‘Anyway, like I said, it was a long time ago . . .’ He studies his nails and I can see him starting to get bored, but I can’t let him leave without – what? What do I need from this? What did I expect?
‘I’ll tell them.’
He raises his eyebrows, looking amused. ‘You’ll tell who?’
I gesture towards the door. ‘All of them. I’ll tell them what you did, what you are.’
He laughs. ‘Tell them what? That we had a fling years ago? That you’re put out I don’t remember you?’
‘I’ll tell them you . . . that you . . .’ But I can’t articulate it. Can’t sum it up in a pithy, punny, alliterative pitching line. There are no words for this. It’s just a messy, unladylike, chaotic fuss, the kind my mother would deplore.
He’s still smiling, but there’s a glint in his eye, that demonic flash. ‘How about this? I’ll tell them what I did, what I am. I’ll tell them I helped your career, years ago, and that now I’m CEO of an American conglomerate, I’m maybe going to buy their format and take it back to the US with me. Who do you think they’ll want to listen to? You? Or me?’
He makes his way towards the door.
‘Please, don’t.’ I block him, my hands full of my swishy skirt. For a second, we tussle as he tries to turn the handle, and I try to get in the way. But of course, he’s too strong. I fall to one side, sliding down the wall.
‘Put your clothes on before you go out, you might cause a scene. Thanks for the fun times.’
And then he leaves, while I sit in the dressing room with my dress in my hands, ruined, because once again I couldn’t stop him.
41
By 9.30 p.m., I’m back at the party. He’s mingling, chatting, pressing the flesh, and I’m standing by the bar trying to work out what just happened, trying to make sense of it all, trying not to fall apart because everything is a fucking mess and my world is crashing round my ears. Caroline’s in a corner crying, and anyone who goes over to pat her shoulder shoots me a dirty look after. Vince keeps catching my eye and making throat-slitting gestures, I’ve ignored three phone calls from Rose, who no doubt wants to tell me I’ve won an award for worst daughter, and Barbara Good the imaginary alpaca has pissed off back to her imaginary barn, so is thus unavailable for imaginary emotional support. To make matters worse, David Lyon-James has just arrived in an impeccable navy suit, and Vince expects me to re-establish my authenticity as a producer and win back the £1.2 million commission. It is, as they say in the biz, a shitshow.
I stand in a corridor for a bit to do some mindful breathing but keep getting hailed by various Red Eye staff in various states of inebriation.
‘Hey, Clover! Come and have a drink!’
‘Heard you trashed Monty to his face this morning, you hero.’
‘Hendry! Fab hair, you’re looking hot.’
‘Clover, are you watching the show? I’ll save you a seat.’
Shaking my head, I stumble away, trying to reconcile the cock-up I’ve made of everything. ‘It’ll all come out in the edit, it’ll all come out in the edit . . .’ I repeat my producer’s mantra to myself and can’t resist a little hysterical giggle. It does matter, it really matters, but you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? Otherwise, you’d cry. Or throw all the bricks through all the windows.
My phone rings again, and I’m about to cancel the call when I see that it’s Robbie. I really want to hear his voice; that kind, gentle voice that told me about sixteenth-century monks’ effluence all those years ago – I’ll come clean with him later, but right now I just want to find out if he got a takeaway, how the twins are, whether the cat brought in any mice today. I go downstairs and outside, where it’s quieter, to answer.
‘Hi, are you home?’ I’m imagining them carousing in the kitchen, Grizelda delicately weaving her way through the foil cartons littering the table.
‘No, I’m at the police station. Hazel’s been arrested.’
That really isn’t what I wanted to hear. I wish I hadn’t answered.
‘My God! How did that happen?’ I’m feigning ignorance but can probably have a stab at guessing.
‘She bunked off school to go on a climate protest, and ended up plaiting her hair to the railings outside City Hall. She called me because I’m her lawyer, apparently, though I have no idea how an in-depth knowledge of copyright infringement is going to help us here.’
‘I am so shocked and surprised by this news, I had no idea.’
‘She told me you saw her in Queen Square and said fuck school.’
‘Shit.’
‘She also said you’ve had a perm and you’re insane, and although I’m intrigued, I can’t go into that right now, because I’ve got to get her out of jail.’
‘Oh my God, will she have a record or something?’ I’m picturing Hazel behind bars, unable to style her hair. Her life will be over.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. They’re saying it’s just a breach of the peace, so she won’t be charged.’
‘Shall I come and help?’ I’m keen to get away, even though I still have work to do.
‘No, you’re at that wrap party, aren’t you? I’ll take care of it and we’ll see you later. Maybe in court.’
Of course, Robbie is joking, taking this in his stride. He always turns up when it counts. And this is another task I’m very happy to delegate.
‘OK, will you keep me posted? Tell her I’ve come to my senses and she’s grounded.’
‘Don’t worry, I may not be the lawyer she needs, but I am absolutely the irate father.’
I kill the call and stand in the street, pondering. So now my mother, my boss, my producer – and everyone who’s talked to her – hates me, my best friend thinks I’m a grifter, my sister got married without telling me, I’ve lost a million-pound commission, and my daughter has been arrested. Then there’s the dressing room business, which I’m trying not to think about, and at the end of all this I have to confess my sins to my husband. It’s just too much, it can’t be fixed; the production’s in smithereens and the fire’s out of control. I sink to the ground, hugging my knees, as the tears start.
Why did I think today would make a difference? That I could change, hone the skills I needed, prepare myself for this moment and turn it into a triumph? My luck ran out, and I have only myself to blame. Glumly viewing the pavement opposite, I see a woman walking briskly, her bag tight against her body, eyes darting to survey the territory. She’s clutching her keys in her hand, doing everything right, alert to danger. It might work, it might not. The danger might be waiting at home, for all I know.
‘Are you OK?’
I peer up through my bedraggled curls. It’s my assistant producer, Flora, bending over me, her hand stretched out, concerned. Lovely Flora, who also never moans, just gets on with it, keeps the plates spinning, doesn’t complain. There are so many of us out there, struggling on, pinning the smiles on our faces even if inwardly we’re raging or falling apart.
