‘I’m only going for a few weeks!’
Georgia looks mortified. She’s on her way to Ibiza with a bunch of friends, exams over. We are both taking her to Luton to wave her off. She’s been away with her mates several times before so it’s no big deal, but this time it feels symbolic. She’s left school. She’s on her way out of the door for good. I get the impression Robert is thinking a version of the same thing because he sniffs back a tear as we wait to wave her through Departures.
‘Three weeks,’ I say. ‘I’ve never not seen you for three weeks in a row since the day you were born.’
She looks around, notices that Eliza’s mum and dad are looking a bit sniffly too and relaxes just enough to accept our hugs. Robert and I end up circling her with our arms at the same time, which makes it feel as if we’re embracing each other with George squashed in the middle. I fight the urge to pull away and push him off at the same time.
After she’s left, Robert and I stand there, waiting, as if unsure what to do next. And then a pair of old ladies, smartly dressed for their trip in that way that old people dress up for travelling, like they do for dinner, spot him and start beetling towards us, no doubt to ask for a picture.
‘Shall we go?’ I say, not letting on that I’ve seen them.
‘Sure,’ he says, but they’re too quick for me, calling out his name in loud voices that cause every other person in the place to turn around to look too. All of a sudden it’s like being in a zombie film, although the protagonist isn’t in danger of being eaten, rather of being photographed to death.
‘Shit,’ I mutter under my breath before I can stop myself. I know that’s half the morning gone right there.
‘I’d better just … sorry …’ He turns to the crowd with a beaming smile, ever the professional.
As I watch him get engulfed, elbowed out of the way by more than one old dear, I check my phone for messages. I’ve been doing this all week, like it was my full-time job, waiting to hear from Josh. So far only one short missive. In return to my question ‘How’s it going?’ on Thursday I received a not very enlightening ‘All good’ back. The story conference, I know, was on Wednesday and Thursday. I wonder if he bottled out of pitching any of our ideas and whether that’s a sign that he might bottle out in a bigger way altogether.
I’m about to dash off another text when one appears as if by magic.
‘Are you free to chat?’
Of course, Saskia will be at Bikram, toning up her lovely body. I’m tempted to risk it. Robert is still surrounded by the undead and by the look of it will be for some time. I decide it’s worth the chance. If anyone will understand if I have to end the call suddenly, it’s Josh.
‘If I hang up, don’t call me back,’ I say before he even has a chance to say hello.
‘Of course,’ he says, as if that’s the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’ll be quick anyway. I just wanted to tell you it couldn’t have gone better. All our ideas went through.’
‘Ha! That’s amazing. Well done.’
‘The script editors are just plotting them through, but it’s safe to say Saskia will be having to eat for three or four from now on.’
‘Have you told her yet?’
‘No. She’s going to kill me. Obviously, I’m never going to admit it was my idea. I’ll tell her I argued against it but I was outnumbered. She’ll just think I’m ineffectual.’
I glance over at the throng around Robert, see him look my way as if to say, ‘Can you come and save me?’, turn back to the phone.
‘Well done, you.’
‘I thought you’d want to know. And we’re going to plant the first seed of Robert’s villainous conman career into ep one. That means I’m justified in telling him about it during the break.’
I look at my husband, surrounded by his adoring demographic, not one of them under seventy.
‘Perfect.’ I suddenly realize that Robert is on his way towards me, beaming apologetically at his fans and gesturing at me as if to say I need him to get moving for some reason. The second he’s out of the clutches of the last of them, his expression changes to one of accusatory irritation.
‘Got to go,’ I say, and end the call with Josh without waiting for him to say goodbye.
‘Why the hell didn’t you rescue me?’ Robert says, furious. That’s always my role, by the way. I have to play bad cop and drag him away while he protests that he’d much rather stay and talk to the ‘great unwashed’, as he refers to them in private.
He rolls his eyes. ‘I thought I was never going to get away.’
‘It’s so sweet how much they adore you, though, isn’t it? At least you’re lucky you’re playing such a sympathetic character.’ I try not to smirk as I say this.
Because Robert professes to dislike Saskia so much, I am allowed to slag her off whenever I get the chance without it coming across like I’m a bitch. It’s a hobby. Robert always likes to watch the show. He claims it helps him develop his character but I know he really just enjoys seeing his own face and marvelling at the way he acts everyone else off the screen. (He actually said this to me once. He likes to draw attention to the nuances of his performance and make sure I’m aware of how special it is.) We missed it on Thursday night because we took Georgia out for a meal to celebrate the end of her exams, so on Saturday evening we settle down to watch, glasses of wine in hand.
‘God, what’s happened to Saskia?’ I say when there’s a close-up at one point. ‘Her face looks really weird. Do you think she’s had a dodgy facelift?’
To set the record straight, Saskia looks ten times better than most of us on a good day, but I know how to push my husband’s buttons.
Of course, he has to agree with me. ‘Ha! Probably.’
‘She probably feels threatened by Marilyn,’ I say, mentioning the character who, unbeknown to Robert, his own character will soon be having an affair with. ‘It must be hard to have based a career on what you look like and then watch it start to fade. I mean, it’s not as if her acting skills are going to get her far.’
It’s true that Saskia is not a great actress. She gets away with it – just – but only because she’s always cast so close to type.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really feel comfortable making comments like these. I’m not a natural bitch and women get a hard enough time as it is about the way they look without me joining in. But when he only grunts his assent I feel cheated. I wanted to force him into saying something mean about her too.
‘That girl playing Marilyn’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’ Maybe I can help move his focus on to the other woman. ‘And she’s good too. Believable.’
‘She went to RADA,’ he says, as if that explains everything.
‘That was a good episode for you,’ I say as the credits roll. I’ll be honest, Farmer Giles bores me to tears. It’s so twee but then with these sensationalist storylines every now and again to keep the viewers hooked. Everything is a little bit too heightened, from the rivalries to the hairdos.
He yawns and stretches. ‘That’s one thing I’ll say about Josh. He’s made the writers buck their ideas up a bit. The scripts are definitely better.’
‘Why don’t you like him? It seems like he’s doing an OK job.’
‘He’s a nice enough bloke. Well, you’ve met him. I’m just not sure he’s a strong enough pair of hands, that’s all.’
‘Did you tell me he was married to Saskia? Or have I imagined that?’
‘Is that why he got the job?’
‘God knows. Actually, that’s not fair. I think he’s got the experience. On paper, at least.’
‘Has Saskia got any better since he arrived?’
‘Not so you’d notice.’
To give Robert his due, he doesn’t even flinch when I mention her. There’s no moment when he looks as if he’s trying to work out what the right thing to say is or to stop himself from giving himself away.
‘It can’t be much fun being married to someone and then having to try and discipline them at work.’
‘It can’t be much fun being married to her at all.’ He laughs heartily at his own comment and I force myself to join in.