Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes (6 page)

I didn’t call Tom again that night. I decided to give him some space and leave it until the next morning. But I needed to sort it early so I could be free to concentrate on the last rehearsals before the first live show in the afternoon. Again I waited and waited for Tom to answer and when he finally did, it was clear that he was going to continue to be vile. Again the one-word comments, the gruff voice and the sulky demeanour, so I tried to approach things from a different angle.

“Tom, what is it? Why do you always seem so abrupt? It’s like you don’t want to talk to me.”

 “You always ring at the wrong time, Stella,” he answered. “We’re in the middle of breakfast. And I’m tired – with you away, I never even get a weekend lie-in.”

 “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this would be a good time.” I said, crushed. “I don’t seem to be able to do anything right at the moment.” Silence. “Mind you, I find your lively telephone banter irresistible, it has me hanging up laughing every time,” I added.

He laughed. If in doubt, make them laugh. I always used to make him laugh. Tom and I had been married for ten years. I could still remember the time we would be excited just being together – when we made each other laugh, stayed in bed all day, stayed up all night. I often wondered where all that intensity and spontaneity went to. On second thoughts, they were probably hanging out with my firm skin and pointless dreams – too far out of reach.

You’d think there would have been more understanding between us with us both being in the same business. I remembered the day we met, when we were both working in London at the BBC. We’d done a few shoots together so would say hello and perhaps chat if our paths crossed, but I was obsessed with someone else at the time and didn’t really notice Tom, he was just another cameraman.

It was at Steve the soundman’s leaving party that things changed.

The party was in a rough old pub in the backstreets of Shepherd’s Bush and I went along with some of the girls for a first drink. We’d planned to go on to a wine bar and end up at The Groucho for last drinks and a bit of star spotting. I was coming out of the toilets and as I passed the bar I saw Tom, who smiled, so I peeped under eyelashes, Princess-Di-style, while sashaying past. He was tall, with short, thick, black hair and a smile that filled his face. I went back to the girls but I kept catching him looking at me. Eventually he wandered over to our table. We started chatting and he made me laugh.

“We could go and see a film one evening after work?” he suggested after we’d been chatting for about an hour. “There’s a new film club opened in Camden and they’re showing old black and white films. I think there’s a Hitchcock season coming up.”

So as the girls waltzed off to The Groucho that night I was happy to stay in the smoky bar with Tom and the whiskery locals. In the next hour we discovered a shared a passion for old films, dark chocolate and black humour. Kismet.

We saw
Dial M for Murder
on our first outing, on the second date we went to the zoo (a cliché I know) and on the third date I moved into his flat. It was a bit of a whirlwind, but it just felt right. And at the wrong side of thirty, I wasn’t letting this one go.

We laughed a lot then in Tom’s cramped, rented flat. We watched TV on an old portable and lived on takeaways and cheap plonk. When we weren’t in bed, we’d spend weekends at the cinema watching films back to back, our only sustenance being popcorn, chocolate and each other. After we’d lived this completely carefree, self-indulgent life for about a year Tom suggested we get married. I loved him, loved big parties and
really
loved big cake, so I said yes.

“Stella, we miss you,” he said suddenly. “I’m bored spending every evening and weekend on my own. Grace needs you and I’m tired of living like a single parent.”

I dreamt of spending time alone with Grace and I often wished I were in his shoes, especially after I had been demoted to gardening hell. But this was the most he’d said in weeks, so I resisted whinging about
my
feelings for once.

“Well, I bet you love being a single parent outside the school gate with all those Yummy Mummies!” I half-joked (Tom meeting another mum outside the school gate and falling madly in love was number three on my ‘Things That Could Possibly Go Wrong,’ list).

“Stella. You don’t take anything seriously,” he started. This was sounding like a gear change so I leapt in for damage limitation, scared of losing the warm wave of telephone intimacy.

“I know it’s tough for you,” I soothed, “but Tom, I’ve just had a wonderful idea. Why don’t you and Grace come and visit me in Rochdale next Saturday? We could have a proper family day, just the three of us.”

“Oh Stella. You’re working and it’s a long way for Grace to travel and…”

“Yes, I know all that but as it’s the first show today the pressure will be off. It’s going to be a small series, tucked away on a Sunday afternoon, so by next Saturday I’ll have everything in place and I can work on final script changes when you go back on Saturday night. I know it’s a couple of hours’ drive but you’re both off and Grace will sleep in the car, she always does.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. It’s not like she’s a two-year old anymore who will nap all day you know.”

That hurt, of course I knew that. I realised she was eight, it’s not like I hadn’t seen her for six years. Recently I’d only been able to see her every couple of weeks and I knew I’d missed a lot, but it wasn’t by choice – he didn’t need to rub it in. I bit my tongue.

After a little more persuasion and me promising faithfully to take the whole day off and not do
any
work – or even answer my mobile – Tom agreed. He put Grace on the phone and when I told her she’d be coming to see me she screeched with delight: “Yay, we’re going to see Mummy!” I thought my heart would burst. Then Tom came back on the line.

“I hope it goes well today. We’ll be watching the programme, so good luck.” I hung up the phone, feeling positive and happy – and then I noticed that I had an answer phone message. It was from Peter Willis, the head of Gardening and executive producer of the show.

His message was all tight vowels and deep voice.

“Stella, I’m on my way to the location. I have some concerns we need to discuss urgently– I shall be with you at noon.”

Whatever the problem was, it was clearly bad enough for him to travel up for an urgent meeting on the day of the first live show, which indicated that it must be quite serious. Peter may have been absent for most of the programme preparation, but as the executive in charge I’d hoped I could rely on him for support on today of all days.

When MJ first sent me to Gardening I’d reported to Peter Willis and, still feeling very bruised, did little to hide my incredulity at the latest programme idea; “Religion and gardening? This is a joke, isn’t it Peter? No-one is really expecting this programme to work. Are they?” He was uncomfortable, but could always come up with a soundbite or stock phrase to cover himself and the fact he hadn’t a clue.

“It’s all about funding and a need to please the God-Squadders, Stel my love,” he said, with no eye contact but a louche smile at a passing young shoot.

“And you come highly recommended from Ms Mary-Jane Robinson, no less.”

“Mmm, so I gather...”

“Stella my love, the programme’s fine editorial content will be to question and embrace the meaning of God, life, death, humanity. Not forgetting to remind our viewers about late frost in spring and early frost in autumn.”

I was about to launch into a tirade about MJ and my concerns about this project, but he knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it. I took a wild guess and thought to myself
when this all falls flat on its face, over-budget with garden manure hitting fans in every religious establishment in the country, there’ll be a scapegoat and there’ll be a Judas
.
No prizes for guessing which one I’ll be
. MJ had left no stone unturned. I had to hand it to her – she’d surpassed herself.

Back in Bernard’s (and God’s) Garden, I was in deep panic. Peter turning up at short notice with something serious to declare had me worried. This led to the copious consumption of hot, thickly-buttered toast, two Star Bars and several mugs of hot chocolate before 8am. So much for the Lighter Lift diet – this morning’s oh-so-delicious ‘Amazing Apple’ was a distant (and rather revolting) memory.

Al appeared and was, as always, very excited. He didn’t take any of it seriously and every now and then said unhelpful things like, “Stel, it must be
really
serious if he’s coming all this way,” and in an annoying, mock-American accent “Oh girlfriend. I hate to say this – but you
is
in trouble!”

I ignored him and as I waited for Peter’s arrival I tried to cast my mind back to the last time I’d spoken with him. It was long before Rochdale and he’d given me some advice, in fact the only advice he’d ever given me; “Be careful with Islam.” He’d whispered this, placing a conspiratorial arm around my shoulder.

I think there was a message here, albeit in code. I think he was saying that it would be nice if the gardening programme didn’t cause an international incident resulting in street riots and my effigy on fire. I would second that.

 “Its bibles and bulbs then,” I’d shouted after him, smiling bravely and trying not to sound ever-so-slightly murderous or suicidal. The head gardener had smiled back as he walked through the door and stopped for a second.

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea for the programme title,” he’d said, and left.

I was in the vicarage with Denise when he arrived. It was about 12.30 and we were in the kitchen enjoying a herbal. Well, she was enjoying it, along with her usual topic of conversation while I tried to work. When she heard the car pull up outside, Denise leapt up and lifted the chintz curtains (apparently the vicarage had come ready-furnished so there wasn’t much of Denise’s unique style).

“Ooh,
he
means business,” said Denise, peering over her bifocals and giving Peter the once-over through chintz and old netting.

“Is he your boss Stel? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that – the power’s quite a turn on, isn’t it?” she looked over her glasses and winked at me. I smiled nervously. I had to keep her away from him. Her nocturnal goings on atop the Church organ could be the reason for his visit and I may need to play her proclivities down. “You should see his face, Stella,” said Denise, twitching the curtains. “He’s not happy. I think yer in fer a bollockin’ love. Good luck!”

As the door bell chimed I laughed weakly, reassuring her there were no problems at all, then almost knocked her over dashing to answer the door before she could.

“Hi there, welcome!” I shouted in the Head Gardener’s face, trying to sound enthusiastic but actually having the demeanour of someone on drugs. I noticed him stepping back stiffly, unsmiling. I knew then it was bad. I saw Belinda walk past out of the corner of my eye and I’m ashamed to say that for an instant I considered throwing a young researcher under this carnal bus to save myself. Peter had always had a weakness for the ladies and missed the ‘big promotion’ long ago after being caught in an edit suite with a bottle of Gordon’s and a redhead from Graphics. At the time, he claimed he was showing her ‘the flexibility of digital editing’, but she told
The News of the World
a different story. It wasn’t long before ‘TV Boss in Gin-Soaked Sex Tape’ was on everyone’s lips and he found himself on top of the dung heap in TV-gardening.

“My dear,” he began ominously. “This is a matter of extreme urgency. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Denise had rushed off to polish the altar (a euphemism I guessed, but didn’t pursue) so I offered Peter tea in the vicarage kitchen.

“Come in. Hope you had a good journey. Isn’t it cloudy today?”

“Stella. A matter has been brought to my attention and as executive of this programme I am- well, frankly, I’m horrified,” said Peter theatrically as I filled the kettle with pounding water from a leaky tap and placed it neatly on the hob. I found some chipped mugs in the cupboard and arranged them too carefully near the tea caddy, aware that Peter was glowering at me from the other side of the kitchen. Everything was in slow motion on the outside, yet inside I was screaming and tearing around. I had a programme to prepare, including a running order, script, phone calls, safety checks and rehearsals. Everyone was relying on me and waiting for my signature/go-ahead/decisions on everything. Even without his visit I was on borrowed time but having wasted the morning waiting for him I was now seriously behind. Pouring boiling water onto fragrant tea bags I felt as though I was trying to run at two hundred miles an hour but barely managing to keep up.

Is this what a breakdown feels like? I thought, grimacing and proffering tea and biscuits to Peter.

“HobNobs!” he announced with unbridled joy, forgetting solemnity for a second and cramming his mouth with golden crumbs.

“Everything’s going really well here,” I started while his mouth was full. “Great team...we’re so busy getting ready for the first show...”

His raised his hand to stop me talking and he sucked hard on hot Earl Grey. Eventually, he took a seat at the table and after an eternity of crumb-wiping and mug-moving like he was playing chess, he spoke.

 “It would seem,” he started, “that Media World’s most stringent Health and Safety policies have not been adhered to and the public and crew have been exposed to a dangerous criminal.” He banged his mug onto the table dramatically and tea slopped over the rim.