dump her again. And she had held to that promise. Any man who had got close, she had split up with as soon as she’d seen signs of waning interest. One had told her he had wanted to knit his soul with hers and had mapped out a future with her in the stars. He had been the most romantic boyfriend ever. She had arrived at his flat one night to be serenaded by a violin and cello duo in the corner of the sitting room. They had tactfully left and he had led her through to his bed, strewn with rose petals. But one day he had said idly that the new girl at work reminded him of Catherine Zeta-Jones. And that had been it. The end. Many years later, he told her he had been planning to propose to her.
Anyway. No man had dumped her since Matt. But now she had been dumped as publicly as it was possible to be. Or she was about to be dumped as publicly as it was possible to be.
No point in thinking about that now. She’d be better off trying to get some sleep that didn’t involve whisky and Benylin, so that she would look all right if the photographers took shots of her tomorrow.
Tears were leaking again.
She decided to clear out her wardrobes. She cried intermittently as she made an enormous pile of colourful suits in one corner of the room. Her breakfast-television outfits.
The Boss who had employed her to replace the veteran newscaster Beatrice Shah had told her that the viewers wouldn’t care if she fucked up her interviews, but they did like to have a nice bright splash of colour in the morning while their kids were throwing the hamster around. ‘It’s not whether you’re good or not. It’s how good you look. Frankly, we could put a talking gorilla on the sofa as long as it wore nice clothes,’ he had said. ‘But they’re more expensive than humans. Never make the mistake of thinking you’re irreplaceable.’
Maybe she had. She’d felt too secure in her work. She knew she’d done a good job. But Keera was younger, prettier … exotic.
Keera had come to Hello Britain! after losing her job as a radio disc jockey in Devon: she had done a raunchy video that had been featured in most of the tabloids. She had got herself an agent, and the management at the breakfast-television station had agreed to her doing a stint as a reporter in a small civil war they hadn’t been thinking of sending anyone out to – no one from Britain holidayed there so most people hadn’t heard of it. She wouldn’t be paid, but she’d get a little bit of airtime. ‘Nothing guaranteed, mind you,’ The Boss had said.
She had worn tiny little vest tops and combat trousers, which had shown off her lean figure. And a little Tiffany heart necklace … the station had been swamped with replacements when she lost it.
She had come home to a heroine’s welcome and endless pieces in glossy magazines. ‘Beauty and the Beast of War’. ‘My Heart Remains In Africa’. ‘Out of Africa and Into the Top 10’ – that was about how she’d become one of the top ten icons of the year. No one ever revealed that her reports had been written for her and faxed over for her to rehearse.
Katie had been supportive when Keera had started at Hello Britain! ‘You don’t need to be a trained journalist to do this job,’ she had told her, over coffee at the canteen one morning. ‘Obviously it helps. The main thing, though, is to be interested. And as informed as possible.’
In the last few months, she had belatedly recognized the threat Keera posed to her previously unchallenged spot as queen of breakfast television.
Mike, her co-presenter, had told her not to be silly, that she had his unwavering support: ‘You know I could never work as well with anyone else. We’re like an old married couple, you and I. There’d be an outcry if Minnie Mouse pointed her bony arse at the sofa.’ That had been his nickname for Keera ever since she’d squeaked during a live interview when she had mistakenly thought a car backfiring was a sniper.
Katie had laughed, but thought that he would have done more than squeak in that situation: he would have had to wash his little white Calvin Klein pants.
She checked her tear ducts. Almost dry. She took two Nurofen, and went to bed.
She woke up at dawn, and managed to wait until six o’clock before phoning her agent.
Katie had been one of Jim Break’s most lucrative clients – he had bought his house in leafy Surrey almost entirely on the back of her groundbreaking Hello Britain! deal. Although they had fallen out a few times, they had a genuinely friendly relationship.
While Katie was on holiday, he had been called in for a meeting. He had had an inkling as to what it was about, so had gone in to salvage what was left of her contract. Unless they could prove she had done something immoral, illegal or downright unpleasant, she’d get some cash.
He hated dealing with the management there. Half of them were virtually related – he had felt the need to check surreptitiously that they all had thumbs. He could only assume they had information on someone at the top. How else could you explain the barrel-chested simian Barry Spicer, who was paid a huge salary and had never been seen to do anything but organize his holidays.
Whatever you thought of Katie’s presenting skills, she turned up for work five days a week, wrote most of her own scripts, did as much research as she could, and never moaned.
‘Hi, Katie,’ he said, when she phoned. ‘Hold on a second. I’ll just take the phone downstairs.’ She could hear his girlfriend grumbling about people phoning at this bloody hour of the night. ‘Katie? How are you feeling?’
‘Oh, fine. Fine. Obviously. Just been sacked. Mortgage to pay. Never felt better. Naturally. How are you?’
‘I know. I did try to warn you.’
‘When?’
‘When I came over six months ago and showed you the audience research I’d got my hands on through an exchange of dirty info.’
‘But it said the viewers didn’t particularly like anyone, except the newsreader. And the only reason they liked her was that she didn’t frighten the horses. About as interesting as a damp flannel. Although at least flannels can germinate something interesting.’
‘Yes. But they hated your jokes, which had been getting increasingly bizarre.’
‘Not bizarre. Just silly.’
‘And you, of course, are so clever you’ve been out-manoeuvred by Keera.’
‘Was it Keera who stuffed me, then?’
‘That’s what I’ve heard. She’s been very quietly having conversations with the people upstairs about where she’s going to go now that she’s such hot property. She’s got a publicity agent.’
‘You told me I never needed one.’
He ignored that. ‘And the publicity agent’s been busy sowing all those trumped-up stories about megabucks being offered by NBC, ABC, ITN, the BBC, et cetera, et cetera. Plus, let’s face it, she looks bloody gorgeous in a swimsuit and those wet photos in Loaded can’t have done her any harm. Particularly since the soaking was in the name of rescuing refugees from that African country that’s permanently on the verge of starvation.’
‘They said in Private Eye she did
