such a feared operator. ‘If you carry on selling, you’ll reassure our viewers that everything is still okay.’ Her stare was as intense as a scientologist hoping to win her first conversion and Stevie remembered the craziness that had reputedly got Rachel fired from the BBC. ‘Whatever happens next, you’ll give them a sense of normality.’
Stevie caught a glimpse of how it might be, her own face bright and sunny, beaming into living rooms occupied by the dead and dying.
‘It’s you who wants the sense of normality, Rachel. If I carry on, I’ll only be lying to our viewers. We need to face the fact that everything’s not okay. Forget about your sales targets.’
Rachel’s last remnants of poise deserted her and she shouted, ‘This is nothing to do with sales targets.’
‘In that case let me take you home.’
The producer pulled herself to her feet. She was still wearing the high heels that were part of the dolly-bird camouflage she used to wrong-foot men into thinking she was approachable, and she staggered a little.
‘If you’re going to fuck off, at least have the grace to do it quickly.’
Stevie felt dizzy with the urge to race from the room, but she held her ground.
‘You’re not well.’
‘No shit Sherlock, you should have been a detective.’ Rachel stumbled forward, like a child’s nightmare of a scarecrow come to life. Stevie put out a steadying hand, but the producer grabbed a jar of moisturiser from the dressing table and flung it at her. The heavy pot hit Stevie on the forehead and she reeled, almost dropping her bag. Rachel hissed, ‘Go on, fuck off and live.’
Stevie touched her forehead. A lump was already rising where the jar had hit her, but the skin felt unbroken.
‘Rachel . . .’
The producer kept her fevered stare on Stevie. She reached a hand backwards to the dressing table, searching blindly for another missile.
‘I’d be careful if I were you. I never knew how much the dying hate the living.’ Rachel’s hand had found a clutch of nail-varnish bottles. ‘They’ll take you with them if they can.’
She fired one of the bottles of varnish at Stevie’s head. It missed, bounced off the door and smashed against the tiled floor, a slow leaking red.
‘Christ, I’m trying to help you.’
Rachel selected another bottle from her arsenal.
‘I may have the sweats but I’m not so desperate I need your help.’
This time the varnish was the pale blue of a Mediterranean sky. It spread across the floor like a promise of summer. Stevie jerked open the changing-room door and slammed it behind her. The sound of the producer’s laughter followed her down the corridor.
The lights that normally illuminated the car park were out. Stevie stood for a moment on the back steps of the studio, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, thinking of Joanie, alone in her nest of tubes and wires. Joanie had a sweetness that made people want to please her. She would have managed to persuade Rachel to go to hospital. Stevie wondered if she should go back and try again, but stepped out into the gloom of the forecourt, her pumps silent against the tarmac. Tiredness and the shock of Rachel’s attack had chilled her. She took a silk scarf from her jacket pocket and wrapped it around her neck.
Alone with Rachel, in the brightly lit changing room, it had seemed as if they were on the brink of the world’s end, but now she could see a chain of car headlights driving along the motorway in the distance. A plane passed overhead on its way to Stansted or Heathrow. She stopped and watched its landing lights blinking until it slipped into the darkness. Stevie took a deep breath and smelt freshly mown grass. She was alive in a world where people still cut their lawns. She let out a long, shivering sob of relief. She would go back, tell Rachel that they had both succumbed to mass hysteria and persuade her to go to hospital.
As Stevie turned to retrace her steps she glimpsed a figure, dark
Stevie caught a glimpse of how it might be, her own face bright and sunny, beaming into living rooms occupied by the dead and dying.
‘It’s you who wants the sense of normality, Rachel. If I carry on, I’ll only be lying to our viewers. We need to face the fact that everything’s not okay. Forget about your sales targets.’
Rachel’s last remnants of poise deserted her and she shouted, ‘This is nothing to do with sales targets.’
‘In that case let me take you home.’
The producer pulled herself to her feet. She was still wearing the high heels that were part of the dolly-bird camouflage she used to wrong-foot men into thinking she was approachable, and she staggered a little.
‘If you’re going to fuck off, at least have the grace to do it quickly.’
Stevie felt dizzy with the urge to race from the room, but she held her ground.
‘You’re not well.’
‘No shit Sherlock, you should have been a detective.’ Rachel stumbled forward, like a child’s nightmare of a scarecrow come to life. Stevie put out a steadying hand, but the producer grabbed a jar of moisturiser from the dressing table and flung it at her. The heavy pot hit Stevie on the forehead and she reeled, almost dropping her bag. Rachel hissed, ‘Go on, fuck off and live.’
Stevie touched her forehead. A lump was already rising where the jar had hit her, but the skin felt unbroken.
‘Rachel . . .’
The producer kept her fevered stare on Stevie. She reached a hand backwards to the dressing table, searching blindly for another missile.
‘I’d be careful if I were you. I never knew how much the dying hate the living.’ Rachel’s hand had found a clutch of nail-varnish bottles. ‘They’ll take you with them if they can.’
She fired one of the bottles of varnish at Stevie’s head. It missed, bounced off the door and smashed against the tiled floor, a slow leaking red.
‘Christ, I’m trying to help you.’
Rachel selected another bottle from her arsenal.
‘I may have the sweats but I’m not so desperate I need your help.’
This time the varnish was the pale blue of a Mediterranean sky. It spread across the floor like a promise of summer. Stevie jerked open the changing-room door and slammed it behind her. The sound of the producer’s laughter followed her down the corridor.
The lights that normally illuminated the car park were out. Stevie stood for a moment on the back steps of the studio, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, thinking of Joanie, alone in her nest of tubes and wires. Joanie had a sweetness that made people want to please her. She would have managed to persuade Rachel to go to hospital. Stevie wondered if she should go back and try again, but stepped out into the gloom of the forecourt, her pumps silent against the tarmac. Tiredness and the shock of Rachel’s attack had chilled her. She took a silk scarf from her jacket pocket and wrapped it around her neck.
Alone with Rachel, in the brightly lit changing room, it had seemed as if they were on the brink of the world’s end, but now she could see a chain of car headlights driving along the motorway in the distance. A plane passed overhead on its way to Stansted or Heathrow. She stopped and watched its landing lights blinking until it slipped into the darkness. Stevie took a deep breath and smelt freshly mown grass. She was alive in a world where people still cut their lawns. She let out a long, shivering sob of relief. She would go back, tell Rachel that they had both succumbed to mass hysteria and persuade her to go to hospital.
As Stevie turned to retrace her steps she glimpsed a figure, dark
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