down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.
‘Danish pastry?’ I heard her say. ‘Or how about a nice scone?’ Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, ‘Where the hell’s Phil? Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right – you’re on!’ In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.
‘– could someone page Tatiana?’
‘– would you prefer Earl Grey?’
‘– the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!’
‘– I’ve got some nice Assam.’
‘– Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.’
‘– the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!’
So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal – we call him Iqqy – put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.
‘Ready with the Polyfilla?’ I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.
‘You do look a bit tired,’ he said solicitously. ‘Were you out on the tiles last night?’
‘Yes. It was my wedding anniversary – we went out for supper, en famille.’
‘How lovely,’ he said soothingly.
‘It was,’ I replied. ‘In a way, or it would have been … ’ You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this – and the fact that I’d drunk too much – had resulted in my getting no sleep.
‘How many years have you been married?’ asked Marian.
‘Fifteen,’ I replied.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must have married young.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I did.’
‘Fifteen years,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘But then, I’ve already been married eight.’
‘And Will and I have been together for five,’ said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. ‘Although,’ he went on ruefully, ‘we’ve had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.’
‘Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange … ’ I began. ‘Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this … ’ Then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.
‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’
‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’
‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’
I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.
‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’
The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’
The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.
‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.
‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.
‘– Terry’s a bastard!’
‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’
‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’
‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’
‘–
