Out of the Blue (5 page)

“Oh, do you really?” said Terry.

“As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear
expertise to Iraq,” she added as she switched on her computer, “well, it’s an
international scandal, don’t you think?”

“Ra-ther.”

Terry is thirty-nine—or so he claims—and has a third from
Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old
Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics
sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a
shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus
queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor
at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about
the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he
invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the
job.

But it’s
obvious
that Sophie’s much
too bright for a program like ours. I mean—don’t think me disloyal—but most days
AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of
items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity
disfigurement—failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved;
psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with
ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of
all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.

“I’m doing the Portillo interview,” said Terry as he leaned
back in his swivel chair.

“But I’m down to do that one,” said Sophie as she tucked her
short blond hair behind one ear.

“So I see,” said Terry indolently, “but it’s clearly a mistake.
I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,”
he added.

“With respect, Terry,” replied Sophie carefully, “I’ve
interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.”

“Sophie,” said Terry wearily, “on this show we all pull
together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely
no
room for
big egos, so
I’ll
be doing the Portillo
interview—OK?” And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and
he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron
two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere
gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast
TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes.
Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage
at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations
with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has
no
idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so
polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently
taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, “Not
sure that color suits you,” or, “Oh no! Your mascara’s run,” or, “Did you know
your hair’s sticking up?” But Sophie just smiles at her and says, “Oh, thanks
so
much for telling me, Tatiana. You look
lovely
by the way.” It’s impressive, but as I say
Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s
very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has
the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she
never
makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap.
Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to
get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously
lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked
up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t
want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an
open-plan office—there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an
old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.

So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts,
preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first
one’s at six thirty, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second
floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That’s where
the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms,
and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments
are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened
and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching
clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various
contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly
Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.

“Danish pastry?” I heard her say. “Or how about a nice scone?”
Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, “Where the hell’s Phil?
Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right—you’re on!” In fact things were pretty noisy
all in all.

“—could someone page Tatiana?”

“—would you prefer Earl Grey?”

“—the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!”

“—I’ve got some nice Assam.”

“—Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.”

“—the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!”

So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all
this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces
for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal—we call him
Iqqy—put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown
hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation
bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of
hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.

“Ready with the Polyfilla?” I asked wryly as I surveyed my
exhausted-looking face.

“You do look a bit tired,” he said solicitously. “Were you out
on the tiles last night?”

“Yes. It was my wedding anniversary—we went out for supper,
en famille
.”

“How lovely,” he said soothingly.

“It was,” I replied. “In a way, or it would have been…” You see
the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You
naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as
though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want
to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged
exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip
of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last
night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my
husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant,
and this—and the fact that I’d drunk too much—had resulted in my getting no
sleep.

“How many years have you been married?” asked Marian.

“Fifteen,” I replied.

“Wow,” she said. “You must have married young.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “I did.”

“Fifteen years,” she repeated wonderingly. “But then, I’ve
already been married eight.”

“And Will and I have been together for five,” said Iqqy as he
pulled mascara through my pale lashes. “Although,” he went on ruefully, “we’ve
had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt
like celebrating.”

“Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange…” I began.
“Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this…” Then I immediately
stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat
there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by
pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened
for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings
department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink,
checkered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There
are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy
ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil
backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather
chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the
thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously
low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the
lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity
to throw one of his little fits.

“Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,” he whined, “
I
sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.”

“Oh, but, with respect, Terry,” she said pleasantly, “why?”

“Why?” he repeated. “Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the
lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for
you.”

I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the
lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.

“Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,” said Sophie
wearily as she got up, “but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.”

The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I
slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the
director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature
tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, “Welcome back, everyone;
you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed
your
life?”

The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then
there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and
Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview
about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather
interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a
second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.

“Now, what’s the weather doing today?” he asked, beaming at
Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. “Let’s h-a-v-e
FAITH!” He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air.
He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever
he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if
she’s doing something remotely “serious”, like a medical interview or current
affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just
looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, “Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought
you’d finished.” I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s
nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light
suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.

“Good morning!” I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance
with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. “And I’m
afraid the outlook’s not good,” I began as I turned towards the chart. “The snow
that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as
temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be
careful if you’re driving,” I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my
earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.

“—Terry’s a bastard!”

“Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east…”

“—he cut her interview by two minutes!”

“Those beastly easterlies are at it again…”

“—and it was really interesting.”

“Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north…”

“—I had an ovarian cyst once.”

“Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day…”

“—very painful, actually.”

“With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls…”

“—it was the size of a lemon, apparently…”

“And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic…”

“—and full of pus.”

“We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.”

“—low
pleasure?
”

“I mean, low
pressure
. So, to
summarise…”

“—God, Faith looks tired.”

“A cold, nasty day for most of us…”

“—Terry, sit up straight.”

“But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north…”

“—and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine,
eight…”

“But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping…”

“Seven, six, five…”

“To no higher than four degrees…”

“Three, two…”

“So do remember to wrap up warm…”

“One and…”

“See you in half an hour.”

“Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!”

Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning
flashes by. In between “hits” I check the charts, phone the met office and
update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and
that’s when the program comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom,
then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of
letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their
geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example,
or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how
rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up.
What I like about you,
wrote Mr Barnes from
Tunbridge Wells,
is that, even when you’re giving us bad
news you do it with a nice smile
. Then—and I hate these ones—there
are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it—such as a hair
trim—produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the “requests”
from those viewers who seem to think I’m God.
Dear
Faith,
wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning,
please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in
Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay!
I write
back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I
tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day.
The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I
might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework—I hate it, but we
can’t afford a cleaner—I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal
world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it
would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing
I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s
what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet
again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say
things I don’t like—including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually
I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said
what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever—was it just
a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried
remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help
either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep
eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to
distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book—
Madame Bovary
—but even that didn’t help. My mind
returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me.
Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my
mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. “Neeeee…” it went. “
Neee…neeee… neeeeeeeeee.”
I tried to swat it away but back it came,
so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I
thought of the program and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their
latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco
reward card and tried to remember how many points I’d accrued; but still Lily’s
strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What
was
that remark about? What on
earth
could it mean?