‘Do you like it?’ Patrick asks. He is seated on the sofa a little too closely to Cassie, who has her legs curled up underneath her.
‘Um, yes. It’s different. Hi, Cassie. I didn’t know you were coming over this evening.’
‘I wasn’t. I rang up earlier for a chat; Patrick answered and invited me for supper.’ She lays her hand on Patrick’s forearm. I notice a nearly drunk bottle of wine on the coffee table.
‘Not only is he handsome and witty, but he’s a great cook and a fine interior decorator. You’ve got a good un here, Lyd.’ She sucks her index finger and blinks slowly.
I smile awkwardly. Cassie is drunk, and she’s flirting with my new husband in my lounge that I no longer recognise. For a moment, I feel like a stranger in my own home. And I don’t like it.
‘I’m just going to get myself a drink,’ I say, turning around.
‘No, you stay here. Let me get it. I need to check on the food anyway.’ Before I can object, Patrick has launched himself across the room. He lifts my chin up and kisses me on the lips, sliding his tongue into my mouth.
‘Eww – get a room!’ Cassie laughs.
He gently slaps me on the bottom as he walks out. I slump onto one of the armchairs.
‘You are so lucky,’ Cassie moans. ‘I wish I had a gorgeous man like Patrick.’
18
I am wide awake at 4 a.m. After lying still for about an hour, worried about waking Patrick and my forthcoming appearance on TV, I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. As I peer at myself in the mirror, I hope that the make-up artist will be able to hide my dark circles and extra wrinkles. It seems that the stress of the past few months has taken its toll on my face. With my dressing gown on, I go downstairs to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and study the instructions for the new electronic knitting machine.
This morning, I will be presenting on BUYIT TV, trying to persuade viewers to spend a little under two hundred pounds on a new-to-the-market knitting machine that promises to make knitted garments in a fraction of the time it takes to handknit them. Of course, knitting machines have been around for years, but they have either been very expensive and complicated or too simplistic. YarnItNow is an American company, and their new machine, called Knit It Qwik, promises to appeal to the mass market. Within a couple of months of launching the Knit It Qwik, a rival machine was launched by a Chinese competitor. It’s so often the case in our crafting industry.
I tried out the machine yesterday in the office and have managed to produce a couple of reasonable-looking scarves, so I’m confident I will be able to operate it on live TV without any hiccups.
After listening to the news on Radio 4 and checking that the trains are running normally, I return upstairs and get dressed.
‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ I say to Patrick as I nudge him gently.
He opens his eyes and reaches for me. ‘Get into bed,’ he slurs.
I pull away and laugh. ‘Can’t. I’ve got to go to London. I’m dressed.’
‘And I’m horny.’ He lunges at me, but I dart out of the way.
‘Tonight,’ I say.
‘Fuck it, Lydia,’ he growls. I am surprised that he looks so pissed off. He rolls over with his back to me.
‘I’ll wake the kids up, but please remember you’re taking them to school this morning.’
He grunts.
‘Bye,’ I say. ‘Have a good day.’
He doesn’t reply.
I leave later than I wanted to, because I need to make sure that Mia and Oliver are both dressed and eating their breakfast. There is still no sign of Patrick.
‘Can you make sure Patrick is up and ready to take you to school?’ I tell Oliver. ‘Have a good day both of you.’ I blow them kisses and leave.
I get to the station just in time to catch the 7.50 a.m. from Horsham to London Victoria. The train is busy and I have to walk down two carriages before I find a seat.
Just as we’re pulling into Crawley, my phone starts vibrating. It’s Ajay.
‘Are you prepared?’
Gone are the days where we preface conversations with pleasantries. Now it’s all about business.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It’s just you haven’t presented in a long while, and it’s easy to get out of practice with these things.’
What he means is I haven’t shown my face to the media since Adam died.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. But actually I’m not. I am tired and nerves rumble in my stomach. I wish I had eaten more than a banana for breakfast. But I don’t need Ajay to tell me how important it is that I present well. Cracking Crafts needs all the sales we can get, and the margins with BUYIT TV are excellent.
‘Call me the second you’re off air. I need to know the numbers.’
‘And goodbye to you, too,’ I mutter under my breath as I listen to the dial tone. The woman opposite me throws me a sympathetic glance.
BUYIT TV’s offices are just off the Earls Court Road in a modern office block constructed from glass and steel. It sticks out like a sore thumb next to its traditional red-brick neighbours with their ornate white cornicing. My heart is thumping as I walk through the rotating doors and pace towards the reception desk.
‘I have a meeting with Andrew McFeatry.’
The receptionist has glossy long blonde hair, super-sized black false eyelashes and heavily stenciled eyebrows. Her teeth flash bright white as she smiles at me, and the bright blue of her shirt echoes the turquoise of her eyes. I assume she’s wearing coloured contact lenses. Most of the staff here are like her. Pretty young girls, with drawling, privately educated voices that rise in pitch at the end of sentences, eager for a break on television, which ninety-nine percent of them won’t get. She rings Andrew.
‘Mr McFeatry says please go straight up.’
I nod. I know my way around here. Even though I haven’t presented in months, I have demonstrated products on BUYIT TV probably half a dozen times a year for the past seven years. I walk to the bank of glass lifts and press the button. When I emerge on the fifth floor, Andrew bounces over to greet me.
‘Dear Lydia,’ he says, grasping my shoulders and giving me an air kiss above each cheek, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, but I understand you’ve already moved on. Who is he, then? Pictures, please!’
Quite how Andrew is so up to date with my personal life, I have no idea.
‘I’ll show you later. If we’re on air at 11 a.m., I need to get a move on. Make-up will have a lot of work to do,’ I say, pulling a face.
‘You’re beautiful as always,’ Andrew fawns as we walk side by side towards the dressing rooms.
I haven’t met the make-up girl before, but she seems unfazed by my face and quickly gets to work. I try to swot up on the instructions for the knitting machine, even though I already know them inside out. She is putting the final touches to my face when my mobile phone rings. She frowns. We’re meant to switch our phones off on this floor. There’s nothing I can do, as she’s applying a last coat of mascara.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘Do you need to get that?’
I fumble in my bag and find my phone, switching it onto silent. But then it starts again, vibrating in my hand. My heart leaps. It’s the kids’ school. I have to answer it.