Neurotica (32 page)

“I think what you have to realize, Angela,” Stern was saying to Anna, “is that in order to become a truly clitoris-centered woman,
you have to be determined. You must have
balls. .   .   . Am I allowed to say balls on Briddish
television?”

Heather giggled uneasily. “Well, maybe just this once. Oh, and
by the way, it's Anna, not Angela,” she added.

“Whadever,” Stern continued stonily. “You see, my point
is that women who have affairs and are found out, or women who have
affairs and end up falling in love, are essentially weak and
unfocused. Instead of concentrating purely on the sex, they get
carried away with the whole romance bit. By now their heads are
completely in the clouds and they get careless and—”

Clearly furious, Anna cut across her.

“I don't consider myself to be either weak or unfocused,”
she spat. “I did my best not to fall for the men I slept with. In
the end it was out of my control. I just couldn't help falling for
one of them. Then my husband found out.”

“Listen to me, Anita, you had your affairs and you screwed up
because you didn't obey my rules. Honey, you are simply looking
for someone to blame because you can't face taking the blame
yourself.”

“That is a lie,” Anna shouted. Dan could hear tears in her
voice. There was no doubt in his mind about why she was in such a
rage. She had realized Stern was right and she couldn't bear it.

“The point is,” Anna said, going on an all-out attack, “that
you are wickedly and cynically conning women into believing they can
have a string of affairs without ever falling in love. I believe that
eventually even the most “focused' of women will fall in love and
then they have to face the appalling consequences—like I did.
Have you even the remotest idea of the pain I am feeling?”

Dan watched as Anna started to cry and Heather reached out to
touch her hand and give her a warm and caring look.

“I have lost everything,” Anna wept, “my husband who I have
never stopped loving, my last lover, and I may even lose my children.
I would do anything, absolutely anything, to get my husband back,
but because of you it's too late. My life is over.”

“Gahd, where did you dredge up this bleeding heart?” Stern
sighed.

Anna took a deep breath. “At least,” she said with
forced calmness, “I have blood in me, and not silicone.”

Stern sat back in her chair and laughed.

“I'm sorry, I have no idea what on earth you are talking
about.”

“Well, let me see if we can make things a little clearer,”
Tim interjected brightly. “Rachel, you have always been highly
critical of women who have cosmetic surgery.”

“Ab-so-lutely. Women do it because men are only interested
in what they look like, not what they have to say. My
message is
that women must fight to make themselves heard by men.”

“In that case,” Tim said slyly, suddenly sounding a bit
less bland, and more like a detective superintendent going in for
the kill, “perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to
explain why you decided to have cosmetic surgery, and why you
chose to have it in this country rather than in the States?”

Dan couldn't take his eyes off Rachel Stern. She was twisting
in her chair, her eyes darting all over the place. She was clearly
desperate for somebody to rescue her. Dan thought she was going
to do a runner, but she didn't move.

A moment later a man's head and shoulders appeared on the
studio monitor and Tim introduced Alex Pemberton. Very calmly,
Alex went through the list of cosmetic procedures he had performed
on Stern. Over the last three years, he said, Ms. Stern had
received breast implants, a new nose, chin and cheek implants and
liposuction on her thighs.

Rachel Stern let Alex finish. Then, her eyes bulging, she
began screaming so hard that the speaker on Beany's TV began to
distort.

“I know what this is,” she yelled at Anna. “This is some
kind of plot hatched by the press and the Briddish feminist
movement to discredit me. You've always hated me in this
country—just like you hate Steinem and Friedan. You
mealymouthed Brits can't stand anyone with spunk. You despise
anyone who stands up and shouts for what they want. Well, you
won't get away with it. I will sue you”—she pointed to
Anna—“and you”—she pointed to Alex—“and
this entire friggin' TV company.   .   .   .” With that
she leaped out of her seat and tore off her microphone. Then
she walked over to Anna, drew back an Armani-ed leg and kicked her
in the shin. Anna yelped. Her hand darted to the pain. She got
out of her seat, picked up the water jug from the lip-shaped
table and poured water over Stern's head. Stern, looking like
a half-drowned cocker spaniel, suddenly pulled Anna onto the floor,
got on top of her and began tugging tufts of hair from her scalp
and scratching her face. The camera followed them as they rolled
over and over like a couple of boys in a playground bundle. Knocking
over a couple of the flower vases on the way, they rolled towards
the table where the
At the Crack
chef had left his
gooseberry cobbler. Stern, who was on top of Anna, released her
grip on her hair and managed to get hold of the Pyrex dish full of
cobbler. Grinning like a demon, she plunged her hand into the
pudding and began smearing Anna's face with warm gooseberry mush.

His heart pounding with fear and rage, Dan jumped off the
sofa and knelt on the floor, his face inches from the television
screen.

“Shit. Why isn't somebody bloody well doing something?” he
shouted at the screen as he watched a mixture of blood and stewed
fruit running down Anna's face.

Anna had retaliated by ripping open the front of Stern's
blouse. The entire nation could now see her maniacally tugging at
the front of Stern's skimpy red-lace bra. Dan could tell it was
only a matter of seconds before Stern's breasts fell out. He was
right. A moment later, the camera zoomed in on them. Dan flinched
in disgust. They looked like two particularly large and solid
grapefruit halves which had been perched on her chest and covered
in taut skin.

Finally two men in headsets and sleeveless black Puffa jackets
waded in and managed to pull the two women off each other. As
Anna and Rachel Stern were led away kicking and swearing, a
tearful and shaking Heather stepped back onto the demolished set.
She was accompanied by a grim-faced Tim, who wrapped a
paternal arm round her shoulders.

Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Heather looked earnestly
into the camera and apologized for what she described as a
despicable, contemptible and infantile display. She allowed a
couple of seconds for a meaningful pause, during which Tim tightened
his arm round her shoulders, before breaking into a smile and
launching into a chirpy rundown of the program lineup. This
included a two-minute featurette on how fifteen million people
would be killed by flooding if world governments continued to
ignore the dire warnings about the greenhouse effect, and film
of her test-driving the latest Japanese hatchback, the Placenta
Praevia. This apparently came with oodles of high-tech extras,
including a hands-off telephone with a dial-by-voice gadget, which
Heather said was particularly useful at traffic lights because
it meant you could call up your friends' numbers at the same time
as painting your nails.

Dan stood up and stabbed the off button on the TV remote. His
pulse was still racing. The only thing he could think about was
getting to Channel 6 and rescuing Anna from this mayhem. It was
beginning to dawn on him that Anna was genuinely sorry for what
she had done, and that he wasn't the only one in pain. From the
moment he'd found out about her affairs, he'd understood
intellectually that his hypochondria was to blame and that he had
been responsible for driving her into the arms of other men.

The difference now, several days later, seeing her anguished
face on TV, the sheer bloody wretchedness she was clearly suffering,
was that he could actually feel the agony he had caused her, and
appreciate for the first time the guilt she was now feeling for
cheating on him. All he wanted to do was to hold her, to tell
her how much he loved her—and make her understand that he
forgave her.

He picked up his wallet and, wearing only his grubby jeans and
a white T-shirt, which had been on his back for three days
and was covered in Heinz tomato soup stains, ran to the front
door. The Channel 6 studios were no more than a few hundred yards
away, in King Street. It was only when he stepped onto the pavement
that he realized his feet were bare.

As he sprinted to the corner of Beany's road, he felt a few
spots of rain on his face. In less than a minute it was teeming
down. His hair was soaked, his T-shirt was sticking to his
chest and his jeans were covered in the filthy oily spray being
shot at him from passing cars. The pavement was becoming slippery
under his feet.

After a few more yards he began to feel breathless and he
slowed down. A couple of women pushing toddlers in buggies looked
at him, assumed he was some kind of schizo nutter on a bender, and
gave him a wide berth.

Turning into King Street, he kept hearing Anna's voice
saying, “I have lost everything. .   .   . My life
is over. .   .   . It's too late.” “No it's not,”
he sobbed as he ran. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

The Channel 6 building was on the other side of the road.
The traffic was almost at a standstill. Dan picked his way between
bumpers. Gasping for breath, he almost fell into the gray-carpeted
reception area. He walked over to the desk and spoke to the
uniformed doorman.

“Excuse me, my wife is appearing, that is, she was appearing
on   .   .   .”

“Now then, mate, I know it's chucking it down, but you can't
come in here. Here's a couple of bob. Go and get yourself a cuppa
in McDonald's.” He held out a fifty-pence piece towards Dan.

“No, you don't understand. My wife's in the studio being
beaten up by some mad American feminist.”

“I'm sure she is, mate.” The doorman stood up and walked
around to the front of the desk. He put his arm round Dan's
shoulders. “Look, why don't we have a look and see if your pills
are in your pocket. Maybe you forgot to take them today. Shall we
see what we can find?” He pushed his hand into Dan's jeans
pocket. Dan swore at him and pushed him away.

“Right,” the chap said, finally losing his temper, “I've
tried being friendly, now it's out you go.”

In a second Dan's arm had been thrust up between his shoulder
blades and he was being frog-marched towards the exit. The two of
them had just reached the automatic doors when an almighty howl
came from behind them.

“Please, please don't .   .   . put him down.
Dan, it's me.”

The doorman released his grip. He then watched Dan, who
looked as if he'd just done a runner from Broadmoor, rush over to
a woman who looked as if she'd spent several days sleeping rough
under a gooseberry bush and wrap her in his arms. While Dan
almost kissed the life out of Anna and told her he loved
her over and over again, and Anna told Dan she was sorry over and
over again, and Dan said he was sorry too, the doorman began
speaking into his walkie-talkie.

“Gordon, it's Vic. I've got a couple of down-and-outs
in reception. Both completely bonkers. I'd appreciate a hand.”

“Roger, ten four,” crackled the response.

Fearing violence from the pair, he then retreated back
behind the reception desk.

Dan couldn't take his eyes off Anna, partly because he
realized how much he adored her and partly because her face was
still bleeding.

“Anna, look what she's done to you,” he said, looking at
her torn, stained clothes and lifting a couple of strands of her
hair out of some congealed blood.

“Don't worry, I'll be fine. The nurse put some Dettol on the
scratches. She says they look worse than they are.”

“Come on,” Dan said, kissing her wounded face. “Let's get
you home.”

“Not yet, I've got to wait for Brenda. She went back for my
handbag.”

The next moment Brenda appeared. She took one look at Anna
and Dan with their arms round each other and broke into a
huge grin.

“You pair of smocks,” she said, realizing that Dan must
have watched the Shapiro–Stern spectacle and decided to
come and rescue Anna.

“That's
schmocks,
Brenda.” Dan laughed.

“Whatever,” Brenda replied as she hugged and kissed them
both and handed Anna her bag. “Now I think I'll love you and leave
you. There's somewhere I have to be at twelve and I want to get
changed and put on some makeup.”

“Why? Where are you going?” Anna asked.

“Beany's taking me out for lunch,” she said merrily as
she walked towards the doors. “And then tonight I'm going to watch
him do his routine at the Comedy Store. See ya.” And she was
gone.

Anna looked at Dan and smiled. “I had the feeling the other
night when I spoke to her on the phone that there was something
she wasn't telling me. C'mon. Let's go.”

“No, wait, look.” Dan pointed to one of the TVs which were
mounted on the wall nearest the lift. His attention appeared to
have been taken by a Channel 6 London news bulletin.

“And now we're going over live to the Brent Cross shopping
center where our reporter, Kay Armstrong, has the latest on the
incident. .   .   . Kay, perhaps you could recap and
tell us exactly what happened.   .   .   .”

“Well, Clive, a sixty-two-year-old woman, who, it appears,
had been the victim of a stalker for some weeks, came into John
Lewis first thing this morning to buy a roll of plastic carpet
protector. The grandmother from Stanmore, whose name hasn't yet
been released, had, within the last twenty-four hours, been given
police protection. When she arrived at the store, neither the
woman nor her police bodyguard, it seems, had any idea the stalker
was following them.