‘Something just snapped,’ Maureen was explaining. ‘I just turned round and I shoved him.’
Randolph was crouched beside her, a hand on her arm. ‘Tell us how many flights it was, Maureen. Were you afraid he’d broken his neck?’
Maureen was a small, tired-looking woman with faded red hair. You couldn’t imagine her throwing anyone down the stairs, let alone battering him with an umbrella afterwards. ‘I thought I’d end up in Holloway,’ she said mournfully. ‘Lucky he left me, really.’
I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. I had sat glazed and frozen with terror while the woman next to me, Jean, gave an impassioned account of how she had driven her car through the front window of the local newsagent’s when it was “the wrong time of the month” and her husband, Brian, who looked as petrified as I felt, haltingly explained how he used to lock himself and the children in the cellar when she “had the painters in”.
Every time Randolph moved, my stomach lurched in case he came to me. The woman next to me was breathing so heavily I wondered if she was in the midst of some sort of heart failure. At least they’d have to stop filming.
‘And your husband left you too, didn’t he, Laura?’ Suddenly Randolph was perched on the step in front of me, his microphone almost touching my nose. ‘Was that because of your violence?’ he asked silkily.
‘No!’ It came out too loudly. How did they know about Daniel, I thought wildly. Nobody had told me he’d be mentioned. ‘I just get very bad moods,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve never hit anyone.’
Randolph brought his orange face closer to mine. ‘Tell us how you feel, Laura. What happens when you get angry?’
‘Well, I sort of get very impatient,’ I said, flustered. My voice sounded higher than usual. Randolph nodded encouragingly. ‘I find I shout at my son a lot. I get clumsy and drop things, I feel very fat …’ My hand moved protectively over the half-yard of stomach that was trying to escape my waistband. ‘Things make me cry and once I threw a shepherd’s pie against the wall …’
Randolph turned and smiled into the largest camera. ‘And yet Laura looks quite normal. With us today, we have Dr Steven Barrington, consultant gynaecologist at St Saviours Hospital …’
I sat and squirmed as Grey Suit on my left went through all the scientific stuff I’d prepared and forgotten. What on earth had possessed me to say that about the shepherd’s pie? It was years ago. I’d never given it a thought since and suddenly, here, in a TV studio when I was supposed to be sounding sophisticated, it had just popped out of my mouth. Now the whole country would think I was totally bonkers and it wasn’t even true. It was lasagne.
Grey Suit had finished and Randolph was standing in front of us all again, sounding sincere.
‘We’ve heard all sorts of stories this morning, of violence and domestic mayhem, of lives being ruined, of relationships in the balance. Ordinary-looking women going about their lives with a terrible secret …’ He gazed around the audience. His eyes were beginning to get a strange light in them. ‘They are filled with pent-up, barely-suppressed rage just waiting to boil over …’
I jumped as he suddenly swung the microphone back toward me. ‘Would you say, Laura, that PMS was the single most contributory factor to the breakdown of your marriage?’
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. My brain whirred, searching for the right thing to say. ‘The single most contributory factor to the breakdown of my marriage,’ I might have replied, ‘was my husband having a mid-life crisis and getting his leg over the first available female that came along. Lying to me was most definitely a contributory factor, as was trying to pretend I had developed paranoiac-personality-disorder for assuming that finding a packet of three extra-long-lasting melon-and-passion-fruit flavoured condoms and a carton of chocolate body paint in your husband’s briefcase when he was supposed to be meeting up with the district auditor (male, 57, shocking case of halitosis) was a fair indication that he was up to no good. For let me tell you, Randolph, Daniel may have liked to pretend he only left me because I was difficult to live with but smashing crockery against the kitchen tiles was the least of it. I had been hurling the dinner about for years …’
Randolph’s eyebrows were raised enquiringly. He leant forward and opened his own mouth a couple of times as if to demonstrate what I should be doing. I swallowed. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, lamely.
Randolph sprang to his feet and went leaping up the tiers of seats. ‘How old are you, Doris?’
‘I’m 88.’
We all twisted round to look. My microphone pack had slipped and I put a hand back to pull it into a better position. Randolph was bending over a white-haired old lady.
‘Are you really? You don’t look it,’ he said gallantly.
Doris cackled. ‘Get on with you.’
Randolph crouched down beside her. ‘So what do you think about what we’ve heard this morning, Doris? Did you suffer from PMS when you were younger?’
Doris made an impressive snorting noise that went on for several seconds.
‘Never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life,’ she retorted. ‘In my day we just got on with it. We didn’t have time for any of this malarkey. And another thing, we didn’t speak about things like that. Downright disgusting, if you ask me. We kept ourselves to ourselves. Talking about private women’s things on the television for everyone to hear? It’s a disgrace!’ She folded her lips inwards until they disappeared.
‘But what about period pains?’ asked Randolph, moving in a bit closer.
Doris glared. ‘We didn’t have those neither. A bit of proper housework that’s what you need –’ Her eyes fixed on me. ‘If you got yourself down on your knees and scrubbed the floor you wouldn’t have pains. It’s the same with these girls today and all that nonsense when they have a baby. Epidurals, is it? What’s wrong with them? Nothing in my day at all. You gritted your teeth and you pushed when you were told to. I boiled the water myself when the midwife got the forceps out.’
Some of the back row had opened their eyes and were sitting up in interest. ‘You tell him, Doris,’ croaked one excitably.
‘It’s like these disposable nappies. More money than sense that’s your trouble.’ She was really glaring at me now. ‘Too much trouble to wash a few terries, through, is it? And I bet you’ve got a washing machine too, haven’t you?’ She jabbed a gnarled finger in my direction. ‘Haven’t you?’ she cried.
‘Well, yes,’ I found myself saying, ‘But …’
‘Four lots of nappies I had,’ shouted Doris, ‘and the whitest in the street too …’
The oldies from Oldham were now beside themselves. One of them cheered.
‘I haven’t even got a baby …’ I protested.
‘Well perhaps you should have,’ yelled Doris in triumph. I caught a glimpse of Charlotte behind her, wide-eyed. ‘That would sort you out!’
‘Thank you, Doris!’ Randolph patted her shoulder as the crones all pointed at me and muttered to each other. I was trembling. None of this was how it was meant to be. I could feel the sweat running down my back where the microphone pack was digging into my spine.
Randolph had now settled himself beside the brightly-coiffured Alicia. He brought the mike up between them.
‘Now you’re 17,’ he drawled. What? She was much older than that, surely? Alicia was nodding. ‘And how old were you when your periods started?’ He gave her a slow smile.
Alicia stared at him. ‘Twelve,’ she said flatly.
‘Twelve!’ cried Randolph, as if this were an achievement of note. ‘And do you get any of these symptoms, Alicia?’ he asked smoothly. Alicia brought her head up high and stared boldly around the studio.
‘No, I do not,’ she said loudly. ‘And if you ask me,’ she said, her voice rising further. ‘It’s all a load of rubbish. This is just an excuse for middle-aged women to behave like witches and make other people’s lives a misery.’ She pointed at me. ‘My mother was like her,’ she snarled, almost spitting the last word. ‘Always shouting and screaming and blaming everything on the fact that she had a bad period. Made us all miserable and gave my poor dad hell. She thought nothing of throwing a carving knife across the kitchen but it was never her fault. When I think what we went through –’
I clenched my fists in frustration, feeling hot and angry. The sense of hurt and disappointment and raw injustice that had begun rising when Doris was speaking rose further.
‘I shouldn’t think she wanted to be like that,’ I said tightly. ‘None of us do. Do you think anyone chooses to feel bad? Do you?’
Alicia shrugged. ‘Probably,’ she said, aggressively.
‘Oh yes, I’m sure.’ I scowled at her. ‘Would you want to spend half the month with bloating and poor concentration?’ I asked, suddenly miraculously remembering the list of symptoms I’d memorised from the Internet. ‘Would you want to feel depressed and worthless? Would you want water retention and swollen ankles? Would you?’
Alicia rolled her eyes as the oldies began murmuring again. ‘Look at you. Just like her, always feeling sorry for yourself. Always blaming something else.’
‘What do you know about my life or how I behave?’ I shouted. I realised I was waving both arms.
Alicia looked at me, eyebrows slightly raised, a sarcastic half-smile on her face. The mutterings from the back grew to a crescendo.
‘We all know the trouble with you!’ Doris yelled. The row behind her began to bay.
‘Screaming the place down,’ said Alicia. ‘You’re all the same.’
‘I do not scream!’ I shrieked.
I saw Randolph smiling as he turned back to face the camera. Horror struck as I realised my tirade would go out all over the country. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered, forgetting what Sharon had said about the mike picking everything up. ‘Fuck it, fuck it,’ I added, as I remembered.
‘Why should we all put up with it?’ Alicia was calling. ‘Why should we be your victims?’
Furious with her, furious with myself, I struggled for something dignified to come back with, but the sight of her smug, triumphant smile was too much.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I exploded. I leant forward and jabbed a finger at her. ‘The woman with PMT,’ I yelled, ‘is a victim herself!’
There was uproar at the back. Three of Doris’s cronies got to their feet and appeared to be trying to climb over the seats in front.
Alicia leant forward to give me the full benefit of her evil eyes. ‘Well if it’s that bad,’ she said nastily, ‘get a hysterectomy. But it would probably be more useful for everyone,’ she ended victoriously, ‘if you got a life …’
‘My God,’ said Charlotte, appearing at my side looking visibly shaken as Sharon, the sound girl, rummaged around in the back of my trousers to retrieve the microphone pack. ‘What a load of old harridans.
‘You were very good,’ she added doubtfully. ‘Well, until the end anyway …’
I shuddered. ‘Did I sound like a fishwife?’
‘Yeah, you did a bit, love.’
Terrific. So much for being poised and serene then. ‘What happened to my hair and make-up?’ I said crossly. ‘And where’s bloody Clive anyway? Shouldn’t he be here?’
‘You were totally marvellous, darling,’ said Shane, bustling up. ‘As I just knew you would be. Now let me just check my little list – have we got all your details?’ He consulted his clipboard and then looked at me coyly. ‘Just in case we need you again. Just in case you make Randolph’s Round-up .’ He lowered his voice huskily, ‘Which I think, my darling, you just might …’
‘Randolph’s what?’
‘Round-up ,’ said Toni, who had appeared by my side, holding my jacket and handbag. ‘We do it at the end of the series – a re-run of the best moments. It’s totally wicked.’
‘We get the really good guests back to watch themselves,’ added Shane. ‘You know, sitting on the sofa, smiling at how upset they got – a sort of where are they now?’ He gave me a little nudge. ‘Maybe you’ll have cured yourself by then by taking dried loganberry leaf or something …’ He winked. ‘Or you can pretend you have …’
‘That’s cool. You were wicked,’ Toni said, as Shane waltzed off. ‘If Shane’s saying that, I’m sure we will call you again …’
‘Really?’ I preened a little. ‘Did you hear that Charlotte? I may get called back as one of the best …’
‘Hmm,’ said Charlotte. ‘They probably say that to everyone just to stop them suing for damage to their reputation. Bloody hell. Look out!’
I turned to see Alicia striding toward us, arms swinging, face determined.
‘I think she’s going to hit you,’ murmured Charlotte.
Afterwards, I couldn’t really quite recall how it happened – I saw her arms come up and I remember bracing myself, thinking it’s probably best to stand quite still and just let her do it, hoping all the while that Charlotte would land her one hard, decisive blow and knock her out, in the manner with which she had once dealt with Janine Jackson when we were at school, and thus save me having to get involved in an undignified brawl. As Alicia bore down on me, hand outstretched, I closed my eyes.
And then opened them again when I felt a pair of arms wrapped round me.
‘You were brilliant,’ someone said in my ear.
‘What?’ I looked into Alicia’s face. She was grinning. ‘Your face was a picture,’ she said. ‘But you were so good – I loved that bit when you screamed back at me.’
‘Yes, well,’ I said, uneasily. ‘Of course I’m sorry for what you went through with your mum and I can see how you’d feel upset for your father in those circumstances but really, I do feel that some of us, in certain cases …’
Alicia threw back her head and laughed. ‘My Dad pissed off when I was three and Mum and her boyfriend are totally cool,’ she said. ‘If anyone starts throwing the cutlery about, it’s me!’ She laughed again. ‘I made it all up’ she giggled. ‘They had dozens of mad cows already – no offence – so they needed someone to put the other side. I was just doing it to be on TV. And you know – it’s a day out and a few quid, isn’t it?’
I looked at her in shock. ‘Is it? Do we get paid?’ I raised my eyebrows at Charlotte. Nobody had mentioned money to me.
‘Yeah, they don’t advertise it but if you tell them you’ve got to miss a day’s work to be here, you can usually pick up a couple of hundred. You should have done it beforehand, really – last night or first thing this morning when it would be really inconvenient for them to find someone else. That’s the way.’
‘Right,’ I said faintly, marvelling at her acumen and my lack of it.
‘I’m trying a get a tape together,’ she explained. ‘I really want to become an actress. I’ve got myself an agent and he said get as much variety as possible. So I’m going on Hang Out with Hannah next week to talk about marital abuse.’
‘Are you married?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Not likely.’
‘And how old are you?’ I enquired.
‘Twenty-four.’ She grinned. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, linking her arm through mine, ‘I’m looking for someone to go on Cook Around the Clock with me. Fancy that?’
Charlotte snorted with laughter.
‘What?’ I said.
‘It sounds brilliant,’ said Alicia. ‘My friend, Shirley, went on it and they had loads of champagne and got put up in a really posh hotel. You could be my mum.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, seriously, that’s what they want. You go on as a pair – sisters, married couple, friends, or whatever. I phoned up and they said that, right now, they’re looking for mothers and daughters. Haven’t you ever seen it?’
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘And you’re kidding. You’ve never seen Lu in a kitchen.’
‘It’s great,’ said Alicia to me. ‘One of you can cook and one can’t. The one who can’t cook gets a chef to help them and they have a race to cook something with the one that can. They have a chef too but he just watches and says whether they’re any good or not. So I could be all hopeless and you can be a yummy mummy type who makes cakes all the time and is trying to encourage me.’
I shook my head. ‘But I can’t cook either.’
Alicia waved her hand dismissively as if this were a minor detail. ‘It’s supposed to be fabulous and you get to meet two famous chefs – we could get Jamie or Gordon Ramsey or anyone –’
‘Mmm,’ I said, ‘I like him but I really don’t do cookery. Well, not apart from pizza and chicken nuggets and things you just put in the oven. I made a beef casserole once and left it in the oven all day and it was still like leather …’
Alicia shrugged. ‘We can work something out.’
‘No thank you,’ I continued. ‘I don’t want to do anything like this ever again. I mean you may have been pretending but some of those up there …’ I nodded toward the now-empty back row of the set.
Charlotte nudged me. ‘I thought you’d had it when that old dear started on about the housework. What a dragon she was.’
‘Oh God yes,’ I shuddered. ‘She scared me rigid. Terry bloody nappies. Doris, wasn’t it? Where the hell did they get her from?’
Alicia grinned again. ‘That’s my gran.’