Coming Up Next

In the bathroom mirror, she viewed the cushion crease on her face, which resembled a fresh scar, and prodded a spot that had arrived on her cheek. Must’ve taken the overnight bus, the bastard, she thought, which is what I’ll be doing soon, now that I haven’t got a job.

Tears welled.

Ben walked in wearing his boxer shorts, his hair looking like it had been licked by the morning gorilla. ‘Oh, God … Bit early for that already,’ he said, as he yawned and scratched and reached for the toothpaste.

‘I wasn’t crying. I yawned too big and made my eyes water,’ said Katie, stalking out of the bathroom.

A little later, Ben headed off for the journey back to London and work.

Her mother flitted about with unhelpful suggestions. ‘You could always go back to writing for a local newspaper,’ she said at one point.

Katie rolled her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Mum, I’ve come a bit further than that. That’s like telling you you could go back to painting by numbers. Or Dad that he should try making coconut pyramids.’

‘I love coconut pyramids,’ announced her father, as he flicked through his mountain of cookery books to see what he fancied making for dinner. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to do anything for a while, do you? You must have got some money stashed away. Why don’t you give yourself a month off and then make a decision? You could even stay here while you do it …’ He noticed his wife’s expression. ‘. for a couple of weeks,’ he finished lamely.

Katie shot her mother a look. ‘Thanks, Dad. And if you don’t mind, Mum, I will stay for a few days, then go back to the flat. No point in eating you out of house and home, eh?’

‘Or drinking us out of house and home,’ said her mother, who had not seen quite so many bottles for a family dinner since her daughter had last come to stay for a weekend.

The next day, Katie mooched round the house.

The day after, she woke up to find the house surrounded. ‘Sorry,’ she said to her mum and dad at a crisis meeting round the kitchen table. ‘I thought they’d have given up. After all, it’s not that much of a story. Must be a slow news day. To talk or not to talk, that is the question.’

‘And answer came there none,’ added her father. ‘And that was hardly odd because they’d eaten every one.’ Alice in Wonderland had been a favourite bedtime story and was often quoted inappropriately.

Katie sucked her bottom lip, then her top lip, then both of them together. Then made a decision.

‘I’m going to phone my agent,’ she told her parents, ‘who will no doubt recommend that I go out and tell them I have nothing to say on the matter, although I wish Keera well in one of the best jobs in television. Then I’ll say I have a number of projects in the pipeline, which can’t be discussed at the moment because, as we know, I have bugger-all. No, Mum. Obviously I won’t say that.’

‘How are you?’ Jim asked.

‘Been better. How are things there?’

‘We’ve been fending them off. Saying you’ve been having meetings with various people to discuss your new projects. Too hush-hush to talk about at the moment, obviously.’

‘Same old rubbish that old has-beens always spout, eh?’ said Katie.

‘You’re not a has-been. You’re a coming-round-again. A born-again presenter.’

‘A BAP – a sort of BAP that’s the last on the shelf.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Anyway, I was hoping to have a week or two to compost here in Yorkshire, and not say anything about those toads at work. Sadly, the press studs are on the gravel, hoping to tempt me out, and I’m thinking of getting the support of the blond and gorgeous Hercules and my Victoria’s Secret bra.’

‘You think the dog’s a good idea?’

‘You think the bra’s a good idea?’

Jim laughed. ‘Well, you sound like you’re going to be OK.’

‘Thanks. But, let’s face it, we both know there are lots of women out there who can do the job and who aren’t on the slippery slope to fifty. I knew I should have had a penis implant.’

‘You still can. I’m sure I have a number here …’

‘Very funny. I’m off to put on a face, a bra and a dog.’

‘Just remember to put them where they’re supposed to go.’

‘Thank goodness you reminded me. I was just about to adjust my la-bra-dor straps. ‘Bye.’

It took her an hour to get ready, mostly because her escape from London had involved no luggage and she had to root through the detritus of her past in the wardrobe in her bedroom. Luckily, the eighties were coming back in …

Her dad was chatting to the reporters and had given them cups of tea and coffee, telling them she was on her way back from a walk. Peering out from behind her bedroom curtains, Katie smiled. He was in his element, holding court, being witty and erudite.

She took one last look at herself in the mirror, put on a bit more lip-gloss and went downstairs. ‘How do I look?’ she asked, as she stood poised in the hall, with Hercules gazing up at her expectantly.

‘Nice dog,’ said her dad.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I always like to have a handy Lab coat when there’s an emergency operation.’

‘Good luck,’ said her mum, as she opened the front door. ‘I quite fancy the one from the Daily Mail. He smells lovely.’

The Daily Mail ran the worst article. ‘Katie Fishes Bottom of the Barrel’ was the headline on page three. The best was in the Sun. ‘The Dogs of War – Katie Fights Back’.

‘Hercules looks good,’ said her mother, as she peered over her daughter’s shoulder, and burnt the toast.

The papers had been pored over at Hello Britain! since the first editions had dropped at eleven the night before. Keera had tried hard not to look smug and ended up looking smug and arch at the same time. Mike had harrumphed and said he wasn’t reading the rags until he’d finished the show. ‘Nice dog,’ was his only comment.

Richard, the day’s producer, said under his breath, ‘Unlike you.’

The show that day had sparkled as Mike and Keera seemed to have decided they needed to prove something. Off-screen, though, they had been demanding. Mike had complained about every script and was throwing papers on the floor, describing them as ‘absolute shit’.

Richard was in the gallery, sitting next to the director and the director’s assistant, listening to the tirade and rolling his eyes. Eventually he had had enough. He leaned forward, opened the button to connect the microphone to Mike’s earpiece and said, ‘If you think they’re so shit, why don’t you get in a little earlier and rewrite them, instead of turning up five minutes before you need to go to Makeup and shouting about them now?’ Richard could tell from Mike’s face that he’d be for it later, but what the hell? He was fed up with being shouted at by an egotistical wanker – even if he was one of the best presenters around. There was no need to do all that posturing in front of everyone else: he could easily have had a word in private but, no, he liked to get out there and puff up his toady chest even more than it was puffed up already.

And as for Keera! That damn stupid question she’d put to his reporter – who, even now, was getting it in the neck from the smitten editor. ‘Why is anorexia so popular?’ she had asked.

Judith, the reporter, had winced and said, ‘I don’t think “popular” is the word I’d use.’ Afterwards, she had got on to the squawk box and instructed Richard to tell her not to use that word the next time they did the Q and A.

‘I’ll speak to her,’ Richard had said.

When they’d done the interview again an hour later, the bloody woman had gone and said the same word. Just to make a point.

‘If only she had a mere shaving of the intelligence she feels she has,’ muttered Richard, as he gazed at the beautiful profile of his female talent. Richard had been a big fan of Katie. The weeks that Keera had stood in while she was off had felt like months to him. He had been stunned to hear she was Katie’s permanent replacement. It meant a lot more work for him: not only did he have to write the links and pussyfoot around Mike’s gigantic ego, he had to explain the links and pussyfoot around the minefield of dealing with Keera.

She was in with so many people. She’d go straight to The Boss and tearfully tell him they’d been getting at her. Next thing you know, he’d be defending his use of the word ‘twat’. Even though ‘complete twat’ would have been more appropriate.

He watched her on air now, flirting indecently with a member of a boy band. If she crossed her legs in that Kenny Everett manner once more, he thought, the boy closest to her was going to stop talking. Poor sod didn’t know where to look, with her flashing her knickers like that.