Never Too Late (70 page)

she’s doing my head in. So I go home and even when Des

is away on business, I open a bottle of wine for myself once

the kids are in bed, cook an entire pizza and pig out. It can’t be good.’

‘Join the club.’ Olivia took another chip.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Linda. ‘You skinny

cow.’

Olivia took a sausage this time. ‘Usually I’m really thin

when I’m stressed,’ she explained, ‘because I can’t eat. But

even though I’m stressed up to my eyeballs right now, I’m

as heavy as I’ve ever been because I eat so much

convenience food.’

Linda groaned. ‘So says the woman who weighs about

eight stone in her heaviest clothes. Anyway,’ she continued,

‘I didn’t bring you here to slag you off for being sickeningly, naturally slim.’ She put down her fork. ‘You’re seriously interested in a career in television, aren’t you?’

This was a subject Olivia had given a lot of thought to,

particularly when she’d had to decide whether or not to

give up teaching in order to fulfil her four days at the

station. She’d compromised by taking the rest of the year

off from teaching with an agreement to take up where

she’d left off if her television career didn’t pan out. It

had been a tough decision to make. The other teachers

had been gratifyingly sorry to see her go, while the pupils - apart from Cheryl Dennis - had moaned that the school’s only TV star was leaving.

‘Will you come back and talk to us when you’re really

famous?’ they’d begged cheekily on her final day, when

they’d produced Good Luck cards and a surprising number

of autograph books for her to sign.

‘You never liked me signing anything in the past,’ Olivia

joked, ‘especially the section on your homework notebooks

when I had to ask your parents how the dog managed to

eat your homework five times in a row.’ She missed the

kids, Olivia realised. Teaching was very fulfilling - sometimes.

Linda

was waiting for an answer. Olivia decided to give

it to her. ‘Yes,’ she said, grasping the bull by the horns. She was serious about TV.

‘Great, because we’ve got a marvellous idea for a show

for you but I wanted to sound you out first before Paul

Reddin brought you in for the serious talk.’

‘A show for me?’ asked Olivia, astonished.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Linda said. “You’re fantastic on

the screen, Olivia, you must know that. Everybody’s

talking about you. We want to hold on to our discovery,

that’s all.’

‘Your discovery?’ Olivia said, aware she was sounding

spectacularly stupid but still feeling a little bewildered by

the conversation. Was Linda asking her if she’d like a

programme of her own or was she imagining it?

‘If we don’t sign you up, somebody else will. Ever since

you got that terrific review in the Sunday World, people

haven’t stopped talking about you.’

Olivia grinned. It had been a wonderful piece written by

an obviously besotted male reviewer: ‘The only thing worth

watching on the Wake Up Morning Show is the luminous

Olivia de Were, a natural TV performer who is singlehandedly

responsible for making thousands of previously cookery-shy

men take an interest in doing things with garlic and onions.

Compared to the formulaic wittering of the ceramic-faced

Nancy Roberts, Ms de Vere’s performances are always fresh,

funny and entertaining.’

I thought we were going to have to send Nancy into

John of Gods to recover when she read that,’ Linda said,

referring to a private hospital where people went to be

treated for nervous breakdowns. ‘She went stone mad.’

Olivia bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. “I didn’t know

they did Advanced Jealousy Therapy in John of Gods,’ she

said finally, giving up on her attempts to stop laughing.

‘Don’t laugh,’ said Linda, doing just that herself. ‘Nancy

rang me at home on the Sunday insisting we fire you.’

‘Really?’ Olivia stopped laughing.

‘It’s OK, I told her you were far too important to the

show and that if she had a problem with that, she could

talk to Paul Reddin about it.’

‘Wow!’ Impressed, Olivia drank some rosehip tea.

‘You are important to us, too important to let Nancy’s

ego ruin things.’

‘Was she the reason the last cookery expert left?’ Olivia inquired slyly.

‘What do you think?’ whispered Linda, looking around

in case anyone was listening. The walls weren’t the only

things with cars in the station canteen. ‘She was a brunette

version of Nancy but with a smaller waist and bigger

boobs. Theo loved her and so did we, therefore Nancy was

determined she’d get the boot.’

Olivia chuckled. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘under the circumstances, how the hell did I keep my job?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ The producer looked surprised.

‘Max Stewart told Paul he knew you’d be wonderful and to

keep Nancy on a long leash until you’d found your feet.’

‘Max!’

‘You didn’t know? I sort of thought you and he were …

you know.’ Linda looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Well, you said

you were separated and Max was so interested in your

career and all that.’

‘Nothing like it!’ Olivia said, astonished. ‘Max is just a

friend. He’s actually crazy about my best friend, to be

honest, although neither of them seems capable of doing

anything about it. That’s all! Wasn’t it kind of him to speak

to Paul, though?’

‘Jeez, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean anything.’ Linda’s voice

was down to a mortified whisper now. ‘It’s just that it was

because you’d been having … er …”

‘Difficulties?’ supplied Olivia wryly.

‘Sorry.’ Linda looked very embarrassed. ‘Sorry for thinking

you and Max were an item.’ She paused. ‘I’m making

an awful hash of this, but I feel that I have to explain, it’s

only fair. If you do decide to take on the new show, you’ll

have to be ready for some sort of intrusion into your

private life. People will be interested in everything about

you. Some journalists want to know everything about you,

from what you eat for breakfast to whom you’re sleeping

with. They like “in-depth” interviews and it’s real soul

baring stuff. They won’t touch you if you don’t agree to

tell all.

‘They’re not all like that, of course. Plenty of papers are

happy with a ten-minute interview and a couple of glamorous

photos, but the point is, you’ve got to be ready for

the worst.’

‘You mean that some people will want to know if I’m

married, and to whom, and why we’re separated?’

‘Exactly.’

Olivia thought about it. She and Stephen had actually

been getting on quite well since the separation. He’d

moved into a small apartment close by in Booterstown and

seemed eager to go to the marriage guidance counsellor

with her, despite storming out of the first session. Olivia

had been horrified but the counsellor, Myra, had been

utterly unfazed.

‘Happens all the time, dear,’ she’d said calmly, handing

her tearful newest client the big box of tissues she kept on

the desk. ‘I’ve seen much worse.’

Olivia’s mind had boggled. She couldn’t imagine anything

worse than a furious man practically breaking a chair

and yelling he wasn’t having some spinsterish old bag

telling him how to behave with his wife. But Myra had

taken the entire thing with equanimity and had welcomed

a subdued Stephen back the next time with a serene smile

on her face.

Since then, progress had been slow but they were getting

there. Like peeling away layers of old wallpaper, uncovering

the problems in their marriage was a painstaking process

and Olivia didn’t know how they’d have managed without

Myra, who had apparently seen it all and then some.

Thanks to her, they were learning new ways to talk to each

other without yelling or accusing each other of terrible

things. These frank, utterly honest conversations had been

strange at first: like hearing Stephen talk about insecurities

Olivia didn’t know he possessed. Even stranger had been

discussing things she’d bottled up for years. She didn’t

particularly want to discuss any of this with a journalist.

But at least she wasn’t having a secret fling with Max

Stewart to muddy the publicity waters. She resolved to

thank him for his kindness in keeping Nancy off her back.

‘Would they be very interested in all that personal

stuff?’ she asked Linda, who was toying with her plastic

cup and looking as if she wished she’d never brought the

whole subject up.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ she replied vaguely. ‘You’re not

Pamela Anderson, but then you are a beautiful blonde

woman and people will want to know who the significant

other in your life is.’

‘Maybe I should pretend I’m a lesbian,’ Olivia said with

a grin.

‘Now that,’ said Linda, ‘would really sell papers. If you

came out, maybe poor old Theo would have the courage

to. Poor love keeps insisting that the public aren’t able for

his sexuality and always has a model on his arm for every

posh party. People love him, nobody cares whether he’s

gay or not. Anyway,’ she got back to the point, ‘I’m just

warning you now, so you can make an informed decision.

We really want you to do this show - I can’t breathe a

word more about it until we know you’re interested - but

I think you need to know what it’ll entail.’

‘Would it mean keeping on the morning show too?’

Olivia asked.

‘Hell, yes. We couldn’t let you go from that. You’re a

star.’

Everyone had advice for her.

Max Stewart’s was: ‘Get an agent.’

Evie advised Olivia to say she’d have to think about

the offer and would get back to them in a week.

‘Jumping right in would look too eager,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Make them wait. You’re a professional woman now,

you don’t make rash decisions. Think how delighted

they’ll be and how much money they’ll offer you when

you say “yes”!’

Sybil de Were said a killer accountant and a hard-as-nails

lawyer were vital. ‘Those bastards will screw you out of

every penny,’ she screeched down the phone, obviously

well stuck into the Scotch. ‘If your father and I had had

any sense and had accountants looking after our money

instead of that lying little runt of a bank manager, we’d be

rich today!’

Olivia knew it wouldn’t be wise to point out that her

parents’ kindly bank manager had kept the wolf from the

de Were door on many occasions and that Leslie and

Sybil’s own profligacy was the only thing responsible for

their financial state. Scotch and the bitter truth wasn’t a

combination her mother was fond of

The only person who didn’t have any advice for her was

Stephen, the very one who once could have been relied

upon to dole out shovelfuls of unasked-for opinions.

‘It’s your career, Olivia,’ he said quietly when she told

him as they drank coffee in McDonald’s on a shared day

out with Sasha.

Myra had suggested the trip: ‘There’s no point going to

marriage counselling if you never spend time together to

see if it’s working,’ she said brusquely, recommending time

spent as a family as well as time spent as a couple.

‘I don’t want to force you to do what I think is right. I’ve

done enough of that,’ he added ruefully. ‘Controlling

behaviour is not what you need right now.’

‘You sound like Myra,’ Olivia said with amusement.

The guarded expression went from Stephen’s face.

‘Yeah, well, it’s an effort sometimes to speak like a

psychiatrist,’ he said candidly. ‘I know what I should say

but I’m just about to launch into one of my “This is the

correct way!” speeches when I remember I’m not Field

Marshall MacKenzie anymore. It’s a hard habit to break.

When controlling behaviour works for you, you keep on

doing it. It did work for me. I could control you, Sasha,

people I worked with. I was in charge, I was the dominant

person.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Stopping isn’t

easy. It’s like learning to speak a different language.’

‘So your counsellor helps?’ Olivia asked. It was the first

time she’d referred to the therapist Stephen was seeing on

his own. She’d been astonished and thrilled when he’d

obliquely told her about it. The fact that he’d taken her

seriously gave her real hope for their future.

He nodded, watching Sasha playing with the toy from

her Happy Meal. ‘Sort of. I still think I’m one of those

people, with some, I don’t know …’ he paused, searching

for the right word ‘… darkness inside me. I don’t know

why and it wasn’t fair to you. I only hope I can deal with it

and that you come back to me. Sorry.’ he looked at her,

suddenly haggard. “I wasn’t supposed to say that,’

He’d looked so desperate that Olivia nearly let her

defences down and said, Yes, come back and live with us.

But she couldn’t. It had all been too hard, too painful.

She’d cried herself to sleep too many nights, wondering if

she’d destroyed her marriage to give in to an impulse now.