she asked suspiciously.

Olivia grinned, knowing she was crinkling up her eyes

and therefore, ruining the other woman’s chance of applying

eye shadow. ‘No,’ she said with an ironic laugh.

‘You could have been,’ sighed the make-up lady. ‘It’s a

shame really. When I think of some of the cows I’ve got to

make up in here. They come in looking like unmade beds

and throw tantrums if they don’t go out looking like

Claudiableedin’Schiffer.’

Olivia and the rest of the make-up department erupted

into laughter. A spot of bitching ensued, with a discussion

of which TV star had the biggest head and the least chance

of ending up looking like a supermodel.

After fifteen minutes, Olivia was able to admire herself

in a mirror which really did have lightbulbs around it.

Her silvery eyes stood out even more dramatically than

usual and her full lips were glisteningly plump in a lilac

colour that picked up the amethyst trouser suit she wore.

With her blonde hair shimmering around her face in silky

strands, she looked beautiful.

‘Thank you,’ she told the make-up lady. ‘You made me

relax and I was so nervous.’

The woman smiled. ‘It’s a pleasure working on someone

like you. Someone lovely who appreciates it.’

Downstairs, Olivia followed another production assistant,

a much nicer, less volatile personality, towards the

studio. His name was Kevin and he was young, attractive

and chatty, a huge change from Ms Bitch From Hell

earlier. His platinum crew cut suited him, making his dark

skin look exotic by contrast.

Outside the double doors to Studio One, a red light was

shining brightly.

‘Do not enter when the red light is on,’ proclaimed a

huge notice on the wall.

‘Should we go in?’ asked Olivia anxiously, seeing the

light glowing crimson in the television building gloom.

‘No prob,’ replied Kevin breezily. ‘They’re getting ready

to record a segment for tomorrow morning but they’ll

never hear us here. It’s a band, The Wild Men. You could

let off a nuke in reception and nobody would hear it in

Studio 1.’

‘Oh.’ Wondering if she was ever going to know anything

about the TV world, Olivia followed Kevin’s denim

encased bum into the studio.

It was an enormous room with black-clad walls full of

cables hidden behind the terracotta screens of the Wake

Up Breakfast Show studio set. In the shadowy behind-the

scenes area, men and women in sweatshirts and denims

stood around with radio mikes and bored expressions,

while to the left of the cuddly morning sofa set (two

bright raspberry velvet sofas awash with primary-coloured

cushions), a very wrinkly rock band all wearing orange

sunglasses belted out their latest hit.

The noise was phenomenal, even though Olivia would

have sworn blind that the band weren’t playing live.

‘Do it to me, baybee!’ went the lyrics over and over

again as the lead singer practically stuck the mike in his

huge mouth as he mimed to the words theatrically.

Two camera operators performed an elaborate dance on

the studio floor, weaving in and out of the cables as their

cameras whizzed up and down, taking in every twitch and

pelvic thrust of the band.

‘I’ll just tell the producer you’re here. Her name’s Linda

Byrne, she’s expecting you.’

Ignoring the action on the floor, Kevin sashayed over to a

forty-something woman in black leather jeans and a grey

T-shirt who was talking into a radio mike. Olivia, feeling

totally in the way, tried to blend into the background.

There seemed to be an inordinate amount of people in

there, some watching the band through narrowed eyes,

some talking to each other.

Linda was eyeing her up and Olivia turned nervously

away. What the hell was she doing here? She must be mad. She’d kill Max when she saw him again. I mean, if she couldn’t control a classroom of kids, how the hell did she

think she could appear calm and poised in front of this

load of TV veterans? They were all so blase that nobody

was even listening to The Wild Men. I mean, they’d been a

huge band once and the people in the studio were looking

as bored as if somebody was racing earthworms across the

floor. How did she even imagine that anyone would be

bothered to look at her?

Just then, a vision in aquamarine swept into her line of

vision and abruptly ended Olivia’s anguished soul

searching.

The vision was a blonde woman with a frosted, upswept

hairdo and a tight blue taffeta jacket vainly trying to stay

buttoned over her considerable bosom. She stalked

through the back of the studio with a make-up artist

trailing in her wake. Olivia instantly recognised the woman

as Nancy Roberts, one half of the morning show’s presenting

team. Voluptuous, with flashing blue eyes, a cute snub

nose and a permanently working mouth, she was the

picture of vibrant animation. The public loved Nancy, both

for her unashamedly down-to-earth manner and the fact

that she flaunted her size 16 figure, defiantly refusing to

lose weight for the unforgiving television cameras, which

had made her an icon for 16+ women all over the country.

You couldn’t pick up a newspaper without reading

about Nancy, a woman who proudly eschewed the champagne

lifestyle of the TV personality for quality time spent

with her family and her beloved vegetable garden.

In the week since Max had convinced her to audition

for the breakfast show, the only thing that had kept Olivia

from cancelling through sheer nerves was the thought

that no matter how bad she was, at least she’d meet the

famous Nancy.

Then, Olivia had been informed that her screen test

would take place in the afternoon, which meant she

probably wouldn’t meet the star after all.

So it was a real bonus to see Nancy Roberts on set. But

from the way she was storming in from the back of the studio

with a mobile phone jammed against her ear, she didn’t look

at all like the lovably down-to-earth woman of the newspaper

features. In fact, she looked positively outraged.

The make-up artist hurried alongside her, a velour

powder puff held aloft in one hand.

‘Nancy, I need to get rid of the shine on your nose …’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ screeched Nancy, before resuming

her conversation on the phone. ‘Who the bloody hell do

you think I am? Nancy-fucking-Roberts, that’s who! I’m

not doing some pissing little shop opening in the back of

beyond for a measly grand. You’d better cop on quick, you

little shit, or I’ll be looking for a new agent!’

She snapped the phone shut with such force that Olivia

reckoned it’d break. Then Nancy stopped dead, turned her

face to the make-up artist and calmly waited to be

powder-puffed. A thin woman dressed in grey appeared

beside her and received both a withering look and Nancy’s

mobile phone to hold.

Finally, the TV star closed her eyes, took a deep breath

that reminded Olivia of a yoga video she’d once bought,

and waited for the band to finish.

As if by magic, her face composed itself into a beatific

smile and she bounced on to the set, clapping as if the

mimed song was the most wonderful thing she’d ever

heard instead of a woeful comeback record from a band

who’d spent all their past royalties on serious cocaine

habits and were now in financial straits.

On the monitors, Olivia watched in amazement as

Nancy’s snub nose wrinkled up in that idiosyncratic, lovable

way.

‘Boys, that was fan-tas-tic!’ she cooed. ‘You make me feel

nineteen again, which wasn’t that long ago, you know,’ she

added archly, giving the lead singer an affectionate tickle.

Taking his cue after a lifetime of TV performances

where flirting with the hostess was a prerequisite, no

matter how much of a dog she was, the lead singer grabbed

Nancy in a bear hug. Clutching her to his sharkskin-suited

body, he gave his trademark sexy roar. ‘Baybee! How about

you and me gettin’ out of here and havin’ some fun?’

Nancy squealed with delighted laughter. ‘Don’t tempt

me, Barry,’ she sighed with a pout, wriggling out of his

grasp in a way that guaranteed maximum exposure of her

cleavage. ‘I’m a happily married woman.’

‘No!’ Barry groaned, running a hand through a leonine

mass of dyed hair. ‘You’re breakin’ my heart, Nancy

baybee. You’ve been promisin’ me for years. I’m all alone

now and I need the love of a good woman.’

She shook her head resolutely, as if she’d just been

offered a double cream and strawberry shortcake dessert

but had to say no. ‘Dickie would never forgive either of us.

But you’ll come back for another session on the show

when the album is out, won’t you Barry?’ she added.

‘You betcha, baybee,’ drawled Barry, before going seamlessly

into plug-the-record mode. ‘The album is out in

three months and we’re off touring the States next week

with fifty dates.’

‘Oooh,’ breathed Nancy, ‘I bet you’ve a woman in every

state?’

‘None like you, Nancy.’ he said, a touch of longing in his

voice. With that, he walked off set over to where his model

girlfriend, rail-thin and with a face like a Greek goddess,

stood waiting patiently. Having seen Barry in action before,

she hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when he’d sucked up to

Nancy.

‘Great!’ yelled the floor manager. ‘Thanks, everybody.’

Nancy, who despite her frantic onscreen flirting hadn’t

looked once in Barry’s direction since he’d ambled off the

set, sat down on one of the raspberry couches. Her face

rearranged itself back into bad-tempered mode.

‘Gimme some water, Nita,’ she yelled at her grey-clad

assistant. ‘You know I need two litres a day or I dehydrate.’

Kevin sidled up to Olivia and, seeing the ultra

astonished look on her face, whispered into her ear: ‘She’s

a nightmare, isn’t she? But she’s such a professional on

screen, nobody talks about what she’s really like.

‘You’d understand if you worked around here. Nancy

knows instantly and instinctively where to stand, what to

say … you name it. She’s a complete pro. But what a

bitch!’

‘What about all this stuff about her being a lovely, sweet

woman who’s mad on gardening and hates champagne and

all that?’ Olivia whispered, aghast.

Kevin quivered with suppressed laughter. ‘Gardening!’

he hissed. ‘The only trowel La Roberts ever lifts is when

she puts her make-up on. Somebody in her agent’s office

dreamed that one up and she went ballistic’

He led Olivia over to the woman in leather he’d spoken

to earlier, whispering in Olivia’s ear all the time: ‘Still, the Great Unwashed love the idea of their favourite telly star

up to her eyeballs in tulip bulbs and potting compost, so

she keeps it up. You’ll notice she never actually mentions

any flower by name. One journalist asked her which

fuchsia she liked best. What a howl!’ He giggled at the

memory. ‘All she knows about flowers is how to judge

exactly how much money the bouquets she’s been sent

actually cost. And, believe me, she’s an expert at that.’

His voice returned to normal levels. ‘Linda, this is Olivia

MacKenzie. Olivia, this is Linda Byrne, the show’s producer.’

The two women shook hands. ‘MacKenzie?’ said Linda

thoughtfully.

‘Max Stewart and Paul Reddin arranged for me to come

for the cooking slot,’ Olivia said, thinking the producer

didn’t recognise her name.

‘Oh, no, it’s not that.’ Linda waved a hand airily. ‘It’s just

that our astrologer is a MacKenzie too, believe it or not.

We can’t have two on the show. People will think you’re

related. What’s your maiden name?’

‘De Were,’ Olivia replied.

‘De Were!’ said Kevin and Linda approvingly in unison.

‘That’s much better,’ Linda added. ‘Olivia de Were …

Olivia de Were,’ she repeated. ‘Marvellous. Now, let’s see if

you can do it. Have the researchers gone over what we’ve

organised with you?’ The way Linda asked the question

made it plain to Olivia that it was practically rhetorical.

Linda was quite sure the researchers had sorted everything