I nod politely, although I’m sure my stomach will actively revolt if I try to eat anything more. Yesterday’s binge of sweets, chocolate cake, scones, hamburgers and finally cheese on toast was more than I normally eat in a week. It must be the fresh air that’s given me such an appetite.
‘What time did you say it was?’
‘It’s nearly twenty to four now.’
‘What day is it?’ I’m not normally so vague, but then I don’t normally sleep for seventeen hours. And I don’t ever sleep in nylon sheets.
‘Tuesday.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Smith looks horrified but I have no time to placate her.
‘Shit. Shit.’ I scramble in my bag looking for my mobile phone. ‘Shit. Fourteen messages.’ Mrs Smith tuts and leaves me to my own devices. I think it’s safe to assume that any tentative strands of approval she’d been weaving my way are now well and truly snapped. So what? I turn to my messages.
The first is from Issie, reminding me that my New Year’s resolution was not to have casual sex. Ha, fat chance. Darren doesn’t even seem to want to swap pleasantries, never mind bodily fluids. And anyway, what is she talking about? That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to endear myself to Darren so that he agrees to be on the show. Nothing more. I thought I’d explained that. All the other messages are work-related.
Cas. Please give me a call. It’s Tuesday morning. What time will you be back? Have you persuaded Darren to be on the show?
Fi sounds nervous and a twinge of guilt bites as I acknowledge that I have left her in the lurch. She’s a strong assistant but she hasn’t had to make the decisions before. Well, maybe I micromanage too much and it’s time that Fi had a bit more responsibility. She’s probably doing a good job. I skip a few more messages to listen out for her voice. There are three more from Fi. The first and second are increasingly irate. The third confidently asserts that she’s found a replacement for Darren, Claire and Marcus and has made the decision to reschedule the filming. She details how she’s going to use the two producers back to back. One in the studio, editing, whilst the other is at the shoot and then vice versa. This is a good idea as it will help catch up on time. She says she’s expecting me back by Wednesday morning and significantly repeats, ‘As you promised.’
Bale is less subtle.
Cas, where the fuck are you? Getting serviced? Well, fuck that. Call me.
His three messages are all the same. I also have calls from Di, Debs and Ricky. Apparently some bishop or other has written an open letter to The Times condemning the show. Which is great news. Di and Debs want to know how to handle the PR. Idiots. Can’t they do anything without me? Ricky is lobbying for a schedule change to coincide with Valentine’s Day. He’s come up against a brick wall. Or, more accurately, a homo-phobe executive who can block or facilitate such things. Ricky’s particular breed of charm will only serve to irritate in this instance. Whereas I could undoubtedly help by just offering to take the guy to lunch. I call Ricky and tell him to set it up for Friday. I call Fi, and it’s not until I tell her that I’m not travelling back tonight as originally promised but early tomorrow morning or tomorrow night at latest that I realize I’ve made this decision.
‘But you don’t need to stay, Cas. I have a replacement.’
‘Yeah, but I think Darren is just about to capitulate and I still think he’d make such a good show.’ This lie is vibrant scarlet but I have no conscience about it.
‘He is gorgeous,’ Fi agrees enthusiastically.
‘If you like that kind of thing.’
‘Are you having a good time?’
‘Not really. He’s unstable. A delight one minute and a rabid dog the next. I have to schlep round with his tedious family. It’s freezing and I’m in the middle of nowhere.’ It’s always been an adage of mine that I don’t owe every pertinent enquirer the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.
‘The things you do for your job.’
‘Exactly. Listen, Fi. It’s probably best if you don’t mention to Bale that we have a replacement. He hasn’t met Darren and won’t understand why I’m so actively pursuing him.’ Fi titters, so for clarity I add, ‘For the show.’
‘Of course.’ I can hear the smirk in her voice. Cow. ‘Be careful you don’t fall for him.’
‘Impossible. I could never fancy anyone called Darren. I’m not called Kylie or Sharon.’
Fi laughs. ‘I won’t say a word to Bale, but you’ll have to get back by first thing Thursday at the absolute latest. We can push the filming back to then but no later. I can’t do the filming on my own. We need you.’
Of course they do.
After bathing I feel in need of fresh air. Avocado green has never been my colour for bathroom suites. I decide to catch up with Darren and the children. Because what else can I do? Play bowls? I walk along the pier and spot them walking down the beach, which is more or less deserted as it’s January, it’s the north and it’s freezing. Anyone with any sense is sitting by their fireside or, less romantically but more realistically, their TV set and radiators. I wave and shout, and surprisingly Lucy and Charlotte start to pelt towards me, their little legs not keeping up with their will to be further ahead than they are. I succumb to the Calvin Klein advert factor and rush to meet them. I stoop down to hug them. I only do this because I’ll look good.
‘Hi,’ smiles Darren.
Is last night’s spat forgotten? I’m not sure, so I concentrate on the girls. I know he’s watching me examine their toffee apples and take due interest in the horrid plastic novelties that they’ve procured on the seafront.
‘You’re getting the hang of this kids thing. And Wellingtons too,’ he comments.
I glare at him. The Wellingtons are Mr Smith’s. I have just endured the most embarrassing thirty minutes of my life, well beyond anything I have ever encountered to date. Mrs Smith insisted that my Mulberry wide-leg trousers were ‘too good to be clarting on the beach in’ and gave me a pair of her ‘slacks’. She laughed out loud at my Gina Couture mules and set about finding me a pair of Wellington boots. I am a size seven shoe. Which caused much astonishment as the fact was repeated throughout Whitby by Mrs Smith, who rang all her friends and asked if they had a boot that large. None of them did. It’s obvious that they are still binding women’s feet in North Yorkshire. I was subjected to the humiliating experience of being the most ugly of Cinderella’s sisters as I tried to squeeze my feet into Shelly’s size six boots. They didn’t go anywhere near. I commented that cheap brands do come up small. Mrs Smith laughed and gave me Mr Smith’s Wellingtons. They are big and slip up and down as I walk but at least I can get into them. I didn’t manage to leave the house without accepting sheepskin mitts, a kagoul, a scarf and a duffel coat. The type most people wore at school. I didn’t. I refused then. However, no amount of objections could deter Mrs Smith. She kept insisting that it is bitter in January, and that I wouldn’t have known anything like it. The implication is that I’m a softy southerner. I explained that I had been to the north before – in fact, I went to university in Manchester. She let out a sound somewhere between derision and pity. That’s hardly north, is it, love?’
I look like the Michelin man. Except not as colour coordinated. Darren sweeps an eye over my outfit. How come he’s warm and manages to look sophisticated and rugged?
‘I see that Mam kitted you out appropriately.’
I don’t dignify his sarcasm with a response. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s being funny or if he’s trying to be irritating.