Philip, though I can’t find him. I’m not long, but by the time I get back to the window, the figure has gone.
MONDAY
It began yesterday. I was woken by the phone. It was a journalist called Jack Hayward asking for an interview.
“What’s your peg?” I asked warily, as politely as I could manage, considering I was still half-asleep.
“You know, this unfortunate incident with the dead woman: two worlds collide sort of thing.”
“That’s a very complicated concept for this early in the morning,” I said, my mind working fast. So it was too late. My involvement was out there. Had the police held a press conference? Or alerted “their sources”? Either way, the information had been released. There was nothing I could do. “Surely you just want the dirt on my marriage, my infidelities, my teenage bulimia?”
He laughed, and it was a nice laugh, a laugh that had seen a few cigarettes in its time but was trying to cut down. “Give us a break,” he said pathetically.
I apologized gently, said I was sure he understood.
“Can I leave my number in case you reconsider?” he said.
“I won’t,” I said, but I took it all the same.
I rang Alison Brett, the press officer, at home. I hope I didn’t wake her. She was immediately efficient if so. “Avoid talking,” she said. “But if any of the paps turn up, give them what they want. They’ll go away then. Pose a bit. I know it’s a pain, but this sort ofoff-duty shot can be good for ratings. You know the drill. Casual, stylish, approachable. Cool but not too cool.”
Well, I could certainly manage the last bit. I had opened the door yesterday to pick up the Sunday papers in “natural-look” makeup, i.e., quick dab of lippy, and jeans, i.e., what I was wearing already. Two photographers, straight from central casting—short, stocky, red of face—were already out there. They stubbed out their fags when they saw me. “Give us a pic, Gaby,” “Come on, Gaby,” and “Smile, Gaby.”
I waited for a bit, holding the papers under my arm. Afterward, I thanked the photographers—which always surprises them—and closed the door.
That was that, I thought. But the papers were full of it. In the car, on the way to work, I learn about “TV Gaby’s Secret Horror” and “Gaby’s Mournin’ Pall.” Most of the details are there, plus new information about the woman. Not her name, but the fact that she was Polish and apparently lived “nearby.” An employer is quoted, her sadness squeezed into tabloid platitude: “She was a lovely person who will be much missed by everyone she touched.” None of the articles included pictures of her. She’s an absence. I’m the presence, mournful but plucky, on my doorstep. It’s so wrong, that.
In one of the photographs, a shadowy figure hovers behind me, in the hallway. It takes me a moment to work out it’s Marta.
Steve looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I drop the newspapers to the floor, beneath my feet. “How’s your wife? Any ob-gyn news?”
“Nothing serious,” he says. “Polyps.”
“A polyp?”
“No, polyps.”
For some reason we both laugh.
• • •
Terri accosts me at the door to the production meeting. Boris Johnson, booked to come and talk about his “estuary airport,” has begged off with a gippy tummy. She needs something serious, something “current affairs-y” to plug the hole.
I head her off. “What else have we got?” I say, sitting down. It’s quiet in the room, tense with a feeling of anticipation.
Dawn, the assistant producer, consults her clipboard and reads out what I remember from Friday: a flirting master class from the presenter of a new dating show; Simon Cowell in the kitchen, doing his signature lamb brochettes; India’s ’Appening Apps; Kate Bush, recently back from the dead (“It’s me. I’m Cathy. I’ve come home”) with a new album; three pretty actresses from Downton in to talk
MONDAY
It began yesterday. I was woken by the phone. It was a journalist called Jack Hayward asking for an interview.
“What’s your peg?” I asked warily, as politely as I could manage, considering I was still half-asleep.
“You know, this unfortunate incident with the dead woman: two worlds collide sort of thing.”
“That’s a very complicated concept for this early in the morning,” I said, my mind working fast. So it was too late. My involvement was out there. Had the police held a press conference? Or alerted “their sources”? Either way, the information had been released. There was nothing I could do. “Surely you just want the dirt on my marriage, my infidelities, my teenage bulimia?”
He laughed, and it was a nice laugh, a laugh that had seen a few cigarettes in its time but was trying to cut down. “Give us a break,” he said pathetically.
I apologized gently, said I was sure he understood.
“Can I leave my number in case you reconsider?” he said.
“I won’t,” I said, but I took it all the same.
I rang Alison Brett, the press officer, at home. I hope I didn’t wake her. She was immediately efficient if so. “Avoid talking,” she said. “But if any of the paps turn up, give them what they want. They’ll go away then. Pose a bit. I know it’s a pain, but this sort ofoff-duty shot can be good for ratings. You know the drill. Casual, stylish, approachable. Cool but not too cool.”
Well, I could certainly manage the last bit. I had opened the door yesterday to pick up the Sunday papers in “natural-look” makeup, i.e., quick dab of lippy, and jeans, i.e., what I was wearing already. Two photographers, straight from central casting—short, stocky, red of face—were already out there. They stubbed out their fags when they saw me. “Give us a pic, Gaby,” “Come on, Gaby,” and “Smile, Gaby.”
I waited for a bit, holding the papers under my arm. Afterward, I thanked the photographers—which always surprises them—and closed the door.
That was that, I thought. But the papers were full of it. In the car, on the way to work, I learn about “TV Gaby’s Secret Horror” and “Gaby’s Mournin’ Pall.” Most of the details are there, plus new information about the woman. Not her name, but the fact that she was Polish and apparently lived “nearby.” An employer is quoted, her sadness squeezed into tabloid platitude: “She was a lovely person who will be much missed by everyone she touched.” None of the articles included pictures of her. She’s an absence. I’m the presence, mournful but plucky, on my doorstep. It’s so wrong, that.
In one of the photographs, a shadowy figure hovers behind me, in the hallway. It takes me a moment to work out it’s Marta.
Steve looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I drop the newspapers to the floor, beneath my feet. “How’s your wife? Any ob-gyn news?”
“Nothing serious,” he says. “Polyps.”
“A polyp?”
“No, polyps.”
For some reason we both laugh.
• • •
Terri accosts me at the door to the production meeting. Boris Johnson, booked to come and talk about his “estuary airport,” has begged off with a gippy tummy. She needs something serious, something “current affairs-y” to plug the hole.
I head her off. “What else have we got?” I say, sitting down. It’s quiet in the room, tense with a feeling of anticipation.
Dawn, the assistant producer, consults her clipboard and reads out what I remember from Friday: a flirting master class from the presenter of a new dating show; Simon Cowell in the kitchen, doing his signature lamb brochettes; India’s ’Appening Apps; Kate Bush, recently back from the dead (“It’s me. I’m Cathy. I’ve come home”) with a new album; three pretty actresses from Downton in to talk
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