Woman of the Hour (30 page)

‘Oh, but he needs to be male,’ I said quickly.

‘Why?’

I didn’t want to be disloyal and share Fizzy’s insecurities about female presenters.

‘I think it will be interesting to have a male view on fashion. Think of a Gok Wan or a Brad Goreski.’

*

Fizzy and I left the station at twelve noon. I had instructed Simon to deputise for me for the rest of the day and Ziggy had cancelled my one afternoon meeting. Fizzy’s car was parked at the back of StoryWorld. It was a Nissan Figaro convertible in pale blue and hardly anonymous. The seats were leather and the dashboard was retro style.

‘Cute car,’ I said as I clicked in my seatbelt.

The clinic she had booked into was on the border of Berkshire and an eighty-minute drive from London Bridge. Fizzy’s face was set throughout the drive and she had put a CD into the player so that we didn’t need to talk. I was feeling churned up and upset for her as we covered the miles. As we approached the gates she made an involuntary whimper. She drove slowly up the long drive that swept up to the clinic. It was a white 1920s building that looked more like a country house hotel and spa than a medical centre. She parked the car badly, screeching on the circle of gravel that fronted the building, and then negotiated her way into the car park. She turned off the engine.

‘We’re early,’ she said.

‘Let’s go for a walk then,’ I said.

We got our coats from the back seat. Hers was a beautiful champagne-coloured suede coat with a fur collar. We locked our bags in the boot and wandered through the grounds that surrounded the clinic. There was a November bite to the wind but we were both wrapped up warmly. Vistas of ancient evergreens opened up in front of us as we walked along and I spotted what looked like a walled kitchen garden at the end of one path. We sat on a bench under a spreading cedar of Lebanon.

‘It’s a beautiful park. Hard to believe what this place is used for, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It’s so peaceful.’

‘They do cosmetic surgery here too, you know,’ she said.

That figured. I could see the lighted windows of the clinic through the trees. It would cost a lot to be treated here. We sat side by side and listened to the wind in the branches above our heads.

‘You’re not saying much, Liz.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t think I should have the termination, do you?’

‘It’s your decision, Fizz, it has to be. You’re the one who has to live with the consequences.’

‘Better get it over with,’ she said.

We walked back towards the building and picked up her bag from the boot of the car.

‘I feel scared,’ she said in a small voice as I pushed open the clinic door.

Inside it was all white and bright and efficient. I was finding it hard to stop myself from saying you don’t have to do this.

‘I’ll be here when you wake up,’ I said.

The receptionist was discreetly solicitous. She would be used to dealing with well-known people, I thought. She directed us to a consulting room. Fizzy tapped on the door and a tall balding man in a white coat opened it, greeted us solemnly and indicated the two chairs we should sit on. He offered us each a glass of iced water.

‘You have been fasting, Miss Wentworth?’

She nodded. His manner was soothing. He handed her a consent form which Fizzy had to sign and the doctor went through it with her. Fizzy got out her pen and signed the form without reading it further. We were then directed to another room where Fizzy was to undress and put on a green surgical gown.

‘Don’t go,’ she said to me.

I helped her out of her dress, folded it and put it into her overnight bag. When she was down to her bra and knickers I could see the slight swelling of her stomach. I helped her into the green gown and her knees were trembling. A nurse entered the room and told Fizzy to follow her.

‘Can my friend come with me?’

‘It’s best if she stays in the guest room,’ the nurse said.

‘I want her to come with me,’ Fizzy said.

‘I’m sorry; we’re going to the operating room now. We can’t let guests go there.’

Fizzy threw me a frightened look and started to follow the nurse down the corridor. I was fighting back tears as I watched their retreating figures. I said ‘Don’t’ under my breath but she was near the end of the corridor and couldn’t have heard me. Fizzy suddenly stopped. The nurse said a few words to her and she took several more steps. She stopped again. I was still standing at the threshold of the room she had left. She turned and was walking back towards me.

‘I can’t do this. Take me home, Liz.’

And then I hugged her and we were both crying.

The drive back with Fizzy was an altogether different affair from our unhappy journey there. She decided she was up to driving and I was looking out of the window and spotted a teashop near the clinic. I suggested we stop and get something to eat before we drove back to London because she had been fasting for hours. It was called The Crumpetty Tree and was one of those chintzy places with pretty china teacups and home-made cakes under glass domes. We ordered a pot of breakfast tea and debated the merits of chocolate Guinness cake with mascarpone topping or the lemon drizzle. I could tell that the woman who ran the teashop recognised Fizzy but she behaved as if she hadn’t. Fizzy chose the lemon drizzle and the owner cut her a generous slice of it.

‘I never eat cake,’ Fizzy said.

She dug her fork in and chewed on the soft sponge.

‘This is fantastic.’

It was only when we were paying that the owner asked if Fizzy would mind signing a menu.

‘Of course, happy to, what’s your name?’

‘Genevieve.’

The owner spelled it out rather breathlessly as Fizzy wrote:
Wonderful cake, Genevieve, thank you
and signed her name with a flourish.

Fizzy was revived as she drove us back towards London.

‘As I was walking towards the operating room I thought if I do this I will be unhappy about it for the rest of my life.’

‘It is a huge thing,’ I said.

‘Huge and irrevocable. There are few things in life that are irrevocable, aren’t there? I mean you can split up with a man and get back with him. Or leave a company and go back later. But a termination, that
is
irrevocable.’

As she pulled up where I planned to get out she said: ‘He’ll give me hell, you know, but he’s got two children already.’

She drove off and I was happy that she hadn’t taken that irrevocable step.

Chalk Farm flat, 6 p.m.

Janis and Flo were surprised to see me back so early. I slumped down on the sofa, completely drained by the emotion of the afternoon.

‘There’s some quiche left if you fancy it,’ Janis said as she put on her coat.

It was about an hour later when I got a call from Ziggy. She sounded elated and for a moment I thought she had got hold of the memory stick.

‘I got into his office. He was out and she was away from her desk. I’d hung onto this package I had to deliver so I had an excuse for being in there. But then I couldn’t pick the stupid lock.’

I imagined her in his office trying to pick the lock on his drawer while Martine could have come back at any moment.

‘I feel sick with nerves about you doing this,’ I said.

‘It’s cool. I’ll get a better tool next time.’

She sounded confident.

‘And Martine didn’t see anything?’

‘Not a thing. I gave myself five minutes and when it wouldn’t budge I got out and put the package on her desk before she came back.’

She’s a smart girl with a cool head and if anyone can pull this off it is Ziggy. I found myself speculating again about what was on the screen test that was causing them both so much angst.

StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

As I left the meeting this morning Ziggy followed me down to the Hub and I could see that she wanted to talk to me confidentially. I bought her a drink and we sat at the table the furthest from the food counter like a couple of co-conspirators. I noticed she was wearing a nice suede jacket which I assumed had once belonged to Harriet.

‘I’ve got myself the perfect tool and I’m going to get that drawer open next time,’ she said with satisfaction.

She seemed to be relishing the task ahead and I looked around the café nervously. Martine had come in and was queueing at the counter. Ziggy followed the direction of my eyes.

‘You’ll have to outwit her,’ I said.

Ziggy was looking at Martine thoughtfully.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll choose my moment.’

I went to find Fizzy in her dressing room. She was looking at herself in the mirror.

‘My face is getting fatter,’ she said.

‘You look lovely. Ledley called and he’s planning to cook Brown Stew Chicken tomorrow.’

‘Yuk. Don’t you think that sounds unpleasant?’

‘Not the best name, perhaps, but it tastes great. It’s a traditional Jamaican dish.’

‘Just don’t ask me to eat it. I’m feeling queasy every morning. Will you tell Ledley my stomach is upset and not to press me to sample it?’

‘Sure. How are you, apart from the queasiness?’

‘I’m good.’

Time is passing and her pregnancy is advancing and she’s going to have to say something pretty soon.

‘Have you thought more about sharing your condition with the viewers?’

‘I think about it all the time, but it’s so high risk, isn’t it?’

‘I could help you draft your words,’ I said.

She peered into the mirror again and turned her head sideways and looked at her profile.

‘Someone
is
going to notice my face is getting fatter. I simply don’t have the energy to write anything at the moment. I’ve started having a sleep most afternoons.’

‘Good for you. I’ll do a first draft for you and you can tweak it.’

‘Would you? Thank you, Liz.’

*

An hour later Harriet came into my office and she was the most animated I had seen her since she arrived at Story-World.

‘I think I’ve found the perfect man for the fashion slot. He’s called Guy Browne and he’s fashion director at
The Gloss
.’

‘
The Gloss
?’

‘It’s a high street fashion and celeb weekly. He’s done some TV and writes a style blog with a decent following. He’s on YouTube too.’

‘Show me.’

Harriet got the link up on my screen and we watched a couple of clips: one of Guy being interviewed at London Fashion Week and another presenting a segment on denim for different body shapes. He’s a nice-looking man in his early thirties and he has a good voice. The one thing we have to avoid is a voice that will grate with viewers.

‘Yes, he looks good; fluent and he comes over kind of likeable,’ I said.

‘I’m glad you like him.’

‘We still need to do a screen test, to be sure. Can you get him in, as soon as possible?’

‘I could ask him to come in tomorrow?’

‘That would be great.’

‘And you’ll be using the big studio?’

‘No, we’ll have to use the small studio. It’s way too expensive to fire up the large one for a screen test,’ I said.

She grimaced. She’d had experience of the small studio, of course, that Sunday with Julius and Ziggy. We exchanged a long look.

‘Zig told me she’s trying to get hold of the memory stick,’ she said.

Every time I think about that I get a sick feeling because I know that I’m exploiting Ziggy and my fears on that score won’t be stilled.

‘You realise what a risk Ziggy is taking? If she gets caught I won’t be able to keep her on.’

‘But she wants to do this. She’s all fired up about it,’ Harriet said.

That was true and I could see there was no going back now but it occurred to me that Harriet could say that from a position of safety. She wouldn’t lose her job if Ziggy was caught. And yet it was Ziggy who really needed her position at StoryWorld.

As I was leaving work Ziggy was still stationed at her desk. The others had gone for the night.

‘You’re working late,’ I said.

She glanced up at me.

‘Just biding my time, you know...’

We both looked in the direction of Julius’s office. His light was on and he was still working.

‘Please, please be careful,’ I said.

Chalk Farm flat, 7.30 p.m.

Almost as soon as I got in Flo asked if she could go on a school skiing trip in January. She had all the papers with her. It looked expensive and then there would be all the clothes we’d need to buy for it. I thought it best to say no straight away rather than let her think it might be possible.

‘I don’t have the extra cash at the moment, sweets. Sorry, but no can do.’ She pulled a sulky face.

‘I really want to go. I’ll ask Dad,’ she said.

‘Dad’s going through a tough time financially at the moment.’

‘He earns loads.’

‘Not at the moment he doesn’t.’

She was walking back towards her room. This was the time to tell her what was going on.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

She stopped and turned, looked at me warily.

‘What is it?’

‘Dad isn’t working at the moment.’

‘He’s not working?’

‘He’s going through a bad patch and... well... Granny and Granddad are having to support him.’

‘I knew he wasn’t OK last time, I knew something was wrong,’ she said.

‘You were right, sweetheart. He’s moved back in with them.’

‘Poor Dad.’

She didn’t say anything else but I could tell she was upset because she picked Mr Crooks up from the sofa and carried him into her bedroom with her. She cuddles him when she is sad. I stood at her threshold and watched her get onto her bed and start to stroke him. At times like this I’m a great believer in the healing power of comforting food and drinks.

‘Would you like a hot chocolate and some toast?’

‘Yes please.’

I made us both a drink and toast for her, spreading the butter thickly and slicing it into fingers the way she likes it. I took it into her and sat on the end of her bed.

‘Thanks. What room is Dad in?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Grace didn’t say. Probably his old room...’