I try calling Greg first. Not through any huge desire to speak to my husband but in the hope that he can put the kids on the phone.
I can check whether Charlotte’s lost her upper central incisorfn1 and find out whether Thomas got on OK at assembly …fn2
But there’s no response on the mobile. Or on Facetime. Or Skype. Greg and I have a tendency toward muteness in common (along with low-level mutual contempt …) so I’m not hugely surprised by this. It’s not our habit to contribute unnecessarily to conversation, let alone initiate one. I also told him in no uncertain terms that this was my ‘week off’ – ‘off’ childcare, wifeliness, dentistry, everything. And Melissa warned him that there might not be adequate ‘telephone reception waves’ for calling home at our retreat destination. So really, I’ve made my own no-contact-with-the-kids bed, I think now, wretchedly. But I try. Again. And again. Until the gloom of having to assess my own face, for an age, like in the hairdresser’s mirror, for another round of fruitless blob blob blob video dialling proves too much. I hang up, feeling dejected.
Greg’s probably mired down in a busy day of News 24 and toast …
I send him a text instead and it occurs to me how much I’ve missed the boo-wip sound of a message shooting off into the ether.
Not as much as my children, OBVIOUSLY … but a bit.
I’ve missed seeing those little bubbles come up underneath my blue messages that tell me someone’s composing a reply. And then …
I have bubbles!
Greg appears to be responding. The bubbles keep bubbling as he types … but then, nothing. Just my message, hanging there, suspended in nothingness.
This is bad, I think. Really bad … But we can’t split up, I’m still trying to persuade myself. We’ve got two kids! Who’s going to want me with two kids?
I look back at my phone, doing precisely nothing. No bubble. No reply.
Who’ll want me? Not Greg, clearly …
Dear Greg, I want to write: Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish … But then I realise a more grown-up approach as befits a professional mother of two with four bags-for-life in her car would be not to enter into a passive aggressive SMS exchange. When they go low, you go high … or something. Taking a deep breath, I call. Again. But there’s no reply. Again.
He doesn’t want to speak to me. Which means I don’t get to speak to Thomas and Charlotte … A scenario that is partially of my own making. This makes me feel very low indeed and the Greek chorus warms up for an encore. So instead, I distract myself by making the most of my contraband phone access.
Ta da! Bad feelings: buried.
A few texts from work give me a rush of importance and validation, notwithstanding the fact that they are predominantly ‘where ARE you?’ variants from colleagues who’ve forgotten I’m on leave. But aside from the office, no one has missed me.
No one? I think, a little wounded. Of course, I’m relieved to see there’s nothing from the anonymous number that I am now 99 per cent sure was Mr Teeth. But really … no one? No friends? Nada … ? I realise, again, that I may have let my social life slide in recent years.
In lieu of a life outside of work and my immediate family, I scroll through the collection of photographs I keep of Charlotte and Thomas on my phone. My mood lifts as unconditional love takes my face hostage. I see my children dressed for the first day of school; in the garden against a wash of blue sky; playing in the snow last winter.fn3
There’s no response to another round of calling, so I diversify, dipping into various other apps. I check LinkedIn for a digital reward pellet (Another new endorsement! Does Alice Ray know about Veneers? Does she heck!), dismiss a few emails from the surgery that can wait, and flag up the others to respond to when I’m back. Because, I recognise now with the perspective of a few days away, nothing is really as urgent as an email marked ‘URGENT’ makes things out to be.
Except for Mrs White’s filling. That does need replacing asap …
I forward the request on to reception with an angry red exclamation mark to signal that it’s high priority. Then I have a browse around, taking full advantage of the password-free WiFi access.fn4 And before I know it, I’m three years deep into an old school friend’s Facebook photos, envying her picture-perfect home and feeling a twinge of the RSI I regularly suffer from. That’s not good, I remind myself. Stop it. Stop scrolling, now. Just as I’m about to close the app, I notice that Steve from the surgery has posted a ‘LOL’ video that has apparently been shared several hundred thousand times called ‘Woman Goes Crazy at Work’, accompanied by the hashtag #thatsshowbusiness. Steve has added his own comment. ‘MUST watch – feel better about my job already …!;)’ to which Beverley from reception has oh-so wittily replied. ‘You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!’
Without thinking, I click.
The link takes me through to one of those websites where I can also see long-range pap shots of women in bikinis, swarthy-looking men looking a bit shifty, and a piece about how Belgian drag acts are morally corrupting our youth at British tax payers’ expense. I wrinkle my nose and am preparing to click away, vowing to be higher minded than this, when the video starts playing automatically.
Oh well then, not my fault, I think. And watch.
At first, it appears to be a mistake – just footage of someone’s shoes against grubby blue carpet tiles, as though someone’s pressed record on the video function of their phone without realising it. I lean in, to check I’m not missing something, and make out a muffled audio. So I turn the volume up, until a woman’s voice can be heard. She sounds upset. Irate, even.
‘Why do I bother?’ she’s asking. ‘Why do I bother?’ she repeats, changing the inflection. ‘Tell me? Why? I’m surrounded by people who haven’t seen a hairbrush in years, who all look as though they need a good going over with a hot flannel, who weren’t even born when I did my first celebrity telethon, but do I complain?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I do not.’ The camera tilts upwards at this point, shakily and in the style of The Cook Report,fn5 as though the videographer is growing in confidence – filming without the protagonist’s knowledge but determined to get a better shot of the action. I can make out a pair of court shoes from which a woman’s slender, nut-brown legs emerge. She’s standing by a water-cooler, undulating slightly and occasionally prodding a second figure – a man wearing jeans and a hoodie. The camera moves so much that the faces on my tiny screen are blurry, but, between sentences, the woman appears to swig from a white, branded mug.
‘The one thing – the one thing – I expect is a little loyalty. But no. I have to learn second-hand – second-hand – that that … embryo … has been given my show!’
‘They just said they were going for a younger vibe,’ Hoodie Man tries to explain.
‘Why not one of the others? They want youth, they should try shunting Marcus. Or Nigel. Or Doug. What about DOUG!’ she says, with a prod. ‘I mean, this is radio! It’s a sad day when you can’t have a woman over fifty—’ she stops to correct herself ‘—forty-five, even, on bloody radio!’ She takes a swig from her mug. ‘Well, let me tell you, I have had enough! ENOUGH! You hear me? I don’t have to put up with this! I’ve done Celebrity Shark Bait ! I was lowered into the sea by a woman with three fingers! These thighs?’ She points. ‘In a wetsuit? The shark thought I was a seal in distress! Went right for me and I STILL went on air and did my show the next morning. That’s show business!’
Hoodie Man proffers a plastic cup of water, but Mug Woman, who sounds strangely familiar, bats it away and goes on. ‘I’ve jogged out of helicopters to hospitality tents and drunk champagne with the cast of Casualty! I’ve worn a shell suit and eaten lobster for a spread in the Sunday Times!’
The camera jiggles a little at this and I realise its owner must be chuckling.
‘Is that … ?’ Mug Woman turns and looks in the camera’s direction. ‘Are you filming me … ?’
‘No …’ a man’s voice mumbles to reassure her/lie as the camera pans away to a row of grey plastic chairs occupied by a courier, motorbike helmet dutifully in hand, a few Brownie Guides giggling nervously, accompanied by a matronly looking woman, and a couple of beardy types clutching postcards. Two more women enter through a revolving door, shaking off umbrellas. One is clutching a Boots Meal Deal bag but both fall silent when they see who’s there – and the camera trains back on to Mug Woman’s face.
It’s not … is it? I wonder …
Something about the overly teased blonde hair and Mug Woman’s mannerisms ring a bell. I know I should stop watching. I want to. Really. At least, the good part of me does (essentially: Kylie). But I find I can’t.
I can’t stop watching. I have to see how this ends … I have to see if this is who I think it is …
‘Well, would you look who it is!’ The protagonist in the video greets the woman with the Boots Meal Deal, who blushes vermilion and appears flustered. Mug Woman takes another swig of something then leans against a wall next to a rack of what looks like leaflets and postcards. I make out tiny headshots, pictures of men and a few women, grinning inanely. Unfortunately, Mug Woman overestimates the gap between herself and the wall and shunts it hard, disrupting the rack and scattering its contents over the blue carpet-tiled floor.
Boots Meal Deal stoops to pick up the postcards.
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Mug Woman commands, pinning down a picture of a bearded man with her court shoe. ‘Doug deserves it!’ She spots a few postcards still clinging to the rack and flicks them out, laughing maniacally as they cascade to the floor. ‘And Nigel! And Marcus! And you, soon enough!’ she tells Boots Meal Deal. ‘I was like you once! When I started out, I was so young I looked like a scrubbed knee … ! All those critics and men with fat backs gave me hell over the years, but I kept going! Even when high definition TV came in and every flaw was magnified and most of us looked like we were auditioning for the London Dungeons – and of course I don’t make the cut on The One Show sofa any more – not like Giles bloody Brandreth on account of his having a COCK—’
The camera pans to take in the shocked faces of several Brownies, two of whom are now crying.
‘But they get you in the end!’ The white mug is now being waggled at the younger woman, sloshing clear liquid over its sides in the process. ‘I had it all, once!’ Mug Woman goes on. ‘I mean,’ she slurs slightly, ‘I’ve played Pictionary with Robert Plant! I had coq au vin with Phil Collins! That’s show business!’ More liquid is spilled.
It IS her! It’s … Tricia!
I wonder what on earth I’ve stumbled upon – and whether this explains a lot about why the former It’s a Royal Knockout sub-bencher is currently slumming it in deepest darkest Scandinavia, as the drama continues to unfold on the tiny screen in front of me.
‘OK, let’s all just, like, chill out—’ Hoodie Man is starting to say, just as Mug Woman – sorry, Tricia – hurls the rest of her beverage down his trousers.
‘Chill? You want me to “chill”? Like, just, “chill, man” ?’ Tricia is keeling to one side, doing what I can only assume is intended as an impersonation of youth. ‘Well, you can, like, PISS OFF!’
‘This is outrageous!’ Brown Owl is harrumphing as the camera swings around. ‘Excuse me, can you call someone please?’ she asks a receptionist with too-long turquoise talons who executes a theatrical eye roll before picking up the phone and dialling, slowly.
‘You have to admit, the show hasn’t been going brilliantly lately—’ Hoodie Man continues, bravely, ignoring his now-soaked crotch.
‘So what if I was on the radio eating cashews? I like cashews!’
‘It’s not about the cashews, Tricia …’ Hoodie Man counters.
‘Oh, OK, so I had ONE big night!’ she screeches in response. ‘Two, max! So I forgot “the news” a couple of times …’ She mimes bunny ears around these words as though she’s not entirely sure she believes in the concept. ‘James Naughtie dropped the C-bomb on the Today show and he got away with it! Tony Blackburn played Chicago’s ‘If You Leave Me Now’ on loop and he didn’t get this sort of abuse!’
‘I think he did, actually,’ another voice sounds out from off-screen.
‘Shut up, patriarchy!’ Tricia retaliates.
‘That was Sheila …’ Boots Meal Deal hisses.
‘Oh, sorry Sheila. Hope the thyroid works itself out …’
‘Karen from HR is on her way,’ the bored, blue-talonned receptionist drones.
‘Karen from HR is a snide bitch who’s wanted this from day one!’ Tricia isn’t stopping now. ‘And you all know she used to shag Doug too, right?’ The motorcycle courier to the far left shakes his head to indicate that this is news to him.
‘OK, OK – let’s not have a meltdown in the studio,’ Hoodie Man goes on.
‘You think THIS is a meltdown?’ There are some murmurs of agreement, so Tricia throws her head back and laughs a large ‘Ha!’ in a way I’ve seen before. ‘You haven’t LIVED! This is nothing! I’m not telling everyone I’ve got “Tiger Blood”! I haven’t thrown a phone at anyone! I’m not shaving my head or smuggling a pet monkey into Germany, damn it … I’M NOT TWERKING!’
Only then, it appears, she is. Attempting to, anyway.
‘Is this what you want? You want me to twerk for you? Do a special dance so I’m like the YOUNG presenters? Start a Snapchat account? Take up an extreme sport? I’ll show you extreme sport …’
A woman with a stiff perm who I can only assume is Karen from HR can be seen marching into reception. She pushes round-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of her nose with an index finger to indicate that she means business and smooths down her blouse for battle, just as Tricia disappears into a glass-fronted cubicle, emerging with a couple of ancient reel-to-reel audio tapes.
‘That’s enough, Patricia,’ Karen from HR says, trying to quell the commotion.
‘Is it Karen? Is it enough? Don’t you want to see just how young my “vibe” can be?’ Tricia replies, eyes blazing. She drops the mug, takes a reel in her right hand, draws her arm back and hurls the disc against the wall, thin brown film trailing behind like jellyfish fronds in its wake. ‘See, ultimate Frisbee!’ She flings the other one at the far wall, narrowly missing a Brownie. ‘How d’you like them apples!”
‘Do something!’ Karen from HR is shouting at a large man in lapels who has ambled into view. He adjusts his bulk, takes a long time to fish synthetic-looking trousers out from around his testicles, then takes Tricia by the arm and escorts her towards the revolving door.
‘Get your hands off me!’ She struggles, thrashing limbs and losing a court shoe in the process.
‘Leave it, love. He’s not worth it!’ One of the bearded autograph hunters calls out, lending her moral support.
‘Yeah – you got more class than all of ’em, Tricia,’ offers another.
‘Thanks, chaps,’ she says to them before turning back to her adversaries. ‘See? See? I’ve still got FANS! You better get ready to lawyer up!’ Tricia is now yelling.
‘You what?’ the security guard grunts in response.
‘It means “get a solicitor” in American!’ she yells, before being bundled out of the building. ‘This isn’t over! I’ve got friends in high places! Did I mention I know Phil Collins? PHIL “THE FAX MACHINE” COLLINS! That’s show business!’ is her final retort before the screen goes blank – and yet, somehow, I can still hear her.
‘What the hell?’ the voice continues to sound out. I stare, hard at the screen, turning up the volume and pressing a few buttons, wondering what’s happened.
The video reappears and starts again, from the beginning: ‘Why do I bother? Why do I bother?’
‘Alice? What are you doing?’ It’s the same voice but it’s not coming from my phone any more.
I glance up, startled. And that’s when I see her. Her bare feet on soft pine floors announced no arrival, and I’ve been so absorbed that I’ve been totally oblivious to my surroundings. And the fact that I should never have been watching this in the first place. And the fact that the video’s star is standing in front of me.
‘Tricia! Hi!’ I try to sound bright and shove my phone behind my back at the arrival of the real-life version. But pressing buttons willy-nilly doesn’t turn out to be the best idea I’ve ever had.
‘I’M SURROUNDED BY PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN A HAIRBRUSH IN YEARS!’
‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit …’ I fumble to retrieve my phone, realising all I’ve actually done is turn the volume up.
‘Is that …’ Tricia frowns. Or rather, tries to.
‘WHO WEREN’T EVEN BORN WHEN I DID MY FIRST CELEBRITY TELETHON,’ the voice on the video continues as I experience a hot wave of shame.
‘Where did you find that?’ Tricia demands, lunging towards me. There is a short, inexpert scrap, as virtual Tricia belts out something about ‘embryos’ and real-life Tricia tries to wrestle the phone from me.
‘I’VE DONE CELEBRITY SHARK BAIT!’ video-Tricia begins to yowl now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I start, ‘I never meant to—’
‘Give me that!’ Tricia tears the phone out of my hand and stares at it in horror just as I hear. ‘THAT’S SHOW BUSINESS!’
‘I had no idea it was you, well, until—’
‘YOU GOT MORE CLASS THAN ALL OF ’EM, TRICIA—’
Real-life Tricia looks up at me now, her face a mask of horror.
‘Well,’ I go on. ‘Until then, really. I mean, I thought there were similarities before but, you know.’ I’m rambling now, embarrassment clawing at my face.
‘I knew the footage was out there but I had no idea it was this bad,’ Tricia says quietly now, looking pale. ‘Or that people would be searching for it.’ She looks at me, and I feel as though I’m in the headmaster’s office apologising for some misdemeanour or other (usually committed by Melissa). ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve had a good laugh at my expense,’ she says, her voice quivering with emotion. ‘Welcome to my meltdown.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, again.
‘It says here—’ she points at the screen, doubtless now emblazoned with other bikini-clad lovelies ‘—“that’s show business” is now a top trending term on Twitter—’
‘But these things change so quickly,’ I try, on my feet now to prise the phone out of her hands.
‘And the comments!’ She gasps, one hand rushing to her mouth as the other scrolls down.
Never scroll down! Even I know not to read below the line!
‘“Man, that chick sure is hammered!”’ Tricia reads out a few of the more astute observations. ‘And then this one says. “Doug clearly dumped her.” Well, yes, Poirot, well done – oh. “Forget Doug – id do you hotass.” Well, the spelling leaves a lot to be desired but still …’ She drifts off slightly before returning to focus on the current situation with a vengeance. ‘You shouldn’t have been looking!’
‘I’m so sorry. I know, I should never have switched the thing on, let alone clicked—’
‘You and the rest of the world – it says it’s been watched three hundred and fifty THOUSAND times …’
‘Has it? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Most people probably turned it off halfway through—’
‘Like you did, you mean?’
‘Errr … no.’ I have nothing left with which to defend myself.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ she says in a small voice.
‘I am your friend!’ I protest.
‘That’s not what friends do.’
‘No.’
‘Well, thanks a lot for making the total viewing figures for my public humiliation thirty-five thousand and one,’ Tricia says. ‘Melissa warned me you were a snooper—’
‘I’m not a snooper!’ I attempt to defend myself.
‘Oh no? You never read her diaries?’ I say nothing. ‘And out of the whole of the Internet, you just happened to stumble across a video, of me?’
‘Ye-es,’ I realise this doesn’t look good.
‘Your sister’s right, you are your own worst enemy.’ She passes the phone back to me and walks out. Approximately thirty seconds later, I hear gasps from the kitchen as my faux pas (can I pass it off as this? I wonder) is presumably revealed. If Melissa wasn’t speaking to me before, I’ve got a fair idea things are going to get a whole lot worse.