A Question of Love (32 page)

‘I thought she looked…
embarrassed
, Fliss. She was blushing with self-consciousness when she saw me.’

‘I know you’ve never liked her much, Laura, but you shouldn’t always think the worst of her.’

‘And
you
shouldn’t always think the best. I’m telling you, Fliss, she looked…shifty. She’s
after
him.’

‘Look, I
know
Chantal—and it’s fine. The reason they were there together is because they’d just had another meeting about this mysterious “invention” of Hugh’s—and he’s now told me what it is.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The patent application’s been registered, so they can talk about it.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘Well…it’s a baby thing. You know how I’m always complaining that I never have a muslin to hand when I need one?’

I gazed at her posset-spattered t-shirt. ‘Yes.’

‘And how when I
do
, the damn thing always slips off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well this is what gave Hugh the idea. What he’s come up with is a burping bib—but it’s not a loose cloth, like a muslin, it’s attached. It consists of a piece of pvc-lined flannel—it goes over the front and back
here
, so that you’re completely protected—but it’s shaped so that it sort of goes round
here
and then down…
here…
‘ She was gesturing, awkwardly, by her left shoulder. ‘Actually, it’s easier if I demonstrate on you.’ Fliss leaned forward, touched my left shoulder, then ran her fingers down it, just brushing against my breast. ‘It tapers under the arm,
here
…where it either ties, or is fixed with Velcro, and there’d be a hook or something
here
—’ she touched my neck—‘so that it could be securely attached to the collar.’

‘You just touched my breast,’ I said.

‘Sorry.’

‘No—it’s not a complaint. I’ve just realized something.’

‘What?’

‘Well, I think
that
may be why I thought that Hugh was groping Chantal.’ I cast my mind back to that evening at Julie’s. ‘He and Chantal were obviously discussing the bib thing…’

‘They
were
—as I said, that’s why they were there. Chantal’s done all the patent work on it, which involves a very detailed technical description, so she had to know exactly how it worked, and how it fitted.’

‘And Hugh was simply explaining it to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Ah.
‘ I realized that I might have been totally unfair. I replayed the scene in my mind again. Then again. I
had
been unfair. I felt a pang of guilt. ‘So
that
was what he was doing.’ There was a perfectly innocent explanation! ‘But I still think they looked suspiciously happy.’

‘They were happy,’ Fliss said. ‘But only because they think the bib is a real possibility. I’d kept telling Hugh to invent something that we really need, and I think this may be it. With this there’d be no more hunting for muslins, or wiping off baby sick. The bibs would be sold in a packet of five, and the idea is that you just put one on in the morning, then replace it as needed, putting the used ones in the wash. I think it’s a good idea.’

‘It is—good old Hugh.’

‘Yes—he might even make us some cash. He and Chantal are quite excited about it—she’s putting some money in to develop it properly—although it could take a long time to come good, and we’re down to our last few grand. But, luckily,’ she went on, ‘Olivia got the Coochisoft ad—didn’toomy-
clever
baby?—so that should keep us going for another month or so—and then she’s got those two TV castings at the end of this week so I’m holding out for one of those, and that’ll be three thousand at least because of syndication rights…’

Then Fliss told me about all the auditions she was taking Olivia to, and the mums she’d met, and about how nauseatingly competitive they were etc. etc., and then she started droning on about how Olivia had already grown out of the Baby Einstein videos and had graduated to
The Fimbles
and was ‘obviously’ following the stories, even though it’s aimed at two to four year olds, so I was relieved when my mobile went. It was Darren Sillitoe phoning me again to see whether I’d made a decision about the interview.

‘I
can
understand why you’re hesitating,’ he said. ‘But I just wanted to let you know that my editor has given me an undertaking that if you
do
agree, not only will we make a donation to the National Missing Persons’ Helpline, we’ll actually make it our chosen charity for our Christmas Appeal this year.’

‘Really?’

‘And as we have a readership of over two million, that would bring in a lot of money—at least two hundred thousand. Possibly more.’

I thought of how supportive the charity had been to me when I was in the depths of despair. I thought of my case-manager, Trish, who had phoned me three times a day for those terrible first four months when I hadn’t known whether Nick was even alive.

‘Think what two hundred thousand pounds could do,’ I heard Darren say. His voice was low and soft. Almost tranquillizing.

‘Well…’ It would be selfish of me not to do it plus, yes, I
did
want to put the record straight. I
did
want to correct all the rubbish and lies. ‘All right then,’ I said. ‘I
will
. But only if you put it in writing that I will have copy approval.’

‘Yes, of course I’ll do that,’ he said.

The next morning I went up to Tom’s office to tell him about the
Semaphore
interview. He was reading the paper, and smoking a rare cigarette.

‘Tom?’ He looked up. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s happened to
you
?’ He looked as though he’d skied into a large rock. The entire socket of his right eye was the colour of a damson, with a glowing yellow corona. Through the swollen lids you could just see the watery blue of his iris.

‘Oh.’ He gingerly tapped his temple. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Gina’s ex properly last night.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘He’s a charming guy.’

‘So I see. What
happened
?’

‘He turned up at midnight, drunk as a monkey. He was just trying to see if I was there. Gina had left the chain off and he managed to force his way in, so I politely suggested he should leave. He didn’t like it.’

‘Was there a fight?’

Tom shook his head. ‘He just launched himself at me, socked me in the eye, then left muttering that the next time he found me there he’d kill me.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘No. Because if it went to court he’d have a record, which would hardly help Gina—or Sam, poor little boy. But he’d better not try it again. It’s embarrassing though, because I’ll be in Cannes next week and I don’t want everyone thinking I’ve been brawling. I’ll have to wear sunglasses.’

‘Well they’ll all be wearing sunglasses, so I wouldn’t worry—anyway it’ll be much better by then.’

‘And how’s
your
ex?’ he asked. ‘I mean, Luke’s.’ I told him about the kimono. His good eye widened in horror, then he shook his head. ‘So she’s a Scissor Sister.’

I smiled wearily. ‘It was vile. But a couple of days later we sat down to tea and now the plan is that we’re all going to become best friends and live happily ever after.’

‘Really?’

‘Maybe,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t know. That’s what Luke wants.’

‘It’s a perfectly honourable objective.’

‘But I’m not sure it’s achievable. The problem is that Luke’s got these friends who are desperately civilized about it all—Sunday lunch together, shared Christmases, that kind of thing—in other words, the dream scenario—and he wants
us
to be like that too. He’s got this fantasy of the perfect blended family; but I suspect that Magda’s idea of blending me into her family would involve a large Magimix. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I’m going to go on the record with the press. I’ve just agreed to an interview in the
Sunday Semaphore
because I can’t stand this tabloid crap about me
any
longer.’

‘Well, I think that’s a good move. As long as the journalist’s kosher.’

‘He seems sympathetic. His name’s Darren Sillitoe.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Nor had I—but we had a good rapport over the phone.’

‘Check him out with Channel Four first.’

‘I might do, but I feel fine about it because I managed to get copy approval. He’s just put it in an e-mail.’

‘Then there’s no downside—you might as well go for it.’

The interview was the following Thursday afternoon. I’d thought Darren would want to meet me in a club or hotel, but he’d said that I’d appear more sympathetic if I was interviewed at home rather than in some glamorous eatery. I was touched by his concern that I should come across well. The Channel Four Press Officer had asked me if I’d like her to be there, but I said I felt I’d be fine on my own.

The photographer arrived first and quickly fired off two rolls of film.

‘Don’t you want me to smile?’ I asked him as he pointed the lens at me.

‘Not really—the journalist said they’re looking for “gravitas”. That’s it. Just nicely serious…’

At four-thirty the buzzer went again, and there was Darren. He’d sounded fortyish over the phone, but looked twenty-five. He was tall, bespectacled, and slightly weedy—his school-boyish appearance being in stark contrast to his confident, urbane voice.

‘How long have you been a journalist?’ I asked him as I made him some coffee.

‘About a year and a half.’

‘Do you take milk?’

‘Cream, if you’ve got it. And I don’t suppose you’ve got a biscuit have you?’

‘Sure.’

‘I missed lunch.’

‘Well would you like a sandwich? I could make you one.’ He shook his head, so I put some chocolate digestives on to a plate. ‘And what were you doing before?’ I asked him as I put it all on a tray.

‘I worked in the City. Then I went into venture capital. But I thought journalism would be more fun.’

‘And is it?

‘On the whole, yes.’

I asked him who else he’d interviewed, and he said that he’d been doing stuff for the sports pages and that this would be his first major profile for the feature pages. So that was why his name hadn’t meant anything—plus I rarely read the
Semaphore
.

As we sat in the sitting room he said he’d like to have a brief off-the-record chat with me first, and would only switch on the tape recorder when we were both ready to start. He expressed surprise that I lived in such an ordinary little street, given the huge success of the quiz. I explained that I’d been unable to move.

‘Would you
like
to upgrade from Ladbroke Grove?’

‘I don’t know how about “upgrade”, but I’d leave it like a shot. Not because I don’t like the area—it’s marvellously cosmopolitan—but because it’s got bad vibes for me now for obvious reasons.’ He nodded sympathetically. ‘Plus my neighbours drive me nuts.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because of the gossip—it’s a small, curtain-twitching sort of street. They’re nice people, but I would love to live somewhere where I can be a bit more anonymous.’

‘There’s not much evidence of your husband about the place is there?’ he said glancing around.

‘I put all his stuff away. I couldn’t bear seeing it any longer.’

‘You wanted to wipe the memories?’

‘No—but it was time to move on, and the physical reminders that he had lived here were holding me back emotionally.’

‘I understand. So it must have been a relief.’

‘It was. It was liberating actually, although it made me feel a bit ruthless; but I needed to try and free myself from the past.’

Darren quickly ran through his list of questions with me, and asked me to give him a rough idea of what I’d say to each. First of all, he wanted to know how the quiz came about, and about what makes a quiz work; then he wanted to know what I thought of the other quizmasters—Anne Robinson, for example. I said that I wouldn’t be answering that question as I wasn’t really a fan and didn’t wish to say anything negative.

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘
The Weakest Link is
pretty dire, isn’t it?’

‘Well…it’s just that the questions are rather low-grade. But it’s still very popular, so she’s obviously doing something right.’

‘And what do you think of Jeremy Paxman?’

‘Well, he
can
seem overbearing and impatient, but at the same time he has this humorous authority which I find very appealing, and of course he’s terribly clever, so…no, I don’t mind talking about him.’

‘The one
I
can’t stand,’ he suddenly confided, ‘is Robert Robinson on
Brain of Britain.
He’s pretty grim
-
don’t you agree?’

‘Well…I must say, I do rather.’

‘His naked astonishment when a female contestant gets a correct answer!’

‘I know,’ I giggled.

‘Oh well
done,
Mrs Smith! That is the
right
answer! How in
credible
!’

I rolled my eyes in agreement. ‘To be honest I can’t listen to it, otherwise I’d have to chuck the radio out of the window.’

We chatted in this light-hearted vein for a bit longer then Darren asked me if I was ready to begin. I nodded. He pressed the red button on the tiny tape recorder and pushed it towards me.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go then. Your starter for ten…’

I’d never been interviewed before, but the Channel Four press officer had advised me to keep my replies short. ‘When you feel you’ve said what
you
want to say, then “zip the lip”‘, she’d said. ‘
Don’t
try and be “helpful” by filling the gaps—gaps can be traps.’ It was sensible advice, but at the same time I recognized that Darren needed good, vivid copy in order to have an interesting article. I decided to strike a balance between a friendly openness and natural circumspection.

He asked me about Cambridge, and about my early career at the BBC and about meeting Tom there, before I went to work for him; then we talked about the quiz, and how I came to present it. He didn’t ask me about the other quiz show hosts, which I was relieved about. We talked about Luke and I was able to set the record straight about his personal circumstances and about the timing of our relationship. Then he came on to Nick. I told him about his work for SudanEase, and about our marriage. He asked me why there was so little of his stuff on show.