Vintage Babes (29 page)

‘What does she think of her new blonde streamlined mum?’

‘She’s impressed, though she only admitted it because William and Patrick went on about me looking so good when they were here at the weekend. Patrick’s accepted the New York job by the way. Starts next month. Maybe when he’s settled, you and I could fly over for a few day’s sightseeing and shopping? Bruce is forever jetting off to places, so I reckon I deserve a treat, too.’

‘Um… yes. Sounds a good idea,’ I said, startled by her initiative, but thinking that the money I was saving from cutting down on smoking could help finance a trip.

‘Bruce is impressed with the new Jenny, too,’ she continued. ‘And yesterday one of the dustbin men winked and told me I was a cracker.’

‘A short, weedy guy who wears a grubby Manila Gorilla T-shirt?’

‘The same. You know him?’

‘I know him.’

‘And this morning Shane said he’d had no idea Victoria had such a sexpot for a mum.’ Jenny chuckled. ‘She was not best pleased.’

‘He seems a nice enough lad.’

‘He’s okay. Messy and lazy, but friendly. Bruce reckons he and Victoria are just friends and not –’ she searched for a suitable word ‘– sweethearts, though I’m not so sure.’

‘You haven’t heard the scurry of feet from one bedroom to another at night? Or moans of passion?’

‘No, thank the Lord!’

‘But you have lain awake and listened?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘And during the day, I make a point of going into Victoria’s room at regular intervals.’

I grinned. ‘Spoilsport.’ I was about to ask if she had had any more thoughts about conducting an extramarital affair – perhaps with the dustbin man – when the telephone rang. ‘Bruce?’ I suggested.

‘Probably,’ she said, and went off to the study to answer it. ‘Carol, can you come?’ she called, a minute or two later. When I joined her, she had her hand covering the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Max. He wants to know if we can do him a huge favour and do the work-out with him on television tomorrow morning.’

‘Us and the painful three?’

‘No, just us. You, me and Tina. The painful three have cancelled. I’ll explain later. Max says a driver will pick us up from our various homes at around seven-fifteen a.m. and deliver us back home by eleven. The exercises will be what we usually do. How about it?’ Jenny asked, smiling. ‘He’s already spoken to Tina and she’s willing.’

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to work out on television and I would need to let Steve know that I wouldn’t be in the office: there was an interview I’d arranged which would have to be postponed.

‘You’re willing, too?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘It’ll be different. Max said Tina said to tell us that going on television is nothing to be scared of. That we’ll enjoy ourselves.’

I could see how keen she was. ‘Okay.’

Jenny spoke into the telephone. ‘We’re on, we’ll do it, we’ll help. Do we wear what we normally wear?’

‘Or Age Concern T-shirts?’ I suggested.

‘We do and we can change at the studios. You’ll meet us there?’ Jenny listened again and laughed. ‘See you in the morning.’

‘So what happened to the painful three?’ I asked, as she replaced the receiver.

‘Gerri pulled out first because her grandmother – the old bat who’s gaga – died and she has to fly over to Ireland for her funeral. Then Pippa and Dee got together to polish up their routine, but Dee made a comment about television adding pounds and Pippa looking like a carthorse. Pippa took the huff and refused to appear. Dee was all set to exercise on her own, but Nathaniel has developed a cough and needs her attention.’

‘She can’t leave him with someone else for a couple of hours?’

‘Apparently not.’ Jenny laughed. ‘So it’s our chance for stardom.’

‘At ultra short notice. Would you mind if I ring Steve? I need to sort things with him.’

‘Go ahead. Use the phone in here.’

Left alone in the study, I dialled his mobile. If he said I was demanding too much – which would be a fair comment – I could always take half a day off as holiday.

‘It’s me, Carol,’ I said, when he answered. ‘Sorry to ring out of hours and I hope I’m not disturbing anything.’

‘Like what?’

‘Riotous sex?’

‘I should be so lucky.’

‘You’re not going to like this, but the thing is I’ve been asked to go on television tomorrow morning and –’

‘Why?’

‘To do a work-out with Max.’

‘Oh yes?’

I heard the insinuation in his voice. ‘Not just me. Tina and my friend, Jenny, are doing it, too. But I have an interview fixed for ten o’clock. It’s with the manageress of the care home that’s being threatened with closure and –’

‘Melanie can do the interview,’ Steve said, after I had explained. ‘Her writing is improving and it’ll be a good exercise for her. Which show are you on?’

I told him and gave the time. ‘I should be in the office by noon.’

‘No problem. Just one thing, I’d like you to write about going on TV.’

I sighed. ‘I should’ve guessed.’

‘You’ll do a piece? The inside story by our ace reporter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re getting there.’

‘Getting where?’ I asked.

‘Unquestioning obedience,’ he said.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Max lounged in one
corner of the purple leather sofa, deep in conversation with Cheryl, the female presenter of the morning show, who was snuggled into the other. The male presenter, Ray, a pock-marked ex-jockey and Cheryl’s live-in lover – the relationship with its history of slanging-match break-ups followed by tearful reunions had been endlessly publicised – perched upright beside them on the edge of an armchair, listening. The pseudo wall behind the sofa which, presumably in a stab at bestowing a faux-literary air held two short shelves of books, was lime green, while the floor glistened a shiny orange.

Jenny, Tina and I were in a waiting room at the studios watching Max on a small television set fixed up high. Jenny and I watched with avid interest, but Tina was sulky. On our arrival and when Max was in the process of detailing which exercises he would be taking us through, an officious young man with a clipboard had appeared. He had explained that the reformed alcoholic footballer who had been booked for the show had failed to turn up – seemed he’d toppled off the wagon, yet again – and, to fill in time, the producer required an interview. Hearing this, Tina had placed a hand on her hip in a ‘come and get me’ gesture and smiled expectantly. But the producer had wanted Max to be interviewed, only Max.

He looked good on the screen. Well-built, smooth-skinned, handsome. And, stretched out in his black bodysuit which advertised his assets, as sexily exotic as usual. His screen manner was good, too. As he talked about the advice he could give on stress, fatigue and weight problems, he was easy and full of charm. Cheryl, a gushy girl with a strident ‘sarf London’ accent, pixie-cut hair and lips like sausages, was leaning towards him and laughing at something he had said. It was obvious she’d love to make a grab for his groin. And Ray’s scowling silence said he knew this.

‘So who are the lucky ladies who’re working out with you today?’ Cheryl enquired, and Tina sat straighter.

‘They’re three of my regular clients. Great gals. I call them my vintage babes.’

‘Vintage babes?’ Tina repeated, turning to Jenny and me in wide-eyed horror.

‘Let’s face it, we are,’ I said.

‘But classy with it,’ Jenny added.

After speaking with Max, we had been taken to a dressing room where we had donned our exercise gear. Jenny and I were in our usual outfits, while Tina wore a zebra-striped all-in-one which had been specially purchased for the occasion. ‘It cost a mint,’ she had said, giggling. We had then proceeded to make-up. Tina, who had done her face at home and was glossed, buffed and toned to covergirl perfection, was deemed to require no attention, but Jen and I had been painted and powdered. Inspecting the finished results in the mirror, we had both agreed we looked remarkably swish.

I’d wondered if the presenters would come in before the transmission and introduce themselves – even a quick hello would add sparkle to my
Siren
write-up – but we were not considered to be that important. I had also wondered if we might meet other – famous – guests, but again we were out of luck. The drunk footballer was a no-show, the gangsta rap band who were to play their current hit were signing autographs for the teenage fans who had massed outside the studios, while the American movie actress who rated as the star of this morning’s programme – and whom I’d never heard of – had requested a private room with white walls, white lilies, grapefruit-scented candles, a supply of vanilla yoghurt and no visitors.

‘Time to go, ladies,’ announced the officious young man, marching into the room. ‘Take any handbags with you, to be on the safe side. And, by the way, my name is Crispin.’

Tina may have vowed that appearing on television was nothing to be scared of, but as Crispin led us off through a maze of corridors, I noticed her hands were trembling. Jenny looked tense and I was gripped by a sudden attack of the collywobbles. Suppose I messed up. Suppose I lost the rhythm or fell over or, even worse, noisily broke wind. ‘Ageing Hack Farts on TV’. I could see the gutter press headline.

We were directed onto an empty expanse to one side of the sofa set, which had the same lime green walls and retina-bruising orange floor. The colours may have been garish, but it was the lights which dazzled. They were so bright. It was like standing in the glare of brilliant sunshine or facing spotlights to be interrogated by the KGB.

After a minute or two, Max appeared. ‘Right, babes,’ he said, ‘positions as usual. And let’s knock ’em dead.’

Our usual positions meant Tina in the middle and to the front, with Jen and me behind her on either side. The reggae beat started to sound and we moved into action. Within seconds all nervousness fled for, trapped in a circle of white light with darkness beyond, it felt like being in a private world. Isolated. Unreal. There was no sense of the presenters or studio staff standing by. No awareness of cameras. No thought of being watched, assessed and – who knows? – ridiculed by millions of viewers all over the country. It was just us and Max; marching on the spot with knees high, doing side steps and heel curls, slowly circling our heads.

The cringeable quotes flowed. ‘The difference between a flower and a weed is judgement’, he recited, at one point. Next came ‘Reach not just for the sky, but for the stars and the moon.’ Though he surpassed himself with ‘A cat in gloves catches no mice.’ What insight was that supposed to impart?

Then it was over. As we ended the routine, Cheryl came to bathe Max in smiles, say how meaningful she had found his words and briefly thank us, before returning to the sofa where Ray was ready to introduce the actress. A cameraman stepped out of the dark to raise a congratulatory thumb. Another technician mouthed ‘Fab!’ Tina waved and tiptoed over to talk to them. As a one-time TV personality, she had moved into ‘gracious star’ mode and was accepting the acclaim as hers. Only hers. Jenny and I rated as mere spear carriers.

‘Being back in front of the cameras again felt so right, so natural,’ Tina informed Crispin, as he walked us along to the canteen where we were to be provided with a refreshment before changing into our normal clothes and departing. ‘Just like the old days.’

The young man looked bemused. ‘You’ve been on television before?’