Prime Time (19 page)

‘Really?' she said, bored. I chewed on my final leaf and looked at my watch. It was 9.30. I still hadn't phoned Stanley. As I hit the air on the pavement upstairs I realised I was really quite drunk and seriously needed either chips or a lie down.

‘You sound like you're having a good time,' said Charlotte dryly, after telling me that Stanley was already asleep.

‘Give him my love in the morning?' I slurred guiltily. ‘It all went on a bit.'

I got a glass of water as soon as I was back inside and drank it straight down. Cal was telling me about next time. I tried to focus.

‘So we'll be coming down to you next. We'll cover the gym and maybe get some local shots. We'll want to film the assessment and them giving you your programme. And maybe you starting to exercise. Then we've got some other appointments lined up – we've tried to keep it in your area so you don't have to come to London too much but I will probably need you to …'

He really did have the most amazing eyelashes for a bloke and a lovely face. The way he talked was a disarming mixture of boyishness and assured macho confidence, I thought idly, noting the enthusiasm that lit his eyes, the way his hands moved when he talked.

He could be a male model, really. I could imagine him posing in a pair of Calvin Klein's, hair forward across his eyes as he gazed moodily into the camera, muscles lightly oiled …

Tanya suddenly yawned loudly, bringing me back with a jolt. ‘Is that OK?' Cal was saying.

‘Oh yes, fine,' I mumbled, looking at my watch, startled to see it was already 10.30 p.m. – where had that last hour gone?

‘I'd better get to the station,' I said.

Tanya nodded vigorously. ‘Or you'll be stuck here all night,' she said. She yawned again. ‘I want to go home too,' she said to Cal.

He looked at me. ‘You haven't missed the train, have you?' he asked concerned.

‘No.' I felt as though I might fall asleep any minute myself. ‘The last one is at midnight, I think.'

‘Perhaps I should have organised a car.'

‘No really – the train's fine. They sent me a return ticket.'
And I can get something to eat at the station
…

‘I'll come with you to get a cab.'

We gathered our coats and left. It was cold outside. As the three of us walked up to the corner of Sloane Square, I wished I could just close my eyes and be instantly transported back to my bed at home. Instead, I'd have to sit on a train for the best part of two hours with all the old drunks – not a prospect I relished, even if I was one of them.

Cal had managed to conjure up a cab already. ‘Victoria station,' he said to the driver. ‘Have you got cash?' he said to me. ‘Keep all your receipts.'

I nodded, just wanting to slump in the back of the cab. But he had his hand on my arm. ‘I'll be in touch,' he said. ‘Let you know when we're coming down.' He opened the door and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘You've been terrific today – absolutely fantastic.'

‘Bye,' said Tanya. She looked as exhausted as I felt, her eyes huge and black in her white face.

Cal waved as the cab moved off. ‘I'll call you.'

It was almost 1 a.m. when I was woken up in Ramsgate. I remembered cramming the huge egg and bacon baguette I'd managed to grab before throwing myself on to the 23.07, but the rest of the journey was a blank. I must have fallen asleep almost immediately.

Now, damn it, I had missed my station and by the amused looks I was getting from the grinning bloke opposite had probably spent the journey dribbling or snoring or both. I gave a small start as I saw myself reflected in the dark window of the train – it wasn't just the smudged eye-make-up, it was the alien hair. I‘d totally forgotten I now looked like that.

I stumbled up the steps at the station, praying there'd be some taxis on the rank. The one I got smelled of beer but at least it got me home. It was after two by the time I'd wandered about the house in a daze, drunk two pints of water, got my clothes off, and was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. Not only had the eye make-up spread itself but my whole face had that blowsy, saggy, been-on-the tiles look. Only my hair was holding up.

Could I be arsed to take my make-up off ? Usually in this state, no. But remembering that I was supposed to be being fab at 40, and recalling the state of my face in the mornings when I didn't, I reluctantly pulled my forever-young foaming exfoliating cleanser toward me.

As I finally clambered into bed at 2.40 a.m., putting my mobile on the table beside me, I noticed the text from Charlotte.
Hope u great time. Forgot say got go bloody work after all. Will drop S off on way at 8 get coffee on xx

I set my alarm for 7.30 a.m. and collapsed into the pillows. I dreamt about Cal.

Chapter Twenty

Beeb de beep de beep
…
Ugh. Yuck. Go away. Shut up!

I groped around for the snooze button for the second time, groaning as the clock showed it was 7.40 a.m. and Charlotte would be arriving with Stanley in 20 minutes.

Despite being so tired when I'd got into bed, I'd woken at 4.30 a.m. and 5.30 a.m., mainly to sit up and look at my hair in the dressing table mirror or stare at the ceiling unbelievingly as I relived my day as TV star. It felt exciting when I looked back on it but deeply unreal.

I'd finally relaxed and got warm and snuggly and ready to sleep for ever at about 6.30 a.m. and had one glorious hour of deepest slumber until I'd been rudely awakened. I dragged myself from under the duvet and staggered toward the bathroom.

I cleaned my teeth and spent ten minutes re-spiking my hair with the putty stuff, until it was pretty much as good as when Antonio had done it.

‘
Tra-la
!' I said, opening the door in my dressing gown and giving Charlotte a twirl. ‘What do you think?'

‘Very nice, love,' said Charlotte.

Stanley's eyes widened. ‘Oh – my – God,' he intoned flatly. I kissed him.

‘Don't tell me you're embarrassed by having a thoroughly cool and funky mother,' I said triumphantly.

Charlotte nudged him. ‘Make her wear a balaclava when she picks you up from school.

‘I'd have left Stanley in bed snoring away like the others and you could have got him later,' she said to me. ‘But he said he needed to come back to do something with you. Though you look like you should have stayed in bed yourself,' she finished, looking me up and down.

‘No, that's fine,' I said, yawning, and remembering that I'd promised Stanley we'd go to see a film or something to make up for my disappearing act. ‘We'll have a nice long day together now.'

‘He hasn't had any breakfast,' Charlotte informed me. ‘I did offer but he said it was too early.'

‘That's OK. I'll get him some in a minute. Go and put your stuff upstairs, darling. I'll make you a coffee,' I said, turning back to Charlotte as Stanley trudged off with his rucksack.

‘A quick one, then.'

‘Are you OK?' I said to her as I poured water into the cafetière. ‘You seem a bit distracted.'

‘I'll tell you later. Blimey, that looks strong.'

‘I'm going to need it to be to stay awake.'

‘Good time?'

‘It was fantastic. First we went to see this mad American woman …'

I began to prattle away but I soon got the feeling Charlotte wasn't really listening. ‘Is everything all right?' I asked her eventually.

She looked at her fingernails. ‘I don't know,' she said thoughtfully.

I felt a frisson of alarm. ‘What's wrong with you?'

She looked up and met my eyes. ‘Nothing's wrong with me. But I'm rather wondering what Roger's up to.'

‘What do you mean?' My stomach was now fluttering anxiously in a way that had nothing to do with my hangover. Was she looking at me particularly hard? ‘What's he done?'

‘He's just behaving oddly.' Charlotte frowned. ‘Becky was waiting for him to take her round to Lauren's for the night and his phone was on the kitchen table and a text came in. Becky picked it up – and when he came into the kitchen and she said, “You've got a text, Dad,” he went mad. Grabbed it from her and really told her off – said she should leave people's things alone, that you didn't go reading other people's messages. He was really over the top.'

‘Well,' I said carefully, feeling sure the alarm was now showing on my face, ‘I suppose that's fair enough. I mean, I get cross when Stanley plays about with my phone – especially when he starts changing the ring tone. Last week, he …'

‘I know all that,' interrupted Charlotte impatiently. ‘We've brought the kids up to respect each other's things and not read diaries or letters etc. Of course we have – but this was different. She's often told one of us a text is there – she reads mine out to me sometimes. Why shouldn't she? I haven't got anything to hide.' She was still looking at me. ‘Have you noticed anything different about him?'

I couldn't hold her gaze. I turned away and pressed down the plunger on the cafetière. ‘No, not at all,' I said, feeling dreadful. ‘But then I haven't really seen him recently, have I?'

‘You were talking to him the other night.'

‘Well, yes, but only about ordinary stuff – he seemed just the same to me. Who was the text from, after all that, anyway?'

‘Someone from work, he said. About an early meeting on Monday.'

‘Well there you are,' I said. ‘Perhaps he was just a bit tired and irritable. Friday night, you know.'

‘Maybe,' said Charlotte. She picked up her handbag. ‘I'd better be going.'

I held out the mug of coffee I'd just poured. ‘Aren't you going to have this?'

‘Better not. I've got a viewing at nine and I've got to go into the office first.' She took it from me anyway and had a mouthful.

I filled another mug for myself. ‘Did you ask Roger why he was like that?'

‘Of course. He just got grumpy and said he was sick of the kids always in his things.'

‘Well then. I'm sure everything's OK.'

She shook her head. ‘But they're not always in his things. And if they are, he's never minded before. And you know something else? He keeps taking Benson out!'

I raised my eyebrows as if I didn't understand.

‘Come off it,' said Charlotte irritably. ‘You know as well as I do that's not normal. You know I'm the only one who ever takes that dog anywhere. I have to line them all up against the wall and threaten no food/TV/PlayStation/sex for a week before any of my family will shift their arses to give Benson any exercise.' She snorted. ‘But now, suddenly, Roger the Dodger is born again! Lovely long walks along the beach they have, apparently. And the dog does actually come back with sand on him so he's not spending the whole time in the pub.'

‘Is he trying to get fit, perhaps?' I asked her lamely.

Charlotte scowled. ‘You tell me!'

I didn't get much sleep that night either. Partly because I'd already had two hours by dozing off in the cinema and missing the whole of
Electric War Dog Part Two.
(Fortunately Stanley was so engrossed he didn't notice, and by telling him repeatedly how brilliant I thought it was, I'd managed so far to avoid having to discuss the plot.) And partly because I'd eaten so much stuffed crust pizza (the new regime would begin on Monday) that my stomach was in spasm.

But mostly because my conversation with Charlotte was going round and round in my head. Should I send Roger a text to warn him yet again to stop seeing Hannah?

I hoped he wasn't stupid enough to be meeting her on these long walks on the beach – if so, he'd soon be caught out in a place like Broadstairs, where you only had to stop and discuss the weather with a member of the opposite sex for someone to pop up behind the nearest lamppost and speculate on the state of your marriage – but was simply continuing his counselling by phone (not that that wasn't bad enough, if his wife didn't know about it).

But, dear God, suppose I texted him and Becky picked that up too? And actually read it this time. Or Charlotte did. She'd be furious if she found out I knew something and hadn't told her. I'd have to wait till he was at work on Monday. Then tell him Charlotte was on to him. Though surely he must realise that already if she'd quizzed him about the text business.

Did he have a death wish? Or was he so besotted with this Hannah that he was losing the plot? It would be so much better if I could get to Hannah herself. Tell her in no uncertain terms to sling her hook.

By the time it got to 1 a.m. and my stomach was still protesting and I'd moved on to worrying about the alarmingly long list of work I had to do for Mike over the weekend, having had the whole of Friday away from my desk, I decided to get back up, drink some soothing herbal tea and see if any inspiration might come to me on the gnome front. I still had brochure copy to finish and a set of scintillating ads to produce.

I sat at my computer wrapped in several jumpers and tried to concentrate. But for every sentence I produced on the jaunty angle of a gnome's hat or the quirky irony of his fishing-rod prowess, I spent 10 minutes thinking dreamily of the next filming session with Cal and another 20 fretting over what I was going to do about Roger before his marriage to Charlotte fell apart.

When I was yawning at ten-second intervals and had got seriously cold despite the layers, I decided to give up. It was almost 4 a.m., and I was desperate for sleep. I'd have three or four hours, I thought as I clambered back beneath the duvet, and then start on the gnomes afresh. I'd better do some housework sometime too, and then there was shopping …

I woke with a start to the sound of the doorbell ringing. Confused, I rolled over and looked at the clock – bloody hell, it was 10.05!

Stanley was standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, hair on end. ‘I think that's Dad,' he said rubbing his eyes.

I sat up. ‘Well, go and open the door. Why didn't you set your alarm?'

‘Because I thought you'd wake me – why didn't you set yours?'

‘I didn't think I needed to – I always wake up earlier than this!'

The door bell rang again. ‘Go and get dressed!' I yelled. I pulled on my dressing gown, stumbled downstairs, and pulled open the front door. Daniel was there, looking irritable.

‘Sorry – we overslept,' I said unnecessarily.

‘I can see that,' he replied. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?'

I peered in the hall mirror. My hair was standing up on one side, flattened on the other where two days' build-up of hair wax had left it matted in clumps. My eyes were puffy, my face crumpled by the pillow – there was actually a crease right across one eyebrow. I looked horrendous.

‘Did you have a lot to drink last night?' he asked disapprovingly, as if a drop of alcohol had never crossed his lips and it was another person entirely who, on his 32nd birthday, had stumbled out of the taxi and been sick in a hedge.

‘No, I didn't,' I said, hoping the empty bottle of Macon wasn't visible through the open kitchen door. ‘Not that it's anything to do with you.'

‘It is when you're taking care of my son,' he said sanctimoniously.

I looked at him with a rush of real dislike. To think I'd been married to this tosser!

‘One,' I said, in a low voice so that Stanley wouldn't hear and become even more traumatised, ‘he is
our
son. Two, if you had kept your dick in your trousers you'd be looking after him as well, and three,' I finished sweetly, ‘whenever did you become such a pompous git?'

Daniel's eyes narrowed but as he opened his mouth to reply we both heard Stanley's feet coming down the stairs.

‘Hello, mate,' called Daniel heartily.

‘Daddy's here,' I trilled joyfully. ‘Are you ready?'

Stanley had on his jeans that were too long and a sweatshirt that was too big. He hadn't combed his hair. He looked at me and frowned.

‘Just got to put my trainers on,' he said, going to the cupboard under the stairs. I beamed at Daniel, who was clearly frustrated he'd been prevented from making some peevish reply.

‘We'll be back about six,' my husband said heavily when Stanley had shuffled back along the hall.

‘Have a lovely day!' I said gaily. ‘Love you!'

Stanley frowned again but let me hug him. ‘Love you, too,' he mumbled.

‘Bye, bye!' I stood waving madly on the step, seeing Stanley anxiously scanning the street in case any of the neighbours' kids had spied me in my night clothes, until the car had driven away. Then I went into the kitchen and gave Boris an update on the situation. ‘That man is a wanker,' I said.

Boris moved aside so I could appreciate the decapitated mouse he'd brought me. He wound himself round my legs and gave one of his special meows that only I could understand. It meant he was agreeing with me. ‘A total tosser,' it said.

I looked at my to-do list with something close to despair. After a concerted session of moaning to the cat while eating therapeutic slices of toast and Marmite – this was medicinal – a shower, and an hour trying to make my hair look like it had in the shop – once washed it just looked rather short and rather uneven and no amount of hair gel or wielding the straighteners seemed to change that – it had turned into afternoon and I hadn't even got started on the jobs I'd intended to finish by six.

I looked at the paper in front of me and tried to prioritise.

1) Write copy for gnome ad for Sunday mags.
Urgent
– Mike wants Monday morning.

2) Finish brochure for sodding, boring water coolers – ditto.

3) Look at treatment and proposed script for corporate video for dull, tedious company that Mike wants feedback on.

4) Iron at least one school shirt.

5) Go to supermarket (nothing in house for dinner, let alone nourishing roast with three veg would make if were proper mother, and almost out of cat food too)

6) Get petrol (been on red for two days).

7) Hoover.

8) Contemplate washing basket.

I decided to tackle the list in reverse order of how much brain activity it required, thinking I would start with the mundane and build up to the gnomes and water-coolers once I was fully awake. I collected various garments from Stanley's bedroom floor and carried an armful of washing downstairs wondering how Fab-at-40 Cal would think I was if he could see me now, and, remembering that the next filming session was in the gym, how many days of only hot water and spinach leaves it would take to make my stomach look flat.

Stanley's school jumper had blue paint on it; his trousers were adorned with several lumps of playing field. I noticed his tie wasn't anywhere to be seen and, predicting the usual crisis at 7 a.m., I loaded up the washing machine and went in search of his blazer to see if it was stuffed into a pocket.