Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Afternoon
The whole team is meant to be enjoying a Christmas lunch together before the holidays, but two people are missing: Madeline and Matthew. Given the latest Category 5 social-media storm and the story being picked up by several other broadcasters, I’m not surprised. The whole interview has been posted on YouTube and #FrostBitesTheDust is more popular than ever on Twitter, albeit for slightly different reasons than before. I wonder if she’s even had time to notice my final blackmail letter tucked inside her handbag. Not to worry, it can wait.
Madeline and Matthew are busy having crisis talks with the station bosses on the seventh floor. I can’t imagine how this story could possibly result in a happy ending for either of them. Matthew told the rest of us to head for lunch without him. He’s booked a small Italian restaurant round the corner, because nothing says Christmas like meatballs in tomato sauce!
The restaurant owner looks scarily happy to see us. There’s one long table, like we’re sitting down to a medieval banquet, complete with napkins and crackers and paper crowns. The others discuss leaving the seat at the top of the table free for Matthew when he arrives, I guess because he is the head of this dysfunctional work family. I seat myself at the end of the table nearest the exit and feel a moment of relief when Jo sits down in the empty seat next to me. Thank goodness she’s here.
‘Vino rosso?’ she asks, before reaching for an open bottle of house wine on the table.
‘Not for me, thank you.’ She pulls a face but I can’t even tell Jo the truth, not until I’m sure. ‘I’m fine, I just had a bit too much to drink last night.’
‘With Paul?’
‘No, an old friend.’
‘A friend who isn’t me?’
‘I do have other friends, you know,’ I say, realising that I don’t, not any more. We’ve received even fewer Christmas cards than I’ve written this year.
One of the producers leans over with a cracker, trying to get my attention. I smile back at her and wrap my fingers around the edge of the shiny gold paper. I pull hard but nothing happens and we both laugh. I pull harder and the cracker snaps, making me jump even though I was expecting it. I’ve won. I put the paper crown on my head and read the joke out to the rest of the team.
‘What lies at the bottom of the sea and shivers?’ I look around at their expectant faces. I doubt I’ll see them again. ‘A nervous wreck.’
A few smiles and a groan but nobody laughs. Someone reads out a better joke.
Jo points out the red plastic slither of a fish that has fallen from the cracker. I pick it up and lay it flat on my open palm; I remember these from when Claire and I were children. FORTUNE TELLER – MIRACLE FISH, says the packaging and I smile at the memory. The fish’s head curls up in my hand. I can’t remember what that is supposed to mean, so I read the tiny square of white paper covered in instructions, scanning it for the translation: MOVING HEAD = JEALOUSY.
I remove the fish from my hand and the smile from my face. I am jealous. I’ve got every right to be.
The restaurant door opens and a cold burst of air rushes in, stealing some paper hats from heads, blowing them onto the floor. Matthew has arrived. Madeline is not with him.
He makes a performance of taking off his coat and sitting down at the table. Then he clinks his glass of Prosecco with his knife, which really wasn’t necessary: the restaurant is completely empty apart from our table and the polite conversation of sober colleagues has already dried up, despite everything we’ve had to gossip about.
‘I want you all to enjoy your Christmas lunch and a well-deserved afternoon off . . .’ he says, then pauses for dramatic effect, and I want to throw my plate at his head. I unfold my paper napkin and place it on my lap. ‘But before we do that, I have some sad news.’ Now he has my attention. ‘I know you’re all aware of the unfortunate incident with Madeline’s microphone on the lunchtime news today.’
I sip my glass of lemonade, it’s more ice than drink and hurts my teeth.
‘What I’m about to tell you has absolutely nothing to do with that.’
Liar. I put down my glass and push my hands together beneath the table in a forward-facing prayer, trying to stop myself from picking the skin off my lips in public.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Madeline has sadly decided to leave the programme for personal reasons and will no longer be presenting Coffee Morning.’
Now the gasps come, including my own.
‘I’m telling you now because the bloody papers will have it by tomorrow and I wanted to reassure you all that the show will go on, your jobs are safe. We’ll have some guest presenters in the New Year – Amber, I hope you’ll help them as much as you can – and then we’ll look for a new long-term solution.’ I nod. It’s his way of letting me know I’m safe now.
The chatter and gossip escalates again. Now that we have something new to talk about, there is only one topic of conversation. Matthew said that Madeline’s reasons for leaving were personal – I expect I’m the only person at this table who knows just how personal it is.
Our Christmas garlic bread arrives, looking dry and unappetising. I’m wondering how to extract myself from the situation when I hear a knock on the restaurant window behind me. I turn and can see the outline of someone, but the fake snow makes it hard to recognise the smiling face staring back.
I can’t speak at first. I’m too busy trying to understand how and what he is doing here. Edward smiles back at us both.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ I say to nobody in particular and walk away from the table. I step out onto the street, the cold wind reminding me that I should have brought my coat.
‘Hi,’ he says, as though him being here is somehow acceptable.
‘What are you doing here? Are you following me?’
‘Whoa! No, I’m sorry. It probably does look like that but I’m not stalking you, I promise. You said last night that you were coming here for your Christmas lunch today.’
Did I?
‘I had a meeting down the road and, when I spotted you in the window, I had an impulse to say, hi.’
I don’t believe him.
I notice that he hasn’t shaved, a dark shadow of stubble has grown over his tanned chin and he is wearing exactly the same clothes as yesterday, his white shirt visible beneath the long woollen coat. He waits for me to say something and when I don’t, he tries again.
‘I’m lying. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t do that. You see straight through me, anyway, you always did. There was no meeting. I remembered you were coming here and I just had to find a way to see you again . . .’
‘Look, Edward . . .’
‘To say, sorry. I was mortified when I woke up this morning and remembered last night. I just wanted the chance to apologise, that’s all. I don’t know why I said the things I did, it must have been the wine. Not that I don’t think you’re great, but that’s all in the past. I won’t keep you from your Christmas lunch – I’m so sorry – I just wanted to clear the air and reassure you that I’m not a psycho.’
‘O-K.’
‘It’s freezing, please go back to your friends. I fear I’ve made things even worse. I won’t trouble you again, Amber. I’m really sorry for how I behaved.’
He does look very sorry; so much so, I’m starting to feel a little sorry for him – it’s hard living in a city where nobody really knows you. I look over at the restaurant and can see Jo in the window, beckoning me to come back inside. I feel like I ought to say something but I can’t seem to find the right words. I’m cold and it’s awkward, so I settle for the wrong ones.
‘Happy Christmas, Edward. See you around,’ I say, before turning back towards the restaurant, leaving him out in the cold.