About That Night
Elaine Bedell
Sometimes it only takes one night to change everything…Elizabeth Place might have been jilted by her fiancé on her wedding day one year ago, but at least she’s still got her brilliant job producing one of the biggest shows on TV!But when larger-than-life TV host, Ricky Clough, dies live on air, her life is sent spinning out of control. And with foul play suspected, the spotlight is turned firmly on his colleagues – especially Hutch, the man desperate for Ricky’s job, and who Elizabeth is secretly dating.As her world comes crashing down around her, Elizabeth realises that perhaps the only person she can really trust, is herself…
ELAINE BEDELL was a BAFTA award-winning TV producer before becoming Controller of Entertainment at the BBC and Director of Entertainment & Comedy at ITV. She has commissioned and produced some of the UK’s most popular entertainment shows, including The X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, Take Me Out, Britain’s Got Talent, The One Show, Top Gear and Saturday Night Takeaway. She lives in Hackney and has two children. She is currently Chief Executive of the Southbank Centre. About That Night is her first novel.
About That Night
Elaine Bedell
ONE PLACE MANY STORIES
Copyright (#ulink_e726fa7f-d14a-5366-bbe7-d6bb24a77afa)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Elaine Bedell 2019
Elaine Bedell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008297695
Note to Readers (#ulink_8ad33634-e705-57e4-87c0-43bfb4e9455e)
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008297688
In memory of my dear dad Bert who should have lived to see it all.
Contents
Cover (#u8231a068-403e-5bb9-b8da-247f6430285b)
About the Author (#ub126f344-4d5c-5a96-b423-3f3989ab93fa)
Title Page (#u0cbe75fd-5a06-501d-917a-a2f952b59cc4)
Copyright (#ulink_12506fb6-5075-56ef-a4e6-da24ad9eaf45)
Note to Readers (#ulink_eb1579f1-ebb7-5026-aa6e-695fe5851201)
Dedication (#ufa95b40e-1b88-507a-894c-e0eb2d823afa)
Prologue (#ulink_f51b0b31-6397-50e9-b2ff-cdfcefc840d5)
Chapter One (#ulink_924b8388-ba2c-5191-86d7-0900e7ff26a0)
Chapter Two (#ulink_c3ce7eb2-0b3f-5e2c-a98c-e8eea6123780)
Chapter Three (#ulink_20880964-21ea-509e-8b8f-ef902b4adf27)
Chapter Four (#ulink_fba041e9-f4f2-5d57-b541-f54133e5438b)
Chapter Five (#ulink_5b5150d7-ec39-51ac-9c31-801b153f6569)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_457fb796-473e-56a6-99a0-321cd9faa77c)
July 2017
Elizabeth Place is packing up her life. The protesting screech of duct tape and the thwack and swoosh of folding cardboard corners have been the soundtrack to her day. She’s surrounded by sealed brown boxes. Two muscular men arrived first thing in a white van with its big red boast ‘We’ll Make the Earth Move For You’ and stomped up the stairs to her first-floor flat, Where do you want us, love? Between them they carried a sofa, four chairs, a chest of drawers and her double mattress – up a bit, right a bit, upsy-daisy, there she goes, easy does it – while drinking twelve cups of tea with twenty-four spoonfuls of sugar.
Now only the boxes to go.
She sits and surveys her empty flat. She’s very tired and a little bit queasy if she’s honest (although she has an unfortunate inclination not to be honest, especially with herself). Her entire life has been swaddled, stacked and squashed into eleven cartons: thirty-five years of life, love and loss. Elizabeth isn’t much good at maths, but she knows that thirty-five doesn’t go into eleven without some leftover bits. What’s happened to the rest of her life? Those bits and pieces that might have caused her to tick another ten boxes?
She’s thirty-five and single. It wasn’t meant to be like this.
She reaches for the last empty box into which she’ll carefully stow the few remaining, very personal items. The things she’s left until last. Her National Television Award, still on the mantelpiece, sparkling bronze: Elizabeth Place, Producer: Best Entertainment Programme, Saturday Bonkers; a framed photo of her dear dad waving proudly at her down the years from the deck of a boat that isn’t his; the engraved card from ‘Matthew, Controller, All Channels’ which read ‘Only you could have got us through that show. Well done! X’; a black and white postcard of Paris, on which Hutch had written out an extract from Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy’ along with the words Dear Miss Clumsy, I really miss you bumping into things; Elizabeth and Jamie, framed on their graduation day, carelessly waving their mortar boards in the air. And standing on its spine, propping up the rest, a valuable first edition of Yeats, given to her by Ricky one morning after a terrible night before.
Elizabeth tucks all these mementoes carefully away in the last box and closes the flaps quickly, like a ventriloquist silencing his troublesome puppets. All apart from the Yeats, which she clutches to her chest. She stands for a moment gazing at the empty spaces, thinking of the life she’s leaving behind. A life she has loved. A seductive life: of glamour, of glory, of giddiness. An addictive, adrenaline-fuelled roller coaster of a life, with all its exhilarating highs and exhausting lows. A dangerous life.
She’s independent, she’s strong, she says to herself. She’s really good at her job. She’ll do what her bible says and lean in (she hasn’t worked out exactly what this means, but she imagines it’s a bit like the plank, you just have to practice). She’s done with being caught in tangled webs of secrecy and lies. She’ll heed the warning signs, next time.
Won’t she?
Elizabeth wanders back into the bedroom, avoiding the bathroom. She’ll deal in a minute with the message in there that might change her life, that’s waiting for her in the cabinet, away from the prying eyes of the heavy lifters.
Elizabeth shivers slightly and sinking to the bedroom floor opens up the Yeats, carefully turning the precious pages. And there it is, on the title page, in Ricky’s big black sloping writing: ‘Dearest Elizabeth, I have spread my dreams under your feet’. Crazy, comic, complicated Ricky. His story wasn’t meant to end the way it did, one innocently blossoming day in May.
A Mayday.
Chapter One (#ulink_2f8482e1-9b07-538b-a721-a2b7a87d55cf)
Two months earlier
The audience are settling into their seats. They’ve been queueing outside the studio in the May drizzle for an hour and a half, an exercise in patience which might have been more bearable had anyone remotely famous walked by. An Ant. Or a Dec. They weren’t fussy. But one of the regulars, who’d been to recordings of the show at least twice before and had therefore brought a flask of hot chocolate, said that the stars use a secret tunnel entrance at the back of the studio building. Television stars, she explained patiently, don’t use main entrances. ‘Not even the Loose Women?’ asks a girl, shivering in bare legs and high heels. ‘No one,’ says the lady with the flask.
They’ve been herded like soaking sheep into the pens of the audience seating. Their mobile phones have been confiscated and will be returned to them at the end of the show. The lady with the hot chocolate, knowing the form, hangs back a little, watching as they fill the back seats first. She manages to get a seat in the third row from the front and surreptitiously opens up a packet of sandwiches. ‘The warm-up won’t be on for at least another half an hour,’ she whispers to the woman next to her. ‘Cheese and pickle?’
The set is much smaller in reality than it looks on the television. It consists of a shiny steel desk, surrounded by bookshelves laden with leather tomes, and a bright canary yellow velvet sofa. Five wide steps run up to the back of the set which serve as the entrance for the guests of the show. Wrapped around the set are a series of huge screens which display drone-captured scenes of planet earth at night, vast cities pin-pricked with glittering street lights, moonlit oceans and mountain ranges crested by stars.
‘Or tuna and cucumber?’
The audience is mainly female and they’ve come dressed for the occasion, eyeliner and foundation thickly applied, in case, just in case, there’s a fleeting shot of them clapping on camera. They’re hardened, battle-worn fans of the star of the show, the primetime entertainment king, Ricky Clough. They’ve been with him since he was a youthful breakfast DJ, have seen him through his career highs and lows. They’ve grown up through the years of his primetime, live, television show, Saturday Bonkers, watching it faithfully before going out to hit the weekend bars and clubs. But in recent months, Ricky’s audiences have been thinning, along with his hair, and a transplant on both counts has been necessary: he’s now been given his own chat show, The Ricky Clough Show, but not live, not on Saturday nights, and in the graveyard slot of 22.40.
The warm-up guy bounds on to the set, dressed in a tartan suit. He’s carrying a stick mic. ‘Right, ladies – and you few brave gents – are we ready to get this party going?’ he says. ‘ARE WE READY?’ The studio lights blaze on his entrance; for a brief moment he’s king of the court. He parades up and down the set, relishing the spotlight. The sound guys turn up the volume to DJ Fresh and the audience begin to shift in their seats, itching to get up and dance.
‘Okay. Five minutes till we start recording the show! Put your make-up on, ladies! Oh? You already have? Sorry, love. Now then. Take a good look at the person next to you. Is anyone here with someone they shouldn’t be? Because you’re about to be on telly – a television studio’s no place for people having affairs!’
Elizabeth Place, Ricky Clough’s producer, allows herself a small smile at this. She’s watching the warm-up from the comforting shadows of the black drapes that surround the studio. The entire audience is up on its feet, dancing along to ‘Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now’. Middle-aged women have shed their coats and their inhibitions and are dancing like teenagers. Elizabeth likes to watch them; she loves to hear the pre-show excitement build to a crescendo of hysteria. She thinks they might be in for a good night: Ricky was in a better mood than usual when she checked on him in his dressing room earlier. A bottle of white wine was open, but still full, and he didn’t drink at all while she went through his script with him. (Nonetheless, she had taken the precaution of hiding another unopened bottle under the sofa when he wasn’t looking.)
She turns to the black-shirted cameraman nearest her, Phil, leaning against his pedestal camera with his arms folded, his back turned firmly away from the disco-dancing divas. ‘How is he this evening?’ he asks her drily with a raised eyebrow.
‘Very lively,’ says Elizabeth with a smile.
‘Think we’re in for a good show?’ Phil asks.
‘Actually, yes.’
She skips up the spiral staircase that leads to the studio gallery, a rectangular box of a room with a long desk facing a bank of television screens, each offering different angles on the studio below. The director, Robin, is sitting in the middle of the desk, with the vision mixer beside him. He’s wearing a silk cravat and a velvet blazer. Elizabeth kisses him lightly on the cheek then takes her seat at the far end, next to the gallery assistant, Lola, who prints all the scripts, does all the timings and entertains the camera crew with stories of her recent breast enlargement procedure. She has platinum blonde hair piled impressively into a beehive on her head and is perfectly made up: heavy kohl eyeliner, white powder, bright red lips (Lola is in a perpetual state of mourning for the 1940s). She’s wearing a tight pencil skirt and a cropped knit sweater which shows off to full advantage her perky new breasts. She has an array of dangerously sharpened pencils in front of her, as well as two stopwatches.
Elizabeth never feels more alive than when she’s in the gallery, producing a show, sitting side by side with Lola. They’ve worked closely together for seven years, sharing every beat of every nail-biting show. Shoulder to shoulder they’ve somehow kept the show on the road, through all the ups and the downs, and have become firm friends. Elizabeth loves her job and she loves these moments just before a show most of all. She loves the precision of the preparation and the execution, the fact that everyone must move in synchronicity. She loves all the little meaningful rituals and habits which bind them all intimately together, like a professional family. She loves the thrill, the adrenaline, the buzz. She loves the way her heart beats painfully in her chest during a show and the fact that her brain never feels clearer.
Lola squeezes her hand as she sits and whispers, ‘I saw him in his dressing room. He seems on really good form. I don’t think he’s been drinking or anything.’ Lola’s eyes are shining, she’s happy. Elizabeth smiles and nods. As far as she knows, she’s the only person on the production team who has any clue as to the true nature of Lola’s relationship with Ricky.
‘Stand by studio floor, coming to you in two minutes.’
Elizabeth puts on her headphones and presses the button of the small console in front of her, saying softly into the small microphone, ‘Hello, Ricky. This is me. Just testing talkback. Can you hear me okay?’
‘Loud and clear, Mrs T,’ comes back the familiar voice of the star of the show in her ear. She can’t see him yet, but can hear from his breathing that he’s walking quickly down the corridor from his dressing room. She knows that his wardrobe assistant will be running along beside him carrying his jacket, which he never puts on until the very last second.
‘They’re a rowdy bunch tonight, can you hear?’
Elizabeth glances anxiously at the television screens that show her wide shots of the studio audience, up on their feet and dancing to ‘The Macarena’. They’re very pumped. She decides to ignore, as she always does, his reference to Mrs Thatcher. ‘See you on the other side, Ricky.’ She puts a smile into her voice.
‘See you on the other side,’ he replies, as he always does. And then, as he reaches the back of the set, before he leaps into the heat and glare of the spotlight, he addresses all the crew. His voice is deep and close into his microphone. ‘Elizabeth? Guys? Let’s make this a show to remember, eh? Let’s rock and roll!’
‘Fifty seconds!’ Lola announces loudly in the gallery.
‘Are the food props all standing by?’ Elizabeth asks and the clipped vowels of her young Etonian researcher, Zander, return in her ear. ‘Yes, ma’am, they’re under his desk.’
Elizabeth gathers the pages of her yellow script together and tidies them into a compact tome, her very own War and Peace. She glances at her mobile phone. There’s a thumbs-up emoji from Hutch and a picture of a double bed with a question mark. A shiver of pleasure and anticipation prickles all the way down her spine, but she puts her phone away. She finds her foot is tapping incessantly underneath the desk.
‘Twenty seconds,’ says Lola, placing her hand reassuringly on Elizabeth’s arm, but never taking her eyes from her stopwatch.
‘Have a good show, everyone!’ Elizabeth says, smiling down the desk at Robin. She gives him a mock military salute, which he solemnly returns. Everyone in the gallery is on the edge of their seats.
‘Ten seconds,’ says Lola, with a new warning note of urgency.
‘9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…’
‘Roll titles!’ shouts Robin. The central screen, in front of the gallery desk, bursts into life with a cacophony of bright graphics, lurid yellow and blue shapes, which gradually form themselves into a giant head, the silhouette of a man in profile, with longish curly hair and an aquiline nose. The head dissolves into jigsaw pieces which re-assemble themselves into letters and finally words: The Ricky Clough Show.
In the studio, Ricky bounds down the stairs and runs to the front of the audience, as they whoop and cheer in concert with the warm-up who is conducting them from the sidelines. As he draws his hand across his throat they stop immediately as if they’ve been switched off and they sit back down, a bit disappointed and suspicious that the party might already be over.
‘Hello! Good evening and thank you for that warm hand on my entrance. Welcome to my show! Wanna know who’s on my sofa tonight?’ Ricky Clough is wearing his trademark purple suit, Doc Martens and a peacock blue custom-made shirt. His hair has been neatly combed to cover the seam of his transplant, but the curls reach down to his collar. He’s tall and his expanding girth is held in check by a clever combination of belts and expensive tailoring. His face is a light entertainment shade of polished conker. He has that unusual combination of camp and lascivious heterosexuality shared by so many successful performers. He paces restlessly around the set. His fizzing energy is almost electric. He’s an Icarus, Elizabeth thinks, you will burn if you get too close. It’s impossible not to look at him. He smiles brilliantly, revealing startlingly white teeth, as he ad-libs to the audience and cracks a joke at each of his guests’ expense, so that even Elizabeth – who’s seen it all before and knows his every facial tic – feels lost in wonder at his magnetic pull.
She presses the talkback button and says very quietly, ‘Ricky, Paolo’s ready – let’s bring him on to the sofa now.’ Paolo Culone, a young celebrity chef, is to be the first guest.
Ricky can hear Elizabeth’s instructions through an earpiece invisible to the audience and he responds smoothly by turning to the autocue camera that discreetly displays his script. He begins to read the words of his introduction. But as he moves towards his desk, he catches his foot on the step and stumbles, his arms momentarily flailing. The audience titter.
‘Whoa, babe, steady,’ Lola mutters under her breath.
Puzzled, Elizabeth kicks back her chair and goes to stand behind Robin, resting her hands on his shoulder, and they both lean forward, staring intently at their star’s face on the close-up cameras. His eyes are glittering in the studio lights and a sheen of sweat is already moistening his forehead. Nothing unusual in that, they’re used to seeing him in states of overexcitement, pumped by adrenaline, or wine – or worse. But as he arranges his cue cards on top of the desk, Elizabeth notices that his hands are shaking. His mouth is still moving but he’s stopped looking at the nearest camera. Instead, he’s looking down and his voice has dropped to a mumble. Elizabeth finds her heart beating faster. She doesn’t understand this unusual lack of grip from Ricky. Even when very inebriated, he can always keep the show going.
Robin jumps up crying, ‘Camera 5, pull wide! No close-ups. Stay wide!’
Elizabeth walks quickly back to her seat and Lola turns, her face full of panic. Elizabeth leans over the talkback microphone, presses down the button and reads from her script carefully and slowly, ‘Okay, Ricky, say after me… Now, most of us when we fancy a snack, think about a toastie, a steak bake or maybe some fish fingers…’ She turns her eyes to the bank of television screens and watches as Ricky slowly lifts his head and fixes his eyes, now glassy and unfocused, on camera 5. Out of his mouth, mechanically, come the words she recites in his ear…
‘But not my next guest, the man who invented the fish eyeball brioche! Ladies and gentlemen, Paolo Culone!’
‘Cue Paolo!’ cries Robin and the young whizz-kid of nouvelle cuisine comes running down the stairs and on to the set to wild applause, generated furiously by the floor manager. Only the lady with the flask and those sitting in the very front rows have noticed Ricky shaking and fumbling for his words and they are now sitting up very straight, alert to the exciting possibility of being witness to a proper show-business meltdown. Ricky doesn’t move from his desk chair as Paolo bounds on, but with a sort of superhuman effort, shifts in his seat so that he can greet the chef from a sitting position.
‘Ricky,’ Elizabeth continues, low and encouragingly in his ear, ‘the food props that you asked for are under your desk. You remember, we’re going to see if he recognises his own dishes by their smell. It’s a great idea – it was your idea, Ricky! Let’s do it now. They’re under your desk.’
Paolo sits down but is clearly uncomfortable with the surprising lack of a welcoming handshake. Nothing that the researcher backstage told him would happen appears to be taking place and so to fill the empty air-time, he begins to jabber nervously about meeting an X Factor finalist backstage. As he speaks, Ricky slides down in his chair and with a trembling hand, produces one of the dishes hidden underneath and places it shakily on top of the desk.
‘Mate, have some water,’ Paolo suddenly says, reaching for a glass decanter of clear liquid on a low side table. He pours a glass and hands it to him. Elizabeth puts her head in her hands and Lola cries, ‘No! Not the gin!’
But Ricky ignores the offered glass and instead eats with his fingers from the dish and licks them ostentatiously. He says, suddenly loud and clear, ‘Mmm, what do you call this dish again?’
‘Well,’ Paolo sits forward on the sofa excitedly, ‘that’s cockle ketchup and…’ but he stops mid-sentence, his mouth dropping open.
Ricky’s trembling hand, holding the dish, has suddenly dropped to his side and the plate falls to the studio floor with a clatter. His cheeks are bulging, as if with extreme exertion, his face is contorted and turning a dark purple. His shoulders suddenly seem to give way and his whole body sinks, as if loosed from its moorings. Up in the gallery, Elizabeth flies out of her chair as Lola cries, ‘Oh God! What’s the matter with him?’
The back rows of the studio audience are struggling to get into their coats and scarves because Elizabeth, taking no chances, has turned the air-conditioning glacially high in order to keep them awake. But an amused muttering begins to build amongst them – they’re clearly enjoying the extravagantly comic turn. The front rows on the other hand are half out of their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at the now slumped star of the show. The lady with the flask is foremost amongst them, the considerable weight of her experience sitting bored and cold in television studios telling her that none of this seems planned.
Under the heat of the studio lights, Ricky is momentarily motionless and a shimmering sliver of spit glistens its way down his chin. With enormous effort, it seems, he lifts his head and his bloodshot eyes search out his close-up camera. He holds its unforgiving gaze for an instant. But then his body twists and writhes, caught in the pitiless rhythm of its own maniacal dance, until one jerking spasm throws up his head and Elizabeth cries out in horror at his distorted face, his mouth gaping and gasping for air. Paolo leaps from the sofa with a scream, but still some people in the back rows are shrieking with laughter.
Elizabeth turns on her heel to run down the spiral staircase that will take her back to the studio floor. ‘Stop recording!’ she cries over her shoulder to the gallery. ‘And for God’s sake, get the warm-up back on.’
By the time she’s groped her way around the heavy black drapes that enclose the set and the audience, the warm-up is on the studio floor and calmly announcing that the show has been suspended. People are reluctantly gathering their things. On set, Ricky has slithered to the floor beside the desk. The floor manager is trying ineffectually to shield him with her own body from the openly gaping stares of the front rows. Paolo Culone is being ushered politely off the set by Zander, the researcher, whose face creases with alarm as he passes Elizabeth running in.
‘Ricky?’ Elizabeth bends low over her presenter’s head and gently touches his shoulder. ‘Ricky – can you hear me?’ Her touch seems to topple him, he rolls on to his back and she can’t help herself, she shrinks back in horror. The whites of his eyes have yellowed and a sudden spasm forces his head back, but his hand seems to find her wrist and his grip is like a vice.
‘Phone 999. Where’s the St John Ambulance attendant?’ Elizabeth shouts. She tries to find Ricky’s pulse. The flesh around his wristwatch is pudgy and his shirtsleeve is stuck to his skin with sweat. She sees Lola running into the studio and tries to restrain her but Lola sinks to her knees beside Ricky. She bends low to stroke his soaking forehead and whispers in his ear, ‘It’s okay, babe. Someone’s coming. Hold on. It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be okay.’
Elizabeth straightens up and says, ‘Get the audience out the back way. Now! Quickly! Keep the scene dock clear for the ambulance.’
She notices the cameramen are still standing by their cameras, watching curiously. They’ve seen people die in television studios before – they worked on Celebrity Wrestling – but this is definitely more sensational. Phil on camera 5, when he catches her eye, holds out his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, Who’d have thought…? She turns back in despair to Ricky and sees that Lola is kneeling and rocking beside him, almost in prayer. He is lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed, as if completely spent.
Then there are uniforms, men in hi-vis jackets saying, ‘Clear a space please, coming through’, and a stretcher. Ricky is laid out flat on the floor, behind the desk hidden from view, but he’s stiff and unresponsive, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. A machine is placed on his chest.
Elizabeth steps aside and takes a deep breath. She wants to be calm and capable, but she can barely think straight and her heart is pounding. She steels herself and pulls out her mobile to phone her boss: the Controller, All Channels.
‘Elizabeth? Um. Hi. Everything okay?’ Matthew sounds sleepy, slurred, like he’s just surfacing.
‘Ricky’s collapsed in the studio. The ambulance is here. They’re working on him now.’ Her voice is unnaturally high, but steady.
‘Jesus Christ! Working on him? What, like resuscitation?’ Matthew is suddenly alert. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without recognising a crisis when he’s just been told that there is one.
‘Yes. He just keeled over at the desk.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘No. Well. Definitely no more than usual.’ The paramedics are standing up. Ricky is lying inert on the floor. She whispers into the phone, ‘Um, I think he’s – dead.’
‘Dead? Oh God! Poor Ricky. The poor old bugger. You know, I feared it might come to this… Christ – what did the audience see? We need to manage this. Call the press office. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘Um, we should ring Lorna. His wife? Do you want to ring her…?’ There’s no response on the end of the phone. ‘Or shall I?’
Matthew hesitates. ‘Can you do it, Elizabeth? As you were there, you know. In case she wants any details. You’ve worked with Ricky for so long, she knows you two were close. And you were there, at the house the other week, at Ricky’s party. I think it might be better coming from – you know – a woman.’ He pauses and Elizabeth can’t help thinking that Matthew was at that party too – he was the one who gave Ricky his big break in the first place – he’s known them for years. But she says nothing and so Matthew adds with some relief, ‘Right, I’m leaving now. Elizabeth?’
‘Yes?’
‘You okay?’
Elizabeth presses her cheek against her phone. ‘Yes,’ she says finally, ‘I’m alright.’
The ambulance crew lifts the body on to the stretcher. ‘We’ll take him to St Thomas’s, love,’ one of them says to Elizabeth. ‘It’s Ricky Clough, right?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Does someone need to travel with him?’
‘No, not necessary.’ The ambulance man looks at Elizabeth carefully to see if she has understood and she nods. ‘I’ll phone his wife and tell her that’s where he is.’
Once the ambulance has gone, the cameramen pack up their equipment in respectful silence. The last few members of the audience are filing out of the side doors, whispering in hushed voices. They’re unsure what they’ve just witnessed, but it was definitely more eventful than the last Ricky Clough show they saw. Lola is sitting in the front row, crying into some paper napkins from the canteen. The rest of the crew have also gathered on the studio floor and are standing about looking stunned. The researcher, Zander, tells Elizabeth that Paolo Culone is now in the Green Room, happily drunk on the show’s warm white wine and has the X Factor finalist sitting on his lap.
‘He thinks it’s all a planned joke.’ Zander’s solemn grey eyes turn towards her, searching for guidance. He’s in his late twenties, tall and very lean, with broad bony shoulders; good-looking in that well-bred way with soft curly hair – neatly and expensively cut – and a warm, charming smile. His impeccable Etonian manners make him an excellent booker of celebrity guests: he’s unfailingly polite but incredibly thick-skinned, and simply never takes no for an answer, without ever seeming to offend.
‘Tell them all to go home,’ Elizabeth instructs him. ‘And tell them Ricky’s gone to hospital. Don’t tell them anything else.’
She moves to a dark quiet space at the back of the set and spools through her contacts to find Ricky’s home number. She peers round the drapes that separate her from the set and sees that Lola is still sitting in the audience, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Elizabeth has met Ricky’s wife Lorna a number of times over the last six years, although she no longer comes to any of his shows. Elizabeth presumes Ricky put an end to her visits once he grew close to Lola. She was a former dancer and they met on the set of a music show, back in the days when he was the UK’s most popular breakfast DJ. They’ve been married for eighteen years and Elizabeth reckons Ricky managed to stay faithful for at least four of them. Lorna Clough picks up immediately and Elizabeth gives her the news slowly and carefully: Ricky collapsed, he seemed to have trouble breathing, there was nothing anyone could do… Her voice cracks and breaks in the end. Lorna, however, is composed. She takes a short, sharp intake of breath, but then says quietly that she will go straight to the hospital. Once Elizabeth has established Lorna can get a friend to drive her there, she tells her that someone from the television network will meet her when she arrives.
Elizabeth takes a moment to compose herself before hurrying to find her team in the Green Room – a saloon furnished with plump sofas and a bar that groans with wine bottles and buckets of beer. The Green Room is a sort of celebrity farmyard pen, there to hold the guests before a show and keep them well watered. She joins the rest of her production team, most of whom are red-eyed and speechless, and she hugs each of them in turn. She spots two of Ricky’s old schoolfriends in the corner, including his sometime manager and mentor, Deniz Pegasus. Deniz left school in East Ham and became a brickie during the day and a roadie for his DJ mate Ricky in the evenings, but he soon found a gap in the building market by supplying low-cost ‘affordable’ housing estates for council tenants. It proved to be more than very affordable for him, and he quickly made a fortune from careless councillors whose political ambitions he fed and watered in various clubs around town and who afterwards couldn’t be bothered to check his books. Recently, Deniz has started coming to all of Ricky’s shows and afterwards offering Elizabeth his opinion, which she finds annoying.
Deniz is holding two Pomeranians in his meaty arms, staring at her. She beckons to Zander. ‘What are we going to do about Hiss and Boo?’
Zander turns and looks puzzled at the two leather-jacketed men.
‘Ricky’s dogs,’ Elizabeth says patiently. ‘The ones with the four legs.’
‘Oh!’ Zander says in relief. ‘Shall I ask them if they can take the dogs home with them?’
Elizabeth nods. Deniz Pegasus steps forward as if to speak to her, but she firmly turns her back on him to face the network’s Head of Press, Kevin, who is talking into his mobile with his hand over his mouth. He tells her the police have arrived and want to talk to her. They’ve been put in Ricky’s dressing room. Elizabeth wonders whether Kevin has been brazen enough to do a quick clean-up before the police went in – she wouldn’t put it past their wily head of press. Then Matthew, the Controller, bursts into the Green Room, ready to do some controlling. Elizabeth, truly glad to see him, moves quickly towards him and is pleased to see his arms opening to receive her. He hugs her and for a brief moment, Elizabeth longs to rest her head on his chest and weep but instead, she straightens and stiffens.
‘Elizabeth! The police are here! They want to see the most senior person here. That’s obviously me. But I think you should come too, you know, to fill in some of the detail.’
‘Yes, Kevin just told me, I was about to go and see them.’ She’s aware that she’s sounding overbrisk, even though she’s on the verge of shaking uncontrollably.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’ Matthew’s voice is now also curt in response to hers and he turns away.
‘Do you think you should maybe say something to the team? They’re all quite upset.’ Elizabeth gestures to the researchers, who are now mostly sitting silently on the floor, staring at them. Robin is posing palely against the wall, an embroidered handkerchief in his hand. Lola is curled up on the sofa, clutching a glass. Matthew immediately squares his shoulders and begins:
‘People, listen up! I realise tonight has been traumatic for everyone involved in the show. Ricky was a great guy. I’ve known him for years.’ He pauses for effect, which fortunately gives him just enough time to remember that this speech isn’t really about him. ‘Many of you will know how much Ricky cared about the show and how hard he worked.’ A few of the researchers shuffle their feet and Matthew decides to err on the side of honesty. ‘And of course, he had his demons – but we loved him for it, right?’ A few miserable heads nod. ‘Needless to say, we have to keep this absolutely confidential at the moment while Kev sorts it.’ Elizabeth looks across at Kevin, Head of Press, who is feverishly texting, and wonders if sorting it means that he can somehow miraculously bring Ricky Clough back to life. ‘So please stay off Twitter for now, nothing on Facebook, don’t talk to ANYONE about this yet. Okay?’ Matthew looks to Elizabeth for approval and she raises an eyebrow questioningly. ‘Oh,’ continues the boss graciously, ‘and don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. Take the day off.’
‘We always have the day off after recording the show,’ says one fearless researcher.
‘Yes, exactly,’ says Matthew. Elizabeth adds gently, ‘I’ll call you all in the morning, when we know more.’ She hugs Robin, blows a kiss to the rest of the team, her eyes full of tears, and then follows her boss out of the room.
Chapter Two (#ulink_b159f4d7-10fa-5026-9aa5-d0d917bc77e6)
The police officers, a man and a woman, are sitting uneasily on the leopard-print cushions in Ricky Clough’s dressing room. His day clothes, a crumpled sports shirt and some jeans, are hanging on a hook and the desk is piled high with weekly magazines, scripts, his laptop, as well as empty bottles of white wine. Two scented candles still burn by the mirror and the air in the small room is thick with the smell of hairspray, aftershave (Colonia, Acqua di Parma) and something else, something sticky and fetid. If Kevin managed a clean-up sweep, Elizabeth thinks grimly, it was fleeting.
As they walk in, Matthew immediately holds out his hand to the policeman, who is looking hot and bulky in a padded vinyl bomber jacket, but he simply looks anxiously across at his female colleague. Matthew continues to address the policeman. ‘Hello. I’m Matthew Grayling, Controller, All Channels, here at the network. Sorry about this, we can go upstairs to my office, if you’d prefer?’
‘No, this is fine.’ The policewoman speaks. She stands up. She is really quite tall. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Watson and this is Detective Sergeant Rafik.’ She turns her back on the Controller and instead looks directly at Elizabeth. ‘And you’re Elizabeth Place? The producer of the show?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. We’re going to need to talk to you again tomorrow morning when we have the results from the hospital. But if you wouldn’t mind just answering a few questions now?’ DI Watson has an estuary accent, the missing t’s giving her voice an abrasiveness which Elizabeth suspects works rather well in her line of work. Although she’s technically asking a question, Elizabeth understands there’s only one possible answer.
‘Of course not.’
She sinks on to a velvet stool and remembers that she’d hidden one of the still-full wine bottles under the couch. She can’t help glancing down and sees that it’s still there, unopened. DI Watson’s eyes follow Elizabeth’s.
‘So I’m afraid that the emergency services were unable to save Richard Clough when he collapsed on the floor of studio 4 at 20.15 this evening. I believe you’re aware of this?’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth says faintly.
‘And how had Mr Clough appeared to you earlier this evening?’
‘Well, I’d say, better than normal. Ready to have a good show.’
‘And what was normal, for Mr Clough?’ The DI glances at the empty wine bottles.
‘Yes, erm, well, on studio days, he liked a drink, you know. Or two. Um. Well, on other days, as well, if I’m honest.’
‘And so he’d been drinking this evening?’
‘Well actually, I’m not sure how much he had… Until he started shaking and slurring his words, I thought he was sober. But then he just keeled over.’
‘And other than wine, did you notice Mr Clough take anything else this evening?’
Elizabeth looks across at Matthew, who is staring back at her with an unreadable expression. She chooses her words carefully. ‘Well, um, he never eats before the show. He likes to go out for dinner afterwards. I mean, he’s got quite an – appetite. So he picks at stuff before the show – Percy Pigs mainly, Yellow Bellies, Smarties…’
Elizabeth glances around the room. She can’t see any of the usual sweet-shop detritus, just one bowl of fruit slowly mouldering under its cellophane wrapping. ‘We did have some food props on the show. We were going to do a tasting because we had the celebrity chef, Paolo Culone, on the show.’
‘Never heard of him,’ DI Watson says flatly.
Elizabeth looks at her helplessly. ‘I’m not sure if Ricky actually ate any of it. I mean, he made out like he did, for the show, but…’ DI Watson looks at her sceptically.
The Controller has had enough of not being included. He adopts a pose and an expression Elizabeth knows only too well and speaks as if addressing a small child instead of a senior officer of the law. ‘Detective Inspector – Watson, is it? As I’m sure you know, Ricky Clough was a man in his late forties, erm, early fifties, who was quite a bit overweight and drank too much for his own good. I’ve known him for years. He was also under a lot of stress, you know, ratings and so on. I think you’ll find that’s a classic coronary case, right there.’
Elizabeth understands that Matthew wants nothing more than for the network to escape any further interrogation. He doesn’t want Ricky’s appetite for the high life exposed and examined. He wants the police off the premises and the network’s reputation unsullied.
The policewoman looks at him without saying anything. The silence hangs heavily in the room and Elizabeth begins to feel hot and itchy. The sergeant is looking miserably at his boots. ‘You may be jumping to conclusions, sir.’ The detective inspector is icily sarcastic. ‘It would be foolish for us to do so. And as yet…’ she nods briefly at her colleague, who struggles thankfully to his feet. ‘And as yet, the cause of death is not established.’ She looks stern as she turns at the door. ‘So we’ll see you both tomorrow morning. We’ll come to your offices first thing.’
Elizabeth glances anxiously at her boss. Matthew clearly doesn’t like the idea of the police arriving in full view of everyone at the TV studios. He says very hastily, ‘We’ll come to the police station.’
DI Watson looks at him as if considering this, but then shrugs. ‘Alright, if you prefer. Paddington Green, 10 a.m. Don’t expect any tea. It goes without saying that this is an ongoing investigation so please say nothing in the meantime. Our press people are liaising with yours. This room is now being sealed for evidence. Goodnight.’ And with that, DI Watson strides out of the room, ushering Elizabeth and the Controller ahead of her, and slams the door behind her with an almighty bang.
Back in the Green Room, most of the production team have left for a spontaneous wake at the King’s Head, except for Lola, who’s being comforted on the sofa by Robin. His eyes are also red-rimmed but, as Elizabeth comes in, glitteringly alert to the prospect of further drama. Kevin, the Head of Press, is still in the corner, talking into his mobile. Matthew moves to the drinks table, now laden with empty wine bottles, and shakes a few to see what dregs are left. ‘Christ, is there no whisky here?’
‘It’s a banned substance.’ Elizabeth reddens at the sudden realisation that the principal reason it’s banned is now lying in a hospital morgue.
‘Banned? Who banned it?’ He turns on her accusingly.
‘You did.’
Various measures, not many of them successful, have been taken to curb Ricky’s excesses. A complete ban on alcohol was deemed unworkable – providing it for the guests before the show produced the sort of loose-tongued talk that gives a chat show its headlines – so they’d tried instead to empty Ricky’s dressing room of all bottles, but he’d simply taken to stealing them from the Green Room. In the end Matthew decided a firm line needed to be drawn – and he had drawn it at Scotch.
Elizabeth realises that their intern, Sam, is sitting miserably on the sofa by herself. She’s always the last to leave because although she isn’t awarded a London Living Wage, she is awarded the responsibility of locking up the Green Room at the end of the night.
‘Sam,’ Elizabeth says pleadingly and the intern jumps up, grateful that someone has finally spoken to her. ‘Please could you find some whisky… somehow… somewhere?’ Sam nods quickly and runs out of the room. Elizabeth puts her arm around Lola while Matthew sits on the edge of a chair, uncertain how to interject himself into the emotionally charged scene. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without previously keeping all his presenters alive and kicking.
Lola begins to sob on Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘I mean, Ricky seemed so fine this afternoon! Like really normal, you know? He’s not been drinking or you know, doing – anything else.’ Her mascara begins to run in deep black rivulets down her cheeks. Elizabeth has never seen her friend so unkempt. She’s always impressed that Lola can turn up for any crisis with her face done, her hair plaited or piled, and in clothes so tight and heels so high that Elizabeth is surprised she can move or breathe. Elizabeth, in contrast, keeps her hair cut short so that she can simply dry it by running her fingers through it each morning and wears a combination of short skirts and pumps that allow for running, since she always seems to be going at twice the speed of everyone else. (‘We should put a battery pack on you,’ Hutch once said as she came hurtling down the street, bumping into passers-by and tripping into his arms. ‘I could plug into you and charge my mobile phone at the same time.’)
‘Ricky was really together and just – well, you know – not that tipsy, really.’ Lola gulps.
Elizabeth nods. The dress run had gone well in that Ricky hadn’t had a tantrum. He’d managed to keep the camera crew on side with a couple of well-aimed quips against his guests, especially the celebrity chef Paolo Culone, whose very fashionable and pretentious Soho restaurant had just opened. It was Ricky who’d come up with the idea of bringing some of Paolo’s food on to the show for a tasting and, he promised, a pasting. ‘Piquant cockle ketchup?’ he’d sneered in the rehearsal. ‘Little nuggets of calf’s tail? Blimey! Who wants to eat this stuff? What’s wrong with a tidy pie from Greggs?’ And the crew had laughed and egged him on, surprised at the host’s new-found enthusiasm for his show. Many of them had been at the receiving end of Ricky Clough’s bad humour over the last few weeks, when he’d found everything wrong and everyone else to blame. This was a welcome change.
Matthew begins to pace around the Green Room. He’s small and completely bald but muscular and full of a kind of attractive adrenaline. Two weeks ago he was the victim of a mugging and has since developed a slight limp. He’s in his mid-fifties and every morning a personal trainer comes to his Hampstead Heath mansion with a gym bag full of rubber resistance bands. As a result, Matthew has gained some nicely bulging triceps, a flat(ish) stomach and, Lola claims, a new-found interest in S&M (she’d heard it from his secretary, who found a bag of sex toys stashed in the secret, locked, bottom drawer of his desk – a drawer to which she’d taken the precaution of cutting a duplicate key). Matthew hasn’t got where he’s got to without flexing a few muscles and he likes people to notice them.
‘Christ, we’ll have to put out a repeat this week instead of the show,’ he says despairingly, but then his eyes brighten. ‘Maybe a compilation? The Best of Ricky Clough? Only the early shows, obviously. Kev – would we have enough time to publicise it? Get everyone to watch it while they’re still upset? We could be in for bumper ratings!’ The two men huddle together around Kev’s vibrating mobile.
‘Lola, what time did Ricky actually arrive at the studio this afternoon?’ Elizabeth tries to think back over the day’s routine. She’d been in the production office till the early afternoon, trying to sort out next week’s show. She’d only joined for the dress run when Ricky was ready to rehearse his monologue at the top of the show.
Lola looks at her miserably. ‘I didn’t like to call him.’ She looks defensive. ‘You know, it’s not MY job to chivvy up the presenter…’ Her eyes well up again and Elizabeth strokes her back.
‘Of course it’s not. It’s just that you do it so well. Normally.’
‘But he was only an hour late. And you know, sometimes it’s been worse than that. And he was in such a good mood when he arrived.’
It’s true that Ricky had seemed much more his old self and Elizabeth had been hopeful the show might improve. It was very unlike the last couple of weeks, when he’d been bored and bullying. She’d had to have words with him after she found a camera assistant in tears. Yesterday, he’d missed the production meeting because he’d failed to return from lunch. Elizabeth was getting fed up with it and had begun to think about leaving the show and leaving Ricky Clough.
As if reading her thoughts, Lola turns to Elizabeth, her face streaky with grief. ‘I thought he was getting better. You know…’
‘Yes, I did too.’ Elizabeth pauses, but the whisky has done its job. ‘Lola, hon, when did you last…um…you know, with Ricky?’
Lola screws her soaking napkins into a tight ball. ‘Not in the last few weeks. He hasn’t wanted to. He didn’t seem to want company – or at least, not my company. To be honest, I’d wondered if there was someone else.’
‘Oh, Lola. You didn’t tell me! So no more late-night visits after the show?’
‘Not for a few weeks, no.’ Lola looks up, sharply. ‘You won’t tell Matthew, will you?’
‘If you haven’t seen Ricky – I mean, alone – for a while, then I don’t see how it could be relevant,’ she says slowly, glancing over at her boss. ‘But Lola, I’m not sure it’s as secret as you think it is…’
‘Has anyone from the team said anything to you?’
Elizabeth considers this for a moment. When she’d first gone to discuss her presenter’s bad behaviour on the show with Matthew, he’d asked if Ricky had ‘inappropriately’ propositioned anyone on the team. Elizabeth had said, truthfully, that no one had complained and Matthew seemed very relieved. But she’s wondered a lot since about that word ‘inappropriate’. Was it inappropriate that Lola should phone Ricky late at night, when she ‘unexpectedly’ found herself close to his Kensington house? Or inappropriate that she should accept his offer of a nightcap – and then a bacon butty? Or inappropriate that she should then go back for more at Ricky’s urging? Inappropriate maybe, but definitely consensual. Over the years, Ricky had entertained a number of dalliances – Lola was merely the latest. They’d all lived with it, condoned it, covered for him, even. And Lola is her best friend. No, Elizabeth isn’t about to tell tales about this affair.
‘No, no one from the team.’ (Elizabeth decides that Matthew doesn’t really qualify for this distinction.) ‘Why don’t you go home, Lo? Nothing’s going to happen here. Let’s speak in the morning. I’ve got to see the police again at 10. I’ll call you after that.’
‘Promise?’
‘Of course.’ Elizabeth hugs her. ‘By the way, hon – do you know who Ricky had lunch with yesterday, when he missed our planning meeting?’
Lola bends down to pick up her vintage peep-toes, which she’d dramatically discarded in the heat of the crisis. ‘Oh yes. Didn’t you know? He had lunch with the boss.’
Elizabeth turns to her in surprise. ‘With Matthew?’
Lola nods.
‘Oh.’ She glances over at the whispering two men in the corner of the room. ‘Funny. Matthew didn’t mention it.’
Lola looks at Elizabeth ironically and she smiles ruefully back at her. ‘Yeah, you’re right, hon. Of course, knowledge is power.’ She kisses Lola on the cheek.
‘Will you be okay yourself? I mean, going home to an empty flat?’ Lola looks at Elizabeth meaningfully.
Elizabeth feels her sides constrict and her heart sink as she thinks of the deathly silence waiting for her: the unlit rooms, the unoccupied double bed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, turning away.
‘Well, if you’re sure. Speak tomorrow. Call me.’ Lola squeezes her hand and leaves.
Elizabeth makes a half-hearted attempt to stash the empty bottles into an already overflowing recycling bin. She realises her silk shirt is clammy and clinging uncomfortably to her flesh. There are some unidentifiable stains on the front of it. She leans against the sofa and runs the shaking fingers of one hand through her fringe – her forehead is damp and strands of dark hair fall wetly on to her cheeks. The waistband of her skirt suddenly feels tight and restrictive; she feels she might have trouble breathing. She catches Matthew looking across at her, his face creased with concern. Kevin leaves the room with a brief nod in her direction.
Matthew puts down his whisky glass and moves towards her. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’
Elizabeth is thirty-five but it’s somehow become accepted between them that he will occasionally confuse her, his most senior female producer, with his teenage daughter Millie. It’s a subtle but useful reference to the power play between them and Elizabeth is perfectly aware why he does it. And equally, she knows that occasionally she finds it comforting to treat Matthew like a dad. For too many long years now, she hasn’t had a dad – and the older she gets, the more she realises what a void this is in her life. She’s genuinely fond of her boss; she indulges all his foibles (as you would a dad) and allows him to tell his celebrity anecdotes uninterrupted, even though she’s heard them a hundred times before. It’s a purely professional partnership but it works well and she’s grown to feel genuinely fond of him, especially given his recent trauma. But she’s no longer sure she needs Matthew – or any boss, in fact. She’s begun to harbour dreams of setting up a production company of her own. It’s high time, she thinks, to call the shots herself.
‘Is someone going to the hospital to meet Lorna?’
‘Yes, Kev’s organising it. She’ll need help with the press – word is creeping out.’
‘I hear you had lunch with Ricky yesterday.’ She speaks more sharply than intended.
Matthew raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Yes, I think it is. Especially as he missed our programme planning meeting because of it.’
‘Did he?’ Her boss moves to open the door in an elaborate display of chivalry and gestures for her to lead the way out. ‘Well, yes, I had lunch with Ricky. At The Ivy actually. I suspect there may be paparazzi shots, which are bound to get used once the papers hear about this. Kevin’s checking it out now.’ Matthew seems quite pleased at the prospect of some intrusive evidence of his celebrity lunch.
Elizabeth hesitates at the open door. ‘Will you be telling the police?’
‘Well, yes. If it comes up.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Actually, as lunches with Ricky Clough go, this wasn’t so bad. He seemed, well, reconciled to the inevitable.’
‘The inevitable? Did you tell him we’re making a new show without him?’ Elizabeth stops in surprise.
‘Yes, I did. Although actually I think he knew anyway. He just wanted confirmation. But yes, Ricky took it remarkably well. He asked if the new show was with Hutch, and I said it was. He had quite a few very nasty things to say about Hutch and what he thought were his fatal flaws. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’ Matthew gestures that they should continue walking and Elizabeth, whose face is aflame at the mention of Hutch’s name, avoids looking at him as he continues. ‘But you know, Ricky seemed more relaxed about his future than I’ve seen him for a while. There was none of that recent aggression. He had a few ideas for new shows himself – they were all terrible, of course – but I got the impression his heart wasn’t in it. I think maybe he was beginning to think about other things he wanted to do in life.’
Elizabeth doubts this. She can’t imagine Ricky enjoying a life out of the spotlight. And she isn’t entirely sure they can judge him, notorious as he was for his volatile mood swings, by just one day’s good behaviour. But of course it’s irrelevant now. Pointless. Poor Ricky. She suddenly finds her eyes welling. ‘Well… That’s a real shame, given…’ A tear creeps out of the corner of her eye and she rubs it away, fiercely.
Matthew grabs her hand. ‘I know, I know. It’s terrible, Elizabeth. I’m going to miss him too. He was brilliant in his heyday. Unbeatable. But he was living on the edge – you know he was. His appetites were too large. He was caning it, night after night. He’s not a child, he knew what he was doing. It’s not your fault. It’s not our fault.’
‘But he was a child in so many ways… We indulged him just like we would a child! And it feels like my fault. I was supposed to be in charge this evening. Why didn’t I spot it? Why didn’t I see that he was so ill?’ A shuddering sob escapes.
‘Elizabeth, listen. In this business, we’re all control freaks. But there are some things we simply can’t control. No producer – not even one as good as you – can stop nature taking its course.’ He smiles at her. She knows that she will tuck away his rare compliment for a future rainy, otherwise unrewarding day, but for now she gratefully accepts the neatly pressed hanky he hands her.
‘Have you got a car to take you home?’ he asks, still smiling. ‘Take mine. I might walk for a bit.’
‘Are you sure?’
The Controller is very sure. Elizabeth’s phone call had pulled him away from a meeting in a discreet hotel room where the irresistibly long-legged hostess of his lunchtime consumer show is waiting to consume him. She’s blonde and favours the sort of wrap dresses that show just about enough of a luscious cleavage (although some viewers have written in to complain that her breasts are putting them off their sandwiches). He figures that he’ll get more comfort there than he will from going home to Hampstead and his wife, the history don, who despairs of absolutely everything to do with his job – other than its considerable income.
Tears are now falling freely down Elizabeth’s cheeks and she allows herself to be ushered into Matthew’s Mercedes with its deep leather seats and the heady smell of aftershave. Winston, Matthew’s driver, tilts his mirror to look at her in the back seat and then silently hands her a box of tissues. As the car pulls away from the kerb, she sees Deniz Pegasus, Ricky’s friend and manager, lurking in the shadows of the building. He steps out and moves towards the car but without saying anything, Winston gently presses down on the accelerator and they glide smoothly past him. Elizabeth turns and looks out of the back window to see Deniz standing in the street, his legs apart, his arms outstretched, watching her go. ‘Thank you,’ she says to Winston. He nods at her in the rear-view mirror. She pulls the hood of her parka low down over her face, sinks back into the seat and Winston turns up some soft jazz. The car slides like a snake, stealthy and smooth, through the London night.
Chapter Three (#ulink_183b6805-d308-5a67-9a76-f6d3bc8815f3)
Elizabeth woke alone in her flat the following morning, having had no more than a couple of hours’ sleep and feeling parched and nauseous. The day was already bright and spring-like. The cherry blossom in the street was showering dusty blooms, leaving a pale pink underlay on the pavement. She reached for her mobile to check her messages. The blank screen was a stark reminder of how changed things already were and brought with it a fresh wave of grief. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken to a morning with no texts. Especially none from Ricky. He’d spend his nights sending her random ideas for the shows, feverish thoughts – and the occasional ridiculous demand. There had been middle-of-the-night phone calls as well, always in theory about some urgent piece of show business, but quite often giving way to monotone, paranoid monologues, where he lectured her on the failings of her production team.
There was no text from Hutch, either. Over the last few months, he’d sometimes send her funny, sexy, late-night messages – usually comments on the poems she was making him read (‘I’ve got that old letch John Donne in bed with me tonight. Unruly son. He’ll do/ But he’s not you.’) Elizabeth didn’t always respond to these suggestive texts; she was uncomfortably aware that they were sometimes sent when he was hiding in the bathroom or lurking in the shadows of his back garden. But there was nothing today. It was possible that he still hadn’t seen any of the gossip circulating on social media, and she hadn’t called or texted to tell him the news last night. She’d felt too drained somehow, too tired, too sick; she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Over the last few weeks – since Ricky’s party – she’d felt that in every conversation with Hutch she was dancing on eggshells.
She pulled on a jumper he’d left in her room the night before last, when he’d told her that he loved her and she’d allowed herself to believe the world was still rich with possibilities. She wandered barelegged into the tiny kitchen, opened the fridge door and drank milk straight from the bottle. Then she leaned against the long sash window, gazing down at the street, where a road sweeper was wheeling his barrow of blossoms while jabbering away on his mobile in Polish. The jumper still smelled of Hutch and she hugged it round her, closer. Ricky dead! How was that possible? The man who had seemed so much larger than life!
Elizabeth knew something about loss. She knew that things can be snatched away when you’re least expecting it, perhaps when you’re still not grown up, not fully the person you’re going to be. That you might get a phone call in the wrong place or at the wrong time of day and that moment will not only change your life, it will change your entire view of life. Elizabeth was seventeen when her dad died out of the blue. She was at school and she had to go and see the headmistress, who sat on the wrong side of the desk and looked very sad. She handed her the phone and Elizabeth could hardly recognise the voice of her mother, cracked and hoarse, the terrible words strangled in her throat. The school organised a taxi to take her home and Elizabeth knew even then, in the back of the cab, that she’d just learned a lesson many people escape ever having to learn: that the world can be very fragile and your grip on it uncertain.
Elizabeth made some tea and forced herself to eat some dry toast. She was always astonished to find her kitchen empty of anything resembling butter or jam. She knew these things had to be purchased with forethought from a supermarket – she just never seemed to have the forethought. Jamie, when he’d lived with her, had been good at keeping up the supplies, religiously filling out the Tesco order online, taking care to seek out all the organic options, replacing Elizabeth’s Jammie Dodgers with nourishing seeds and nuts. At times like these, Elizabeth hated living alone. She didn’t want to be by herself, this morning of all mornings. She missed the lie-ins, the cuddles, the cups of tea in bed, the cleaning of teeth side by side, spitting in unison into the basin. She missed Jamie.
Jamie! The day that should’ve been her happiest – her wedding day – was a year ago, almost to the day. Another terrible May day.
When Elizabeth told her mum the date of her wedding six weeks beforehand, the corners of Maureen’s mouth had drooped and she’d murmured, ‘Marry in May and rue the day.’ Elizabeth had been furious. But later she had to acknowledge that her mum, through some spooky umbilical instinct, seemed to know something then that Elizabeth barely knew herself.
The whole wedding had been a whirlwind, although she and Jamie had met in their first week at uni and had shared a flat for the last ten years. Elizabeth had assumed they’d just continue to live together and then – quite soon, she hoped – have a baby. Jamie had often described marriage to her as an outmoded, patriarchal, state-imposed institution and as a full-time feminist, Elizabeth felt that she ought not to feel excited about the idea of a day when everyone would treat her like a fairy-tale princess. (Although she and Lola did quite often find themselves poring over wedding dresses in Hello!, and she had really quite well-developed ideas about what she would wear, in the very unlikely event that the occasion might arise.)
So the proposal, when it came, caught her completely off balance. She’d been up to her eyes producing the latest series of Saturday Bonkers and was out of the door early in the morning and always home late. She and Jamie were hardly ever in the flat at the same time. He’d grown exasperated with her job, her hours, the Ricky Clough antics. He worked for a charity which educated women in Ethiopia about the spread of HIV and he quite often travelled abroad. He’d shown Elizabeth photos of the prostitutes lining the road to Djibouti, a long ribbon of tarmac known as HIV Drive, and she’d often wondered what those women in their brightly coloured kemis and embroidered shawls thought of her blond, earnest boyfriend, in his button-down denim shirt, squatting in the dust talking to them about condoms.
In an attempt to spend more time together, Elizabeth had suggested that they go to her nephew’s birthday party and stay the weekend in Manchester with her sister, Vic. Elizabeth adored her two small nephews and Vic in turn was fond of Jamie. Elizabeth had thought a family party might be healing, but in the end she and Jamie argued all the way up the M6 about whether or not they should sell the flat and buy a small house (Elizabeth was keen – she was secretly hoping they might soon have a need for a second bedroom – but Jamie dampened her hopes by arguing it was too acquisitive and bourgeois) and the tiff cast a cloud over the family reunion. Jamie was mostly sullen and distracted from the moment they arrived, and Elizabeth found herself overcompensating by being exceptionally lively and drinking too much. But during the birthday party on Saturday – just as she was acting out an elaborate scene from Toy Story with her nephews – Jamie suddenly seized her round the waist and murmured into her hair, ‘Hey Lizzie, you’re good at this. Let’s get married and have one of our own.’
Elizabeth looked up, puzzled by his change of mood, and in her best Buzz Lightyear voice said, ‘Excuse me, you are delaying my rendezvous with star command.’ But Jamie was looking at her very seriously. It wasn’t a joke. Vic paused in her pouring of lemonade and looked over at them anxiously.
‘Well?’ Jamie said more loudly.
Her nephew, Billy, who was Woody to her Buzz, took off his sheriff’s hat and threw it across the room, frustrated that the game had stopped. He looked up at Elizabeth with a chocolate-smeared mouth, eyes round and impatient. Jamie’s face paled. He looked suddenly young, very like the hopeful blue-eyed boy she’d met on a freezing anti-war march in her first term at York, when he’d offered her some soup from his flask and some socialist leaflets from his rucksack.
But marriage? Did she want to be married? To wear a ring that signalled I belong to someone else? And they’d been so distant with each other recently! She glanced over at her sister, whose mouth formed a small questioning O. Billy tugged at her skirt and she looked down at his sweet face. But oh yes, oh God, she so wanted that! She did want one of their own. She took Jamie’s hand. The hand she knew so well, every contour and lifeline, almost better than her own. How could she not accept that hand? Things would be better if they were husband and wife. She’d go home more. He’d be more communicative. They’d have a baby. Everything that felt wrong now would feel right once they were married.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Yes. Yes. YES.’
Elizabeth drained her mug of tea and wandered over to the mirror that hung over the fireplace. Her face was unnaturally pale, the fine dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose more pronounced than usual, her lips colourless, her short brown hair standing on end where she’d run her fingers through it, again and again. Hollow eyes were framed by dark circles and looked back at her accusingly: Why didn’t you know? You were meant to be in control. Why didn’t you spot how ill Ricky was? Was it just like it was with Jamie? You simply didn’t notice what was wrong?
Her phone rang and she hesitated, thinking it would be Hutch. It was her mum. Elizabeth imagined her in her Essex kitchen, pottering about in the inappropriate silk robe Elizabeth had bought her when on a shoot in Rome, more suited to a bordello than a bungalow in Frinton-on-Sea. It sat uneasily on her, as did a number of other things Elizabeth had bought on her travels: the sofa throw that she’d brought back from Colombia, or the Costa Rican mugs, or the Galapagos tortoise paperweight. None of it suited the home of a woman who had spent most of Elizabeth’s childhood holidays on the Costa del Sol searching high and low for Branston Pickle and Cheddar cheese. But that’s what parenting was like, Elizabeth imagined: you cherished unsuitable gifts just because your children had thought about you for the briefest of moments while shopping in a South American street market.
And you stood by them no matter what they’d done.
Thoughts of home were comforting and Elizabeth wished she was with her mum now, being made cups of strong sweet tea. Tea had got them through so much over the years.
‘Hello, dear. How are you? I wasn’t sure if you’d be up… Elizabeth, are you still not sleeping properly?’
‘Well…’ Elizabeth realised her mum wouldn’t have seen the news swirling on the internet. She kept the old android phone her daughters had bought her in a knitted sock in her bedroom drawer ‘for emergencies’.
‘Mum, Ricky Clough’s dead! He died last night.’
‘Oh no! Elizabeth! Really? How awful! How old was he?’
It was a relief finally to be able to talk about how terrible it had been, without having to put on a show of being capable and in charge. ‘Oh, Mum, it was so horrible! And do you know, I’m not sure how old he is… I went to his birthday party a few weeks ago and people said it was his fiftieth but I think he was a bit older.’
‘Yes, he looked a lot older.’ Maureen had got to the age where the death of friends was most often the reason for a phone call before breakfast, but news of an unnaturally early death was much less run-of-the-mill. ‘What did he die of, do they know?’
‘We’re not sure. Mum, it was during the show! I was there.’
‘Oh, Elizabeth! Did you see it happen?’
Elizabeth thought of Ricky’s body writhing on the studio floor, his eyes bloodshot and his mouth distorted, his hand gripping her wrist. And then she thought of her mum, running in from the garden on another glorious May morning, dropping to her knees with a small scream and cradling her husband’s head as he grasped hopelessly for his last breaths, his heart clenching itself into an unyielding fist. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Yes. I’ve got to go to the police station this morning for an interview.’
‘The POLICE? Good heavens! What on earth for? Oh, dear, are you in trouble?’
Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Was she? ‘No, I don’t think so, it’s just that they don’t yet know what he died of… I think they just want to speak to everyone who’d been with him.’
‘Well, I imagine it was his heart. I mean, he didn’t pay much attention to his health, did he? He was quite heavy. And for a man of his age…’ Her mum faltered and Elizabeth thought again of her dad at his office desk, gazing miserably at the Tupperware box of cottage cheese and pineapple chunks her mum had carefully prepared for him, longing for his egg-and-chip lunches of old in the City Road café. Not that it had helped in the end. Fat lot of good that low-cholesterol diet was, Maureen had said, sobbing, as they buried him, aged fifty-four.
‘I guess it’ll be on the BBC News by now.’ Elizabeth reached for the remote.
‘Oh yes, I’ll take a look. But are you okay, in yourself? I mean, I know you’d worked with him for a while but I was never sure if you really – well, you know – liked him? Was he a nice man?’
Elizabeth thought for a moment. ‘No, Mum, I don’t suppose he was what you’d call a nice man.’ Who wants to be nice? ‘But Ricky was interesting. He could be very good company. In his heyday.’ Elizabeth realised how easily she had let Ricky slip into the past tense and tears pricked her eyes again. He was already gone from the present and he would be gone from the future.
‘Well, I only really watched his shows because you were working on them, you know.’ Elizabeth’s mother seemed very happy to dump Ricky now that he was dead. ‘He wasn’t really my cup of tea. You know, a bit shouty and well, a bit crude sometimes.’
There had been many versions of this conversation before. Elizabeth sighed. ‘Yes. He wouldn’t have been right for Countryfile. Mum, I’ve got to go – I’ll call you later.’
‘But listen, your sister’s coming down to Frinton tomorrow for the weekend with the boys because Mark’s away. Why don’t you come too? I don’t like to think of you there, alone.’
Elizabeth very much wanted the comfort of home – even her mum’s neat seaside bungalow, with its limited provision of alcohol and pervasive smell of potpourri, and she longed to see Vic. Her sister was a successful divorce lawyer and had built a thriving practice in Manchester redistributing the wealth of Premier League footballers. Their chances to get together for boozy confessions had been much curtailed by Vic’s move up north. It would be good to see her – she had a lot to tell her.
‘I don’t know, I’ll see what the police say… Maybe I’ll come.’
‘Yes, do. And darling, can I tell Maggie? And Judy? I mean, it’ll be all over the news, won’t it?’
Elizabeth could only imagine how distracting this latest piece of information would be to the Zumba class in Frinton-on-Sea. It would surely trump the story of her wedding that wasn’t.
She showered and let the hot water run over her face, streaming down her strained neck, and wondered what not to wear for a meeting with the Metropolitan Police. A pile of discarded clothing in the middle of her bedroom floor included PVC trousers, a pinstripe trouser suit from Kate Moss at Topshop that looked nice and boyish but had a wine stain on the jacket, and a summer dress from Zara that in sunlight was entirely see-through and always made her think of that photograph of Lady Di, standing coyly in the sunshine holding the hands of some toddlers. Maybe too demure? She rather suspected that the penetrating gaze of DI Watson would see through it all.
Elizabeth picked up the pinstripe jacket and stared at it. She remembered where the wine stain came from. A few weeks ago Ricky had invited her as his plus one (she was, after all, technically single) to an exhibition in a private gallery of the animal sculptor David Farrer. After swigging Chablis straight from the bottle, Ricky had bought a life-size papier-mâché head of a white cockerel, for which he paid over the odds on the basis that the gallery would let him take it home right there and then. Between them, they’d carried the cock’s head – and the wine – home to his house in Kensington, stumbling drunk along the streets with Ricky crying to anyone who would listen, ‘I’ve got an enormous cock!’ The next morning she woke as usual to four texts from him, alluding in various ways to his purchase (‘Isn’t it awfully good to have a cock?’ and ‘I’m going to call him Percy’), but the final text said that he’d been disturbed at an unearthly hour by some crowing and so he’d got up and thrown the papier-mâché head into his neighbour’s skip. The texts had made Elizabeth laugh but in the cold light of day she found herself feeling sick and unhappy about his cavalier waste of fine art and money.
Elizabeth sat very still, clutching the jacket, fighting back tears. She thought her memories might drive her mad. She wished she wasn’t alone; she wanted someone to make it go away. She wondered why Hutch still hadn’t called and reached for her phone to check. There was a text, but it was from Matthew and it warned her that all news outlets were about to run the story. By the time she’d settled on a subdued navy blue skirt and a crisp white blouse, she was ready for the 8 o’clock headlines:
News just in of the sudden death of television and radio personality Ricky Clough. It’s thought that he collapsed last night in the studio where he was recording his chat show, and that paramedics were unable to save him. No details have been released as to the cause of death but it is reported that police were also called to the studio premises. We’ll bring you more news on this as it comes in.
Her phone buzzed.
‘Elizabeth.’ Hutch’s voice was early-morning deep and gravelly. ‘Really? He died during the show? Well! Not for the first time, eh?’
Elizabeth wondered if this was what she’d been avoiding: Hutch’s need to say the unsayable. The very thing that attracted her to him in the first place was now the very last thing she wanted to hear. She also realised it was a time of day they rarely spoke. But nothing was usual, today. ‘I’m not up to it, Hutch. Not now. Honestly. It was horrible.’
His voice was softer. ‘Yeah, I bet it was. Poor you. Poor Miss Clumsy. Did you have to take charge?’
‘Yes. Matthew turned up – after it was all over. I tried to do what I could, but you know, the drill, first aid – those things just go out of your head when it’s really happening. He seemed so out of it, almost immediately. I’ve got to go to the police station this morning. But Hutch, none of us saw it coming! I mean, he didn’t seem ill or pissed – not at all! If anything, he was more relaxed. It was just like the old times. We’d got Paolo Culone on – remember, I told you I’d booked him for the show after you and I went to his restaurant? And Ricky was firing on all cylinders, taking him down for his overly poncey food – the stuff he used to do in the past, that everyone loved. It was all going well… until…’ Elizabeth’s voice wobbled dangerously.
‘So it was a heart attack?’
She thought again of Ricky’s bloodshot eyes and violently contorting body. Was that what had happened to her dear dad? A half moan escaped her. ‘I guess it must have been. Oh God, Hutch, I don’t even know how old he was! I mean, officially.’
‘He was fifty-two.’ His voice was flat, certain. He seemed unaware of her distress. ‘He’s exactly ten years older than me. We’re both Aries. And that’s where the similarities end.’ She could hear him yawning. ‘Or should I say, ended.’
‘Hutch! Please.’ Elizabeth refrained from saying that a cruel wit was at least one other striking similarity between the two of them. She was struck by the fact that he was yawning, stretching, drinking coffee – as if waking up to a normal day. All the ordinary morning things she’d never seen him do. ‘Hutch, Ricky knew about the pilot! He knew we were trying out a new show with you. I was so worried about him finding out – but he already knew. So it’s even more extraordinary that he should be so fine in the studio yesterday.’
‘Really? Who told him?’ Hutch’s voice had a sudden sharpness, a hack’s nose for a source.
‘Well, Matthew did actually. The day before, at lunch, apparently.’
‘Did he indeed! That’s interesting.’ There was a pause.
‘You didn’t call or text last night.’ Elizabeth gazed at Hutch’s jumper on her bedroom chair.
‘Yeah. Sorry. I was at the match and then went out to dinner with Sue.’ Her name hung in the air. Like a stale smell.
‘Oh.’ And behind that ‘oh’ was an entire avalanche of suppressed emotions: hurt, dismay, jealousy. Resignation.
‘Are you around later? Can I buy you lunch? After you’ve been to the police station?’
Elizabeth paused, but her heart began to beat faster. She desperately wanted some arms around her. She wanted someone to be there for her. But she tried to sound as casual as he did. ‘Yes, I think I can do that. Usual place?’
‘Yes. Usual place. One o’clock. Oh, and Elizabeth? Don’t confess. Even if they waterboard you.’
Elizabeth couldn’t help herself, she smiled. He still had the ability to do that, despite everything, to make her laugh.
‘Fuck off, Hutch.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_133f664a-2fd3-5188-ad46-d28fad8bec1e)
Elizabeth took the bus to Paddington Green Police Station. She liked the unusual sensation of sitting up top on a bus and watching London crawl beneath her. She had a car, a Volkswagen Beetle Convertible, which she drove furiously and much too fast. (She once drove Hutch down the Embankment and around Parliament Square and afterwards he said he needed a brandy and a lie-down.) But in the trauma of last night she’d left it parked at the production offices, where it was currently acquiring the undesirable accessory of a sticky plastic parking ticket. It was Elizabeth’s fourth ticket in six weeks and on each occasion she’d made up her mind that she would renew her acquaintance with Transport for London. Her family had strong links with public transport: one grandad had been a linesman on the railways, the other a bus conductor, all his life on the same route – the 38. As Elizabeth’s nan had said rather bitterly after he died, ‘Never got promoted. Never got to do the 176 or the 55. Never got to go up Park Lane, or down Piccadilly. Never got to be a driver, neither. Always the same bloody route. Every day of his life.’ But her grandad hadn’t sought promotion, he’d been perfectly happy with his lot. And Elizabeth thought there was much to be said for being happy with your lot. You never know when it might all disappear.
As the 73 chugged and chewed its way down Euston Road and through the early morning rush hour, it shaved some overhanging horse chestnut trees, showering the roof with pale white blooms that fluttered down past the window like the ghostly remains of a bridal bouquet. Hutch once took her for the night to one of those five-star hotels that turns your towels into origami animals and scatters petals across the bed (the bed was the size of a small continent) and in the middle of the night, Elizabeth found pale pink petals stuck between her thighs and in her armpits. Later, in the waterfall shower, she found another one between Hutch’s buttocks. It was there that Hutch first told her he loved her and promised that he would leave his wife.
And in turn, she had finally told him about Jamie, and about the wedding that wasn’t.
Her wedding day turned out to be a perfect pink Magnolia May morning, just as she’d imagined it would be. It had been just four weeks since Jamie’s surprise proposal. They’d decided there was no point in waiting – after all, they’d waited ten years. Jamie didn’t want the full pomp and ceremony of a church wedding and thought it a waste of money, and Elizabeth had convinced herself they were just getting the right piece of paper before having children. So she’d approached the production of her rushed wedding as if it was a last-minute live television programme. She came up with a strictly limited guest list, she wrote out a running order and she had an Excel spreadsheet on which she eked out their wedding budget. Their honeymoon was to be a two-day mini break in a Cotswolds spa hotel. She would be back in the office on Friday. They bought her a wedding ring in Hatton Garden for £35 and every so often she took it out of the little blue velvet box and tried it on her finger. She’d never worn rings and the wedding band felt tight and restrictive. She couldn’t stop staring at it.
On the way to the register office, sitting with her mum Maureen and her sister Vic in the back of a London black cab clutching a hand-tied bunch of daffodils and irises (Vic had insisted she take something blue), Elizabeth realised she hadn’t heard from Jamie since the previous afternoon. They’d spent the night before their wedding apart and she’d assumed he was just sticking to tradition. In the end, she’d texted him a jokey photo of a bride in an enormous meringue dress with a smiley emoji. But he hadn’t replied. They’d gone for more than twenty-four hours without speaking and she couldn’t remember a time in the last ten years when they had done that.
She was wearing the vintage lace garter Vic had laughingly given her the night before (something old) and it was chafing the soft skin on her inner thigh. Elizabeth had scratched it irritably several times already and now as she surreptitiously lifted the hem of her dress, she saw that the flesh around the garter was red and angry. Her dress was a vintage 1960s sleeveless shift and was the colour of apricots. She thought it would be a statement dress – look at me, I’m in a fun, flirty, fruity frock – but now she regretted it. The dress was creasing terribly in the traffic jam on the Euston Road. The plastic comb of flowers she’d tried to weave through her hair wouldn’t stay in place and was now hanging drunkenly by a thread around her ear. The daffodils started to droop. She noticed her left hand (no engagement ring) was resting on the cab door handle and that she’d clenched it tight, as if about to open the door.
‘What are you doing?’ her sister asked sharply and Elizabeth’s hand dropped, lamely, back to her lap. Vic had got married in a country church wearing a long cream silk dress that melted over her curves like liquid silver. She’d looked stunning. ‘Won’t be long now.’ Her sister had smiled brightly at her, as Elizabeth imagined Vic must smile at her clients before she led them into the dock to be sentenced. Of course they should have known the traffic would be terrible, it was a Wednesday afternoon. A woeful workday Wednesday. Who gets married on a Wednesday? Vic’s face softened when she saw Elizabeth’s brimming eyes.
‘Mum, tell you what. You keep the taxi. We’ll walk. I feel a bit sick and could do with some fresh air and it would be good for Elizabeth to get a quick breather.’ Vic was all lawyerly efficiency. She was wearing a smart navy blue coat dress. (‘It’ll always do for court afterwards,’ she had told Elizabeth on the phone after she’d bought it. At the time, Elizabeth had felt hurt, as if her wedding wasn’t excuse enough for her sister to buy a new shocking pink dress, but now she couldn’t help thinking how wise it was.) Vic had inherited their mum’s fairer skin and hair – although she’d dyed it so many times during her flirtation with the post-punk revival that Elizabeth could barely remember its original shade – and she had it cut short and pixie-like, a style that served her even better now, when she was almost in her forties and the mother of two small children, than when she’d flirted with The Libertines.
Elizabeth tumbled out of the cab trailing her posy of wilting daffodils as Vic led her firmly to one of the round tables nailed to the pavement outside the Globe pub on the Euston Road. The few hardened drinkers still on their feet turned to stare at them over their pints. Vic put her Hermès bag on the table and Elizabeth noticed a yellow lawyer’s pad poking out of the top, as if her sister might find time during her wedding to catch up on a bit of casework.
‘What’s up?’ Vic had said briskly.
‘I don’t know… It just doesn’t feel right…’
‘Look, Lizzie, it’s just last-minute nerves. It’s fine. It’s Jamie! You’ve known him for ever! Being married isn’t any different.’
Elizabeth had torn unconsciously at the daffodil petals. She raised her panic-stricken face. ‘Vic, I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel we’ve rushed into this wedding. It was so lovely, being with your boys at the birthday party and in that moment, when Jamie proposed, I wanted that life so badly. The life that you have, Vic. A domestic life. Babies. So I organised the wedding really quickly, I thought Jamie was right, we’d waited long enough. But oh God…’ Elizabeth looked desperately at her sister. ‘I panicked, Vic. I panicked about Forever. About it being Jamie, and no one else, ever again.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I met this man at a work party, just a few days after Jamie proposed. And, Vic, he was so unlike anyone else I’ve ever been with! He was funny, he made me laugh and he was so interested in me and my job – and I don’t know, just so different to Jamie! He made me feel so good about myself. I thought I could have one last fling, I thought it wouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter – and I’ve felt so guilty ever since. But Vic, I can’t stop thinking about him!’
‘Oh, Lizzie! But it’s just the once? Just this one time?’
‘Yes. You know there’s never been anyone else, Vic. I’ve been longing to find the moment to tell Jamie, but the days seemed to race past and I couldn’t find the right moment. And every time we confirmed another detail of this wedding, I didn’t see how I could tell him! But now it feels like we’ll be starting our marriage all wrong.’
‘Oh, hon.’ Vic hugged her. ‘Look, Lizzie, let’s try and be practical. There are ten people waiting in that building over there for you to turn up like a blushing bride. And one of them is Jamie. Jamie, the boyfriend you’ve been with since uni. Jamie, who’s trying to save the world and who’s good and kind. You do want to marry him, right?’ There was a long pause. ‘Hello?’
Elizabeth looked at her sister in desperation. ‘Yes, I do. But oh, Vic, it feels so final! And I’ve only had sex with seven people! I keep thinking – is that enough to last me a lifetime?’
‘Well, I’m not sure it’s all about the maths, Lizzie. But I bet lots of brides go through this. I’m sure it’s really usual to panic about committing yourself to one man, for better or worse. Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but are you sure now is the time to tell Jamie? You made a mistake and you regret it. Maybe he never needs to know? Or maybe you can tell him, in time. But now? I’m not sure.’
Elizabeth nodded, numbly, and Vic was suddenly businesslike again. She found herself being propelled along the Euston Road towards Marylebone Town Hall. Large splashes of rain began to stain the apricot dress. Vic ran up the wide stone steps, half dragging Elizabeth behind her. At the town hall doors, she turned suddenly and said, ‘Who was it?’
‘What?’ Elizabeth was almost breathless. She tried to smooth down the damp creases in her dress.
‘Who was it? That you slept with?’
Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘Harry Hutchinson.’
‘Harry…? Wait. You mean Hutch? The guy who does that late night football show?’
‘Yes. And Vic, he’s married!’
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ was all that Vic said as she pushed open the doors to the town hall.
Elizabeth took two quick brisk turns around the block to pull herself together before walking into Paddington Green Police Station. The only time she’d been in a police station before was when she had to take in proof of her insurance after she’d been caught doing 89 mph down the A12 and sent on a National Speed Awareness Course (‘As if you need to be taught about speed, Miss Clumsy,’ Hutch had said consolingly, as she threw herself on to his bed, clutching a new copy of The Highway Code.) She was greeted by DS Rafik, the young sweating sergeant who’d been in the dressing room the night before. His eyes were like two brightly polished buttons in the fleshy cushion of his face. He walked quickly, despite the extra pounds, and she had to half run to keep up with him, down the bland, windowless corridors, doors all closed, walls devoid of any kind of decoration. She found herself babbling nervously. ‘You could do with some pictures. Maybe a cartoon or two. You know, something to help innocent members of the public, like me, who have to come in and give statements feel more at home.’
‘I hope your home isn’t anything like this.’ The sergeant opened the door to an office with two desks crammed together underneath a barred window. An uncovered light bulb was hanging from a ceiling rose. Someone had put a cactus plant on one of the desks, which simply added to the general feeling of dismal discomfort.
‘Wow!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did you get your inspiration for interior design from Guantánamo Bay?’
A pink flush crept upwards from the folds of the sergeant’s neck, but he stopped himself from smiling. He moved a pile of folders from a hard-backed chair, dropping some papers as he did so, and flustered, gestured for Elizabeth to sit on it. He offered her a coffee, pointing apologetically at a kettle on the window sill and a box of Nescafé sachets.
Elizabeth grimaced. ‘No chance of a skinny double shot latte, I suppose? Maybe a basket of muffins? Haven’t you got a runner?’
He looked at her, bemused. She shrugged off her raincoat. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m making terrible jokes because I’m nervous.’
He nodded, but before he could speak the door opened again and banged into Elizabeth’s chair. It was Detective Inspector Watson. She smelled strongly of apples. Her blonde hair was loosely swept up into a knot and fastened with a surprisingly girly pink scrunchie. She was wearing black trousers and a shirt the colour of cornflowers. Her arms were toned and tanned. She wore no make-up and, fresh-faced, looked younger than she had last night. Elizabeth guessed they must be about the same age.
‘Hello, DI Karen Watson. Sorry, not much room.’ The detective inspector went to sit at the remaining desk, the one with the cactus. She flipped open a notebook, picked up a pen, inspected it, and then lobbed it across the room, where it tipped neatly into a waiting wastepaper basket. She picked up another pen, inspected it again and wrote something on the open page. Finally, she looked up.
‘Good shot,’ offered Elizabeth.
‘County netball team. Wing attack.’ DI Karen Watson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.
‘Still plays,’ added the sergeant proudly.
‘Tuesdays only,’ the DI said pointedly.
Elizabeth found herself saying, ‘What’s wrong with Saturdays? Or Sundays? I’ve heard weekends are good for sport.’
The DI looked at her sharply. ‘Well, you see, the women I play with mostly have husbands, some of them have kids, and so they can’t play netball at the weekend. Tuesday is their only opportunity to get out of the house.’
‘Gosh,’ said Elizabeth, genuinely struck. ‘And they spend their only evenings off playing netball? When they could be necking sauvignon blanc in the wine bar? That’s dedication.’
‘Ah, well you see, most of us don’t drink,’ the DI said, and the implication was clear.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat. She realised that the volunteering of some personal information by the detective must be a well-rehearsed ploy. She noticed DI Karen Watson’s body was taut, wired, finely tuned.
‘So, tell me, how long had you been working with Ricky Clough?’
‘On and off for seven years.’
‘Producing all his shows?’
‘Yes, this one and his Saturday night entertainment show…’
Elizabeth looked carefully at the DI to see how much of this television history she knew. Her face, however, was a perfect blank. But to her right, the sergeant said helpfully, ‘Saturday Bonkers.’
DI Watson looked nonplussed.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Saturday Bonkers. Which was, well, a bonkers show! Partly a variety show but with other anarchic stuff going on in the studio, games and live OBs – um, outside broadcasts. And Ricky is – was – very good in it. You know, he’s probably best known for Shower? The secret camera pranks on celebrities. And the song and dance finales every week with Ricky and guest stars. We had the Shadow Home Secretary on once, that caused quite a storm… Anyway, it’s been running for years and last year it won Best Entertainment Show at the National TV Awards.’ Elizabeth looked at the policewoman, hopeful of a congratulatory nod, but DI Watson remained expressionless.
‘But, well, we’ve had some difficulties over the last few months. The show’s not been doing so well and Ricky was reluctant to try out new ideas. He couldn’t believe it was losing its audience, he blamed the viewers, not the programme. He’d become quite difficult – a bit, well, bonkers himself.’ Elizabeth smiled half-heartedly, but the DI’s face was serious.
‘Bonkers? How?’
‘Well, you know, he could be very unpredictable.’ Elizabeth twisted in her chair. How could she begin to describe, in this soulless office, to this ramrod straight policewoman, the sort of daily mayhem that had for the last few years passed for her professional working life? ‘Um, well, let’s see. He’d bring live animals into the office – I seem to remember there was a serious incident with some rats. And he’d wear clown’s trousers to production meetings and then let them drop. He liked holding meetings in his underpants. There was an occasion when he went to a meeting with the network’s chief, carrying a water rifle… He quite regularly used a water pistol during script meetings. And there were the late-night phone calls…’
The DI frowned and Elizabeth rushed on. ‘But you know, people loved working with him. It was exciting. He had a loyal team. I liked working with him. That’s why I agreed to produce this new chat show with him as well. I mean, you had to dismiss half his ideas, but at least he had some. And he could be very generous – he used to take the entire team out for lunch and pick up the bill. And he was very entertaining when he was on form… It was exhilarating to try and harness that sort of creative energy.’
‘Tell me about the recent difficulties.’
‘Well, I’d had to have words with him about his behaviour with the team.’
DI Watson nodded and Elizabeth got the feeling that despite the professionally blank expression, she knew more than she was letting on. ‘Yes, tell me about that. His bad behaviour.’
‘Oh, you know, he’d get stressed and angry and take it out on the researchers. He reduced a couple of them to tears. Nothing was good enough. He’d find fault with the guest bookings, the scripts, the props. In a way, it came from the right place – his ambition for the show – but it got to the stage where he was never going to be satisfied unless we booked Barack Obama and preferably got him to sing a duet on the show. He’d lost perspective somehow. He couldn’t understand why he was having to work with reality show contestants instead of the leader of the free world.’
‘Did he reduce you to tears?’ The DI looked at the pad on her desk and Elizabeth realised she’d made quite a few jottings.
‘Not in his presence,’ Elizabeth said truthfully. ‘But I must admit, I’ve had quite a few nights where I’ve been awake at 3 a.m., eating Marks & Spencer custard.’ She looked at the policewoman’s lean, netball-toned figure and doubted that Karen Watson had any nights when she succumbed to a tub of crème anglaise. But the detective looked up and half a smile played across her lips. Her eyes were lively and bright.
‘And who’s your boss?’
‘Matthew Grayling, the Controller. The man you met last night.’
The DI’s smile vanished. ‘Ah yes, the man with the limp. So he runs the whole network? He’s in charge of all the programmes?’
‘Yes. He’s been there fifteen years. He knows Ricky of old. He got him to do Saturday Bonkers in the first place. He recently gave him the chat show to try and ease him into a new slot – you know, it’s not on Saturday nights, it’s not live, so we can always go into the edit and cut out the worst bits.’
‘And was Matthew in the studio all evening?’
‘No, I rang him, once Ricky… once he’d collapsed.’ Elizabeth felt suddenly tearful. She bent her head and DI Watson sat silently for a moment before saying more gently, ‘And now you’ve had time to think about that night, time to think over everything that happened, you can’t think of anything that was unusual? Nothing about Ricky Clough that struck you as strange or different? He didn’t seem ill?’
‘No.’ Elizabeth reached for a tissue from the box on DI Watson’s desk. ‘If anything, the thing that was unusual was that he was actually in a good mood. He seemed upbeat. I thought we were in for a good show. He didn’t seem in any discomfort, wasn’t complaining.’
‘And you’d actually started recording the show, I think, when he fell ill?’
‘Yes, that’s right. We’d done the introduction and we were about to do Paolo Culone.’
The DI look across at the sergeant. ‘We’re seeing all the guests from the show later, is that right?’ Ali Rafik nodded and listed the names of a few minor celebrities. Elizabeth winced at the poor quality of the bookings, but the DI appeared to register nothing. Eventually, she said, ‘I don’t watch much television. There never seems to be anything on that I want to watch.’ Elizabeth nodded. It was true. There was a criminal lack of coverage of women’s netball in primetime.
‘So tell me about the chef – Paolo Culone?’
‘Well, he’s young, very brash. He’s just opened his third London restaurant and it’s all about smell. He puts a different scent around the restaurant entrance because he says it influences your mood and he wants his guests to be happy when they come in. So the week it opened, he made sure it smelled like an old-fashioned sweet shop – sugary and lemony – so that people coming in would feel nostalgic for their childhoods.’ Elizabeth took a deep breath. She’d been to Culone’s new restaurant a few weeks back. She’d gone there with Hutch and it had smelled of Curly Wurlys. Later that night in bed, Hutch had said she smelled deliciously of caramel and he’d licked her agonisingly slowly, all over.
The sergeant made a sound that was half cough, half giggle. Elizabeth recovered herself and nodded at him. ‘Ricky thought it was all bollocks, too. He wanted to take the piss out of Paolo. We were going to bring on some of his restaurant dishes hidden in boxes and get Culone to guess what they were by their smell.’
The DI wrinkled her nose and frowned, as if trying to understand how such an idea might constitute primetime entertainment. ‘And so it’s likely Ricky Clough might have eaten something before or during the show?’
‘Yes. We had some of Culone’s food in the Green Room, where we entertain guests before the show. Ricky went in to say hello. I think he was trying to put Paolo at ease. To praise his food and sort of lull him into a false sense of comfort.’ Elizabeth shrugged apologetically as if to distance herself from the sheer cynicism of the move, although it had actually been her idea.
‘And so others might’ve eaten the food, in the Green Room?’
‘I’m not sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the team had some. We don’t pay our junior researchers much. They mostly live off scraps.’ Elizabeth pulled a face at Sergeant Rafik and was delighted to see him try to hide a smile. DI Watson’s expression was stony.
‘We’re running tests on all the food that’s been left over. We’ll have to interview everyone on your team as well.’
‘Really?’ Elizabeth sat up straight. ‘Is that honestly necessary?’
The DI put down her pen. ‘Yes, it is. But they don’t need to come in here. We’ll come to your offices this afternoon and talk to them individually.’
‘Well, I guess you’ll have to talk to Matthew about that…’ Elizabeth realised her boss’s attempts to keep the network out of this were hopelessly optimistic. ‘I guess he may want someone from Legal there.’ She looked at the DI anxiously. ‘Can I ask, do you know the results of Ricky’s hospital tests?’
The sergeant cleared his throat. The DI looked down at her pad, as if considering something, and then looked up at Elizabeth. ‘Not all of the results, no. But we’ve got reasonable cause for concern at this stage.’
Elizabeth felt sick. The colour drained from her face. ‘Concern about what?’
‘It would seem from all the tests so far that Ricky Clough did not die of natural causes. In fact, it appears that his seizure was the result of a highly toxic substance in his bloodstream.’
Elizabeth gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles whitening.
DI Watson leaned back in her chair. ‘I’m afraid, Elizabeth, we have very good reason to believe that Ricky Clough was poisoned.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_acba1e4f-c9ea-52aa-9d1b-3d19738f09da)
When Elizabeth staggered out of the police station an hour later, the smoky purple sky was threatening rain. DI Watson had let her go after some very detailed questioning about the studio schedule and routine. She’d asked Elizabeth to produce an exhaustive list of all the people present, from the camera crews, the sound guys, the lighting team, to all the production staff – anyone who might have had direct access to Ricky Clough. Elizabeth supplied it all, her mind whirring with obscene possibilities: could it have been the cameraman who’d been shouted at by Ricky once too often? Was it the make-up girl who used to service Ricky on her knees in his dressing room? Was it a prank gone wrong from the sound guys, who every week had to clear the wax out of his earpiece? Who on earth would do such a thing, to Ricky Clough, the king of entertainment?
She walked slowly towards Café Cecile, her usual meeting place for lunch with Hutch. They’d been seeing each other for nine months now, but still in secrecy. Hutch was beginning to get increasing recognition on the street; his football show was becoming very popular. He was now getting invited to every celebrity party, gallery opening and first night. He was witty, he was tall, he wore mostly black, he suited a baseball cap, he stayed late and drank a lot – he’d won his place on the A-list. He also went to most of these events alone, which made him popular with every hostess, because although it was well-known that he was married – to a sports PR girl he’d met when he still lived in Manchester – her own work commitments seemed to entail her spending most weekdays up north.
Elizabeth was wearying of the subterfuge. She’d initially gone along with the secrecy, had even found it exciting: slipping into his flat through the car park’s side door, leaving restaurants minutes apart, walking in opposite directions. Only her sister Vic knew about the affair – she hadn’t even told Lola. She’d been swept up in the giddiness of being adored – it had been a great solace after the break-up with Jamie. Hutch seemed fascinated by her, it was very gratifying: she felt clever and self-confident in his company. He was interested in her job, asked lots of questions, watched all her shows, minutely observing. He’d told her from the beginning that his marriage was over, they were living separate lives – he was simply waiting for the right moment. But here they were, nine months later, apparently still waiting for his right moment, and in the last few weeks Elizabeth had begun to believe that his right moment might never come. She was fed up with hiding in the shadows. She wanted a relationship that could be public, open, lasting. She wanted to be loved, enough.
That was what Jamie had said inside Marylebone Town Hall a year ago: I don’t love you, enough.
He had been waiting for her as she came through the town hall doors, standing alone and apart, unfamiliar in his grey suit, his shaggy blond hair newly washed and combed. He looked very pale and grave. Elizabeth held out her arms to show off her ridiculous apricot dress and did an apologetic mock pirouette. But Jamie didn’t smile. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her with him out of the nearest door and into a municipal corridor. Portraits of former councillors, all of them men, gazed sternly down at them with their heavy chains of office.
‘Jamie… I… I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth’s heart was pounding against her ribs.
Jamie looked at her, surprised. ‘You’re sorry? What…? Oh, for being late? It doesn’t matter.’ He now looked at his feet and she noticed he had new shiny shoes. ‘Elizabeth, I…’
She suddenly felt she couldn’t breathe. She leaned against the wall. He must know! Perhaps dishonesty was like a scent; it lingered around your ears, on your neck, so that when he kissed her, he could smell her treachery? Surely, now, she had to say something? What if Vic was wrong? Perhaps it would be better to confess.
‘Elizabeth, I’m so sorry.’ His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Unconsciously, she leaned in to hear him. ‘I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think we should do this.’ His breath came in gasps. ‘I don’t want to marry you. I’m so, so, sorry. I… I don’t think I love you. Enough.’
Elizabeth reeled back as if struck and her knees buckled; she slid slowly down the wall to the floor, still clutching the stems of her disintegrating bouquet. Enough? What did ‘enough’ mean? Jamie knelt beside her.
‘Lizzie, listen to me. I know you hate me right now. But I think, once you’ve had time, you’ll realise I’m right… We’re just doing this because the alternative seems so scary. But it’s not the right thing to do, Lizzie. We don’t love each other enough, we’ve just got used to each other. And that’s not the same thing.’
Elizabeth’s head sank to her knees. Suddenly, she felt very tired. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything. She wanted to curl up in a ball on the municipal floor and make everything disappear. But Jamie was still talking, low and urgently, in her ear. She couldn’t make it stop; this torrent of words from him, they kept on coming.
‘I know this is all my fault. I know I suggested we got married. I thought we needed to change something and that marrying would do it. But I’ve been very unhappy for a long time, Lizzie. You’ve been too busy to notice it. We’ve stopped talking. But I’ve been feeling very lonely and confused. And stupidly, I thought we’d sort things out by getting married and having kids. But as the days went by, I realised it was just a sticking plaster. And that isn’t right – that’s not what marriage should be. I kept thinking I’d say something these last few weeks, but I wasn’t brave enough, I suppose. But I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m still unhappy. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’
Elizabeth struggled to get to her feet and Jamie tried to help her, but she pushed him away angrily. Vic came running, with her husband Mark close behind her, and as they got to her, Elizabeth was feverishly shredding the flowers, a carnage of dismembered blue and yellow petals scattered around her like confetti. Vic lifted her by the arms and it was as if she was drunk, she couldn’t stand. Her mother appeared, crying, arms outstretched as if to catch her. Then Vic and her mum were steering her back down the town hall steps, her feet tripping crazily against each other. Mark was yelling for a taxi, and Elizabeth looked around, bewildered, for Jamie. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Elizabeth pulled her coat around her, feeling shivery. She had dawdled too long – she was late for Hutch. Café Cecile, at the wrong end of Ladbroke Grove, was a faded patisserie which served tired croque monsieur and stale pastries. Madame Cecile herself had also seen better days and she was more often than not to be found sitting on the back step of the kitchen, puffing on a cigarette and rubbing her swollen ankles. But she stocked a reasonable cache of very drinkable wine and being still mostly French, she allowed Hutch to smoke the odd Gauloise inside, at the table nearest the back door. But the main attraction of Café Cecile was that no one Elizabeth and Hutch knew would ever dream of going there. In the early, heady, getting-to-know-you days, she took to wearing a French beret and once presented Hutch with a copy of James Fenton’s ‘In Paris with You’:
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées,
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room,
Doing this and that
To what and whom,
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Their relationship had blossomed, along with Elizabeth’s astonishment that Hutch knew not a single poem, not even a limerick, resulting in her consequent determination to introduce him to the Romantics. And so his poetic education had progressed in tune with their affair, so that in time he became used to having not only Elizabeth in his bed, but also Keats, Byron and the Liverpudlians. Hutch liked her reading aloud to him and she liked to show off, and so they’d idle away hours over the poetry, the wine, and each other. It was almost as good as a dirty weekend in a backstreet hotel in Le Marais, a weekend they often talked dreamily about, but which had so far failed to materialise. Café Cecile would have to do.
By the time she arrived, Hutch was sitting at their usual table, an empty glass of red wine beside a plate of crumbs and a half-drunk bottle. She looked at him through the glass and the raindrops that separated them. His blue eyes were narrowed against the light, but they didn’t move from her face. His face seemed fuller; Elizabeth noticed his neck was creasing into the collar of his shirt. He’d had a haircut – it was clipped close to his head, like an army buzz cut. It seemed to make his features, his nose, his chin, more obvious. His forehead was furrowed, his dark, almost black, eyebrows raised in that familiar ironic expression, his mouth suggestively half open, those full lips inviting. She stood still, hands thrust deep into her pockets, her hair clinging limply to her face. He was wearing the pink checked shirt she’d once bought him and she wondered if he’d chosen it deliberately or if it was an accident of fate. Or maybe Sue had chosen it for him? Elizabeth imagined rows of freshly laundered shirts on padded silk coat hangers, his wife running her hands over them, lifting one down, laying it carefully on the bed for him. She clenched her fists in her pockets. There was still something unreachable about Hutch, some bit of him she couldn’t penetrate. She hesitated. She could run away, right now. But then Hutch half stood up, still not taking his eyes off her, and his arm was stretched out, his hand open like a supplicant, and she felt the familiar enticing pull. She shrugged as if to say, here I am, the old fool, back again. She opened the door and stepped inside.
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