the United States joint second. Racists are blaming it on Africa or the Arabs. Socialists point at capitalist greed and capitalists at labour laws and moral degeneracy. Of course, religious fundamentalists of all persuasions think the Day of Judgement has finally arrived.’ Rachel grinned. ‘They seem to be positively relishing the whole thing. But the bottom line is there’s no cure. People either get better, or they die. You got better. I will too, if I keep on working.’
Rachel’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm and she looked like a witch Stevie remembered from a book she had read as a child, beautiful in her deathliness. ‘You know how I am, Stevie,’ she continued. ‘As soon as I go on holiday I fall prey to some malady or other. My father was the same. He worked for over fifty years with barely a day off sick in his life. He retired at the age of seventy-five and six months later he was dead.’ Rachel’s voice took on a pleading quality. ‘Even if the others let us down, we can put out some kind of broadcast tomorrow, just the two of us. I’ll operate the camera, and you can present the same products we showed tonight. It was decent enough trash, don’t you think?’
Stevie searched her memory for the name of Rachel’s latest boyfriend and drew a blank.
‘Is there anyone at your place?’
‘I tried Nigel’s landline and his mobile. He’s not answering.’ Rachel’s laugh was harsh. ‘Nobody’s answering.’
‘In that case, if you won’t go to the hospital, I’ll take you home with me.’
‘You’ve always had contempt for what we do, haven’t you?’ The sweat was standing out on Rachel’s forehead now, but her voice was surprisingly strong. ‘Even though it’s made you a good living for five years.’
The suddenness of the attack surprised Stevie, but Rachel had always been a tactician, able to coax or cajole in order to get her own way. She would have made an ideal general for a heroic losing army, ready to rally her troops on a long fight to the death.
‘That’s crap.’
‘At least have the honesty to admit it.’ The producer let out a snort. ‘You think all we do is sell swag to a bunch of halfwits.’
Stevie had thought it was what they both believed, but she whispered, ‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t you?’ Rachel took a handful of tissues from the box on the dressing table and wiped her face. ‘I’m surprised, because that is what we do. We sell shit no one needs to people stupid enough to buy it. We’re not breakfast TV or Newsnight , not even our biggest fans could claim that we’re an essential service, but we go into thousands of viewers’ homes every day. Some of them have so little in their lives they think of our presenters, of Joanie and you, God help them, as friends. Are you really willing to let them down?’
‘There’s nothing I can do for them.’
Rachel’s face creased into a horrid parody of a smile. She had aged in the course of the night and the summer-blonde cut that had been model-sharp at the start of the programme seemed to mock her decay.
‘Come on, Stevie, you wanted to be in show business, remember?’
‘No I didn’t. I wanted to be a journalist.’
‘You wanted to show off.’ Rachel held her arms wide. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women in it merely players. They each have their entrances and their exits. Let’s make our exits in good style.’
‘I may be a show-off.’ It was true. Stevie knew her looks were both her secret strength and her kryptonite. They were the reason she had landed a TV sales job so vacuous she wanted to return to journalism, and so cushy she had never found the strength to leave. ‘But I don’t consider selling necklaces that are meant to make you look thin, tabletop donut fryers, or face cream that’s guaranteed to fill in wrinkles, as going out in good style.’
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she had summoned the remnants of the charm that had made her
Rachel’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm and she looked like a witch Stevie remembered from a book she had read as a child, beautiful in her deathliness. ‘You know how I am, Stevie,’ she continued. ‘As soon as I go on holiday I fall prey to some malady or other. My father was the same. He worked for over fifty years with barely a day off sick in his life. He retired at the age of seventy-five and six months later he was dead.’ Rachel’s voice took on a pleading quality. ‘Even if the others let us down, we can put out some kind of broadcast tomorrow, just the two of us. I’ll operate the camera, and you can present the same products we showed tonight. It was decent enough trash, don’t you think?’
Stevie searched her memory for the name of Rachel’s latest boyfriend and drew a blank.
‘Is there anyone at your place?’
‘I tried Nigel’s landline and his mobile. He’s not answering.’ Rachel’s laugh was harsh. ‘Nobody’s answering.’
‘In that case, if you won’t go to the hospital, I’ll take you home with me.’
‘You’ve always had contempt for what we do, haven’t you?’ The sweat was standing out on Rachel’s forehead now, but her voice was surprisingly strong. ‘Even though it’s made you a good living for five years.’
The suddenness of the attack surprised Stevie, but Rachel had always been a tactician, able to coax or cajole in order to get her own way. She would have made an ideal general for a heroic losing army, ready to rally her troops on a long fight to the death.
‘That’s crap.’
‘At least have the honesty to admit it.’ The producer let out a snort. ‘You think all we do is sell swag to a bunch of halfwits.’
Stevie had thought it was what they both believed, but she whispered, ‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t you?’ Rachel took a handful of tissues from the box on the dressing table and wiped her face. ‘I’m surprised, because that is what we do. We sell shit no one needs to people stupid enough to buy it. We’re not breakfast TV or Newsnight , not even our biggest fans could claim that we’re an essential service, but we go into thousands of viewers’ homes every day. Some of them have so little in their lives they think of our presenters, of Joanie and you, God help them, as friends. Are you really willing to let them down?’
‘There’s nothing I can do for them.’
Rachel’s face creased into a horrid parody of a smile. She had aged in the course of the night and the summer-blonde cut that had been model-sharp at the start of the programme seemed to mock her decay.
‘Come on, Stevie, you wanted to be in show business, remember?’
‘No I didn’t. I wanted to be a journalist.’
‘You wanted to show off.’ Rachel held her arms wide. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women in it merely players. They each have their entrances and their exits. Let’s make our exits in good style.’
‘I may be a show-off.’ It was true. Stevie knew her looks were both her secret strength and her kryptonite. They were the reason she had landed a TV sales job so vacuous she wanted to return to journalism, and so cushy she had never found the strength to leave. ‘But I don’t consider selling necklaces that are meant to make you look thin, tabletop donut fryers, or face cream that’s guaranteed to fill in wrinkles, as going out in good style.’
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she had summoned the remnants of the charm that had made her
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