Never Too Late (69 page)

Ricky attempted to stand in front of the bottle so she

wouldn’t see it but it was no use.

‘You bastard!’ she roared. ‘That’s my bloody gin and you

know it. It wasn’t even opened.’

Ricky fluttered his long, girlish eyelashes bashfully. ‘It is

now.’ he said, on the charm offensive. ‘Can I pour you one?

You look like it’s been a bad day at the office.’

‘No, you bloody well can’t,’ she shrieked back at him.

‘You are a fucking … fucking …’ She couldn’t think of

the word. Then she remembered. ‘Parasite! You eat all our

food, drink all our drink, borrow our CDs and never give

them back. My Baz Luhrmann CD has the cover broken

since you got your paws on it, and it’s a waste of time

buying biscuits round here because you snaffle them all,

you big savage. I’m sick of you!’

Swiping her bottle of gin away from him, she stormed

off in search of Phoebe to complain that, this time, Ricky

had Gone Too Far.

‘Phoebe,’ she roared dangerously. Her friend wasn’t in

her bedroom so Cara, enraged, tried the bathroom where

she found her flatmate sitting on the floor looking greener

than the avocado bathroom suite. Phoebe’s pretty moon

face was desolate and her eyes were red-rimmed, all the

eyeshadow rubbed away.

‘Phoebe, what’s wrong?’ Cara asked, automatically forgetting

her temper at the sight of her friend in distress. It

was as though Phoebe had been holding in the tears until

she heard a comforting voice, when she knew she could let

go. As if Cara had turned on a switch, Phoebe’s tears

flowed like Niagara.

‘Oh, Cara,’ she sobbed, ‘you’ll never believe it … you’ll

never believe it.’

Cara, squatting down on the floor, found herself leaning

on a pregnancy tester box, and could believe it all right.

‘You’re pregnant,’ she said, matteroffactly.

‘How could you tell?’ wailed Phoebe. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘No.’ Cara held up the box to enlighten her.

‘My family will kill me.’ Phoebe was sobbing heavily

now.

Cara hugged her, wishing she could pass on some of her

own strength. ‘They won’t. And even if they do, I’m here, I’ll help you.’

‘Thank you,’ Phoebe cried.

‘Does Ricky know?’

The sobbing grew louder.

‘Does he?’

‘I can’t tell him,’ Phoebe said, between giant, heaving

sobs. ‘He’s stopped working to go back to college - he can’t

afford a baby.’

‘He’s given up his job?’ asked Cara, aghast.

‘He’s given in his notice. He’s going to take a month off

to travel at the end of the summer and then go to college.’

Briefly, Cara closed her eyes, thinking of what she’d like

to do with Ricky. Travel would certainly come into it:

travel out the window after his rear end had connected

with her Doc Marten boot.

‘He doesn’t know why you’re in here?’ she asked

Phoebe gently.

Phoebe shook her head.

‘You don’t want to tell him right now?’ Cara continued.

Phoebe shook her head frenziedly. ‘Never.’

‘I’ll get rid of him then and we’ll talk.

‘Phoebe’s sick,’ she announced blandly to Ricky. ‘She’s

gone to bed. I think it’s one of those vicious twenty-four

hour bugs that give you the runs the whole time,’ she

added, interested to sec if the thought of hours glued to

the loo would put Ricky off saying goodnight to his

beloved.

He took a step backwards. ‘Jesus, I hate that! I’m oil. Tell

her I’ll see her tomorrow.’

He was gone in a flash, leaving behind the crumbs of a

packet of fig rolls and several dirty dishes in the sink. Cara

made a mental note to demand fig roll money off him the

next time he turned up.

She took the gin, which she’d brought back from the

bathroom on the grounds that gin mightn’t be good for

someone in Phoebe’s condition, poured herself a huge one,

added tonic and took a giant, refreshing slug. Ricky had

been right: it had been a tough day at the office, but

nothing was tougher than what she and Phoebs were going

to have to deal with now. And Ricky hadn’t a bloody clue.

At that moment, Cara hated Phoebe’s feckless boyfriend

more than anyone else in the world for what he was doing

to her dear, kind friend. Phoebe was such an innocent, she

hadn’t an enemy in the world and wouldn’t squash a

spider if she could get some braver soul to pick it up and

put it outside the door. She didn’t deserve insensitive,

brainless Ricky Nobody did.

Cara boiled the kettle, quickly made a cup of weak,

sugarless tea, the way Phoebe liked it, and took it and her

mega-gin back to the bathroom. It was going to be a long

night, she just knew it.

Olivia sat in her dressing room opening fan mail. She still

got an enormous thrill at the sight of the kind, encouraging

letters she got from fans of her slot on the programme, and

despite the length of time it took to reply to each one

personally, she did it.

Mind you, there were a few letter writers who weren’t

quite so kind or encouraging. They weren’t sane either, she

felt. ‘Why would anyone want to send a letter like that?’

she gasped to Kevin the first day she received one such

letter, holding the offending sheet of paper between the

tips of one finger and her thumb as if it was contagious.

‘Ooh, give us a look.’ Kevin read the letter, laughing

merrily at the twisted viewer who said he thought Olivia

had lovely breasts, and would she send him a pair of her

knickers in the post? Worn, of course. ‘They all want knickers, those pervie guys. I don’t know why,’ he said, wiping his

eyes with mirth.

‘Don’t touch your face after holding that horrible

letter!’ Olivia shuddered, washing her hands feverishly in

the tiny handbasin. ‘You don’t know what you’d get.’ She

shivered, shocked at the thought that there was anyone

out there who’d watch her cookery slot, concentrating on

her breasts instead of her cooking. It was horrible, horrible.

Kevin stuck the letter and its envelope in a page of his

A-4 notebook, obediently scrubbed his hands and patted

Olivia’s arm comfortingly.

‘Olivia honey, all the personalities get the odd pervie

letter. It’s the price of fame, I’m afraid. I’ll give this to the station’s security office because this particular gobshite has

included his address, so the security people will pass the

details on to the police. But don’t worry, most of these

blokes are harmless.’

Olivia didn’t look convinced.

‘Probably forgot to take his tablets that morning, probably

lives with his mother and the nearest thing he gets to

a woman is watching you in the morning while Mummy

irons his Y-fronts before he puts them on.’

‘Ugh! That’s worse.’ She was sickened by the vivid

picture Kevin had painted.

‘I can get someone else to open your letters if you want,’

he offered kindly.

Olivia shook her head. ‘I should do them myself

‘Nancy might volunteer to open yours,’ Kevin added innocently. He always knew how to make Olivia laugh-It was no great secret that Nancy Roberts was enraged that

Olivia now got practically as much fan mail as she did. It’d

kill Nancy to have to open Olivia’s letters. It already killed

her that Olivia’s slot had been extended to four days a

week because it was so popular with viewers. Nancy had

been queen of the Wake Up Morning Show for years and it

was entirely possible that she’d stab any person who took

that popularity away from her.

Olivia slapped Kevin gently on the arm. ‘Brat!’ she said.

‘Ooh, beat me, you sadist,’ he squealed in a put-on

falsetto. They both cracked up laughing.

‘You’re a head case, Kevin, do you know that?’ Olivia

said fondly.

‘Not as bad as Nancy.’ He smirked. ‘She loves getting

the pervie letters because she likes the idea that there are

people out there who fantasise about her knickers. Mind

you, there can’t be many of them out there and you’d

need an enormous envelope to send one of her used pairs

in the post …’

Olivia grinned at the thought of how hilarious Kevin was

on the subject of La Roberts. He loathed every over

bleached, cosseted hair on her head, and the feeling was

entirely mutual. Unfortunately, since Kevin now worked so

closely with Olivia, he was also on Nancy’s hit list.

‘I’d like to see the bitch try and get me fired,’ he’d said

bravely when he’d had too many post-show glasses of wine

in hospitality. ‘I’d rip her hair extensions out by the roots!’

But Olivia was suffering too.

In the four months she had been appearing on Nancy’s

show, the presenter’s demeanour towards her had gone

from chill-cabinet temperature to deep freeze. These days,

Olivia was lucky to get a frosty ‘hello’ from Nancy at

production meetings, and when Olivia had suggestions for

the programme, there was always a dismissive snort from

Nancy’s end of the meeting table. But she’d stopped being

outright nasty - mainly because Olivia had been winning

the battle of the ratings and consequently had Linda Byrne

firmly on her side, protecting the show’s new star.

When Nancy’s barbed comments began to earn her a

sharp ‘Is that helpful, Nancy?’ or ‘If you’re not interested,

would you like to skip the meeting?’ from Linda, she soon

kept her bitchy little asides to herself. Except on the set

when there was nobody else around.

‘Shimmery fabrics come up very tarty on screen.’ Nancy

would hiss nastily just before the cameras rolled when the

two women were forced to stand side by side in the onset

kitchen.

‘Really?’ Olivia would reply, smiling serenely for the

camera in her shimmery aquamarine blouse, before

launching into her spiel. Nancy didn’t bother her. After

years of confidence-sapping carping from Stephen, who

could take the paint off a door with his remarks, childish

bitching from a blowsy television hostess just rolled off

Olivia like water off a duck’s back. She could cope with

Nancy’s jealousy. Just about. As she’d given up teaching for

a year to concentrate on her TV career, she had to!

Now Olivia ripped open another envelope with the

deadly-looking silver filigree letter opener Max had given

her: ‘In case you’re in danger of being stabbed in the back

and need to reciprocate,’ he’d said wickedly in the letter

that accompanied his gift.

He knew what he was talking about when it came to the

world of television, Olivia thought with amusement, every

time she used his present.

She’d opened twenty letters and had begun writing short

notes on her Klimt-decorated notelets when Linda stuck

her head round the door.

‘Great, you’re here. I thought you might have gone

home after the show.’

‘My daughter’s being taken to a birthday party today by

her best friend’s mum and because I did the last bouncy

castle duty, I’m reprieved today,’ Olivia explained.

Linda, mother of three and a woman who knew as much

about childcare as any working woman, nodded knowingly.

‘So you’re free for lunch?’

‘Sure.’

Lunch was in the canteen, a glass-fronted place where

few of the staff felt inclined to linger too long after they’d

finished eating. Olivia picked up a brown bap filled with

tuna and decided she’d have some rosehip tea for a change.

She was dunking her teabag by the string when Linda

plonked her own tray down on the table. The heaped plate

of chips and sausages smelled wonderful.

‘I know,’ she said, already looking guilty. ‘I can’t believe

I’m having lunch with the cookery expert and I’m eating

motorway cuisine. But I like chips and I adore sausages.

And Nancy’s driving me nuts so I need a carbohydrate fix!’

Olivia chose to ignore the reference to Nancy. ‘Linda,’

she remonstrated, ‘one of my favourite treats is Cheddar

cheese cooked in the microwave on top of cream crackers.

I’m not Delia Smith, you know. I don’t go home and spend

three hours making my own linguine. Cookery on TV is

half reality and half wishful thinking, you know that. In the

real world, we all go home and have Marks & Sparks

chicken tikka masala. And that’s on the nights when we

feel creative!’

Linda smiled. ‘I always forget how normal you are,

Olivia. I’m so used to dealing with these damn’ prima

donnas who let on they spend hours making their own

bloody pesto sauce.’

‘I’d love to do that,’ Olivia confessed, ‘but you need an

awful lot of basil and two apartment window boxes aren’t

nearly big enough to grow a bucket of the stuff!’ She

leaned over and grabbed a chip. ‘I love chips too,’ she.

added. ‘I wish people realised that you can love cooking

and still think beans on toast is a fabulous meal.’

Her tuna fish bap tasted unappetising after one of

Linda’s chips so she stole a few more.

‘Please do,’ said Linda, shoving the plate in Olivia’s

direction. ‘I’m gaining weight at a fierce rate. It’s Nancy,