flesh is thankfully hidden beneath the baggy, black clothes. The desk lamp shines on the keyboard, over which Madeline’s ring adorned fingers hover. I know she can see me.
‘I thought you might need this,’ I say, disappointed with the simplicity of the words given how long it took me to find them.
‘Put it on the desk,’ she replies, her eyes not leaving the screen.
You’re welcome.
A small fan heater splutters away in the corner and the burnt-scented warmth snakes up around my legs, holding me in place. I find myself staring at the mole on her cheek. My eyes do that sometimes: focus on a person’s imperfections, momentarily forgetting that they can see me seeing the things they’d rather I didn’t.
‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ I venture.
‘I’m not ready to talk to people yet,’ she says. I leave her to it.
Back at my desk, I scan through the pile of post that has gathered since Friday: a couple of ghastly looking novels that I will never read, some fan mail and an invite to a charity gala, which catches my eye. I sip my coffee and daydream about what I might wear and whom I would take along if I went. I should do more charity work really, I just never seem to have the time. Madeline is the face of Crisis Child as well as the voice of Coffee Morning. I’ve always found her close relationship with the country’s biggest children’s charity slightly strange, given that she hates them and never had any of her own. She never even married. She’s completely alone in life but never lonely.
Once I’ve sorted the post, I read through the briefing notes for this morning’s programme, it’s always useful to have a bit of background knowledge before the show. I can’t find my red pen, so I head for the stationery cupboard.
It’s been restocked.
I glance over my shoulder and then back at the neatly piled shelves of supplies. I grab a handful of Post-it notes, then I take a few red pens, pushing them into my pockets. I keep taking them until they are all gone and the box is empty. I leave the other colours behind. Nobody looks up as I walk back to my desk, they don’t see me empty everything into my drawer and lock it.
Just as I’m starting to worry that my only friend here isn’t making an appearance today, Jo walks in and smiles at me. She’s dressed the same as always, in blue-denim jeans and a white top, like she can’t move on from the 90s. The boots she says she hates are worn down at the heel and her blonde hair is damp from the rain. She sits at the desk next to mine, opposite the rest of the producers.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she whispers. Nobody apart from me notices.
The last to arrive is Matthew, the editor of the programme. This is not unusual. His skinny chinos are straining at the seams, worn low to accommodate the bulge around his middle. They’re slightly too short for his long legs, revealing colourful socks above his brown, shiny shoes. He heads straight to his tidy desk by the window without saying hello. Why a team of women who produce a show for women is managed by a man is beyond my comprehension. But then Matthew took a chance and gave me this job when my predecessor abruptly left, so I suppose I should be grateful.
‘Matthew, can you step into my office now you’re here?’ says Madeline from across the room.
‘And he thought his morning couldn’t get any worse,’ Jo whispers. ‘Are we still on for drinks after work?’
I nod, relieved that she isn’t going to disappear straight after the show again.
We watch Matthew grab his briefing notes and hurry into Madeline’s office, his flamboyant coat still flapping at his sides as though it wishes it could fly. Moments later, he storms back out, looking red-faced and flustered.
‘We better go through to the studio,’ says Jo, interrupting my thoughts. It seems like a good plan, given we’re on in ten minutes.
‘I’ll see if Her Majesty is ready,’ I reply, pleased to see that I’ve made Jo smile. I catch Matthew’s eye as he raises a neatly arched eyebrow in my direction. I should not have said that out loud.
As the clock counts down to the top of the hour, everyone moves into place. Madeline and I make our way to the studio, to resume our familiar positions on a darkened centre stage. We are observed through an enormous glass window from the safety of the gallery, like two very different animals mistakenly placed in the same enclosure. Jo and the rest of the producers sit in the gallery. It is bright and loud, with a million different-coloured buttons that look terribly complicated given the simplicity of what we actually do; talk to people and pretend to enjoy it. In contrast, the studio is dimly lit and uncomfortably silent. There is just a table, some chairs and a couple of microphones. Madeline and I sit in the gloom, quietly ignoring each other, waiting for the on air light to go red and the first act to begin.
‘Good morning and welcome to Monday’s edition of Coffee Morning, I’m Madeline Frost. A little later on today’s show, we’ll be joined by best-selling author E. B. Knight, but before that, we’ll be discussing the rising number of female breadwinners and, for today’s phone-in, we’re inviting you to get in touch on the subject of imaginary friends. Did you have one as a child? Perhaps you still do . . .’
The familiar sound of her on-air voice calms me and I switch to autopilot, waiting for my turn to say something. I wonder if Paul is awake yet. He hasn’t been himself lately: staying up late in his writing shed, coming to bed just before I get up, or not at all. He likes to call the shed a cabin. I like to call things what they are.
We spent an evening with E. B. Knight once, when Paul’s first novel took off. That was over five years ago now, not long after we first met. I was a TV reporter at the time. Local news, nothing fancy. But seeing yourself on screen does force you to make an effort with your appearance, unlike radio. I was slim then, I didn’t know how to cook; I didn’t have anyone to cook for before Paul and rarely made an effort just for myself. Besides, I was too busy working. I mostly did pieces about potholes or the theft of lead from church roofs, but one day, serendipity decided to intervene. Our showbiz reporter went sick and I was sent to interview some hotshot new author instead of her. I hadn’t even read his book. I was hungover and resented having to do someone else’s job for them, but that all changed when he walked in the room.
Paul’s publisher had hired a suite at the Ritz for the interview, it felt like a stage and I felt like an actress who hadn’t learned her lines. I remember feeling out of my depth, but when he sat down in the chair opposite me, I realised he was more nervous than I was. It was his first television interview and I somehow managed to put him at ease. When he asked for my card afterwards, I didn’t really think anything of it, but my cameraman took great pleasure commenting on our ‘chemistry’ all the way back to the car. I felt like a schoolgirl when he called that night. We talked and it was easy, as though we already knew each other. He said he had to go to a book awards ceremony the week after and didn’t have a date. He wondered if I might be free. I was. We sat on the same table as E. B. Knight for the ceremony, it was like having dinner with a legend and a very memorable first date. She was charming, clever and witty. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again ever since I knew they had booked her as a guest.
‘Good to see you,’ I say, as the producer brings her into the studio.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ she replies, taking her seat. Not a flicker of recognition; how easy I am to forget.
Her trademark white bob frames her petite eighty-year-old face. She’s immaculate, even her wrinkles are neatly arranged. She looks soft around the edges, but
