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Chapter Four (#ulink_e220440f-dffe-555f-8540-2ae27bc77c04)
The silence seemed to go on for ever, to hang heavy in the air above the heaps of newspapers, the jumbled files and scuffed desks. It swirled with the dust from the overflowing ashtrays, and time slowed down as I gazed desperately at Will. I had stopped breathing, was just waiting for him to respond, to laugh, to step forward and hug me. But he didn’t.
Sure, for a moment there was a flicker in his eyes – but it was that flicker you get in the eyes of any strange man when he sees you for the first time, the quick measuring, appraising look. And then – nothing. Not a hint, not a glint of recognition.
This was worse, much worse than any row. This was nothing to do with anger. Will was looking at me as though he had never seen me before. As though I were a stranger, as if we had no life, no past together. Nothing. And when I saw that blankness in his eyes my whole world shifted, as though the very earth I was standing on had been hollowed out from under my feet and I was in free fall. Without him, there was nothing to cling to. Nothing.
I wanted to run up to him, fling my arms around him. OK, we’d had a row. That was in another world, another lifetime. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was here. But not when he looked at me like that.
‘Will?’ I asked, tentatively, hesitating, terrified that he wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I stood beside the desk, too frightened to move any closer.
Gordon was looking at me oddly. ‘Billy,’ he said to Will, ‘you haven’t met our temporary girl, have you? Rosie’s here for a few weeks. From America or somewhere.’
There was a little spark in Will’s eyes and then he smiled – oh that smile! – and held out his hand. ‘How do you do Rosie,’ he said. ‘Welcome to The News.’
I looked at him, expecting an acknowledgement, a little secret smile perhaps. Anything. But no. I shook his hand. And that’s when I had another shock. His hand was rough, callused. Not at all like Will’s. I looked up at him, puzzled.
There were other differences too. His haircut, of course. Very 1950s, short back and sides. But his face looked different, more hollowed, angular, and he looked somehow older, different in a way I can’t explain. I wanted to touch his cheek, follow those bones and hollows with my fingers, but he was looking at me as if I were a stranger.
I could still feel the impression of his hand in mine. But he had already turned away and was talking to Gordon about the court case he’d covered. It was as if I didn’t exist. I studied him from the back, the way his short haircut went into a little curl at the nape of his neck, how his shoulders looked so broad, yet he seemed slimmer. Must be the 1950s clothes.
But why did he blank me like that? How could he be so cruel? I sat at my desk, a copy of The News propped up in front of me, though I couldn’t have told you a single thing that was in it, while I tried to work it out. Yes. That must be it. We were in this 1950s house, but no one must know how close we were. We must pretend to be strangers. Then we can secretly work together, be a team. Together we could soon sort out what we should be doing and do it. But we mustn’t let on.
It was the only explanation I could think of, and I clung to it.
I knew I had to speak to Will alone – ideally somewhere out of reach of any possible cameras, and the office was surely full of them. But I needed to stay in the office so I could watch him, catch him when he left. Looking at him bent over the typewriter instead of a computer, yet the same pose, the same frown, the same fierce expression as he thought of the next sentence, and then the half-smile as he bashed it out. That was the Will I knew. Even if here he was wearing baggy grey trousers and a rather shabby shirt, instead of the stylish suits he normally wears.
I sat and watched and waited. Brian, the Night News Editor, came in and was introduced to me. At last he and Gordon went out to see Henfield. Will and I were alone in the newsroom and I had to seize my chance.
‘Will,’ I said, standing opposite him in the dusty yellow light.
He didn’t react immediately, just sort of looked up vaguely as if puzzled about who I was talking to.
‘Will!’ I hissed. ‘What are we going to do? What’s this all about? Do you know what’s going on?’
He looked at me, baffled. ‘Sorry, er Rosie, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. I’m nearly finished here. Have you done all your stuff? It’s time to go home. You’re not doing the late shift are you? No, you were here this morning.’
He looked back to his typewriter, typed a few more words, looked over what he’d written, pulled the papers and carbon out of the machine and folded them over. ‘Have you sent your stuff along? If you give it to me, I’ll drop it off with the subs for you on my way out.’
This was hopeless.
‘Will! We’ve got to have a plan, work out how we’re going to deal with this. Do you know who the other competitors are? Where are the cameras? And is there a video room? We’ve got to find out.’
Now he was lifting his jacket – a heavy, shapeless tweedy sort of jacket with pens in the front pocket and leather patches on the elbows – off the back of the chair and easing into it. ‘Sorry Rosie,’ he said, politely, ‘I don’t think I know what you want. Have a word with Gordon. Or if it’s cameras you’re interested in, talk to Charlie, the Chief Photographer, or young George. Anyway,’ he said, picking up the papers off his desk – and that was another difference, his desk was absolutely immaculate and tidy, very un-Will – ‘I must be getting a move on. I promised my wife I’d be home early. Goodnight. I hope you’ve enjoyed your first day with us. See you tomorrow.’
I didn’t reply. I stood there, leaning against the scarred wooden desk, looking at his desk, and the seat that he had left. He’d promised his wife he’d be home early. His wife? He’d promised his wife? No. I couldn’t believe it. Will didn’t have a wife.
I was still sitting in the office when Brian came back in. ‘Still here, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘I always knew Americans were keen.’
‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘Will, Billy. Is he married do you know?’
‘Billy? Oh yes, love, a real family man. Got a couple of kiddies too. Three of them I think.’ He smiled nicely. ‘You’re wasting your time there, love. Billy’s definitely spoken for.’
Billy. Will. A real family man. Married. Three kids.
No. No!
I gathered up my stuff and headed out of the building and back ‘home’ through town. My mind was going crazy. Will couldn’t be married. Not my Will. Certainly not so very married. Three kids? My skin went clammy with panic.
Calm down, I had to calm down. Think. I tried to think of all the possibilities. This was all pretend. It was a challenge. Like the bush tucker trial in the Celebrity Jungle thingy, only much much worse.
Yes, that’s what it was. It was just another challenge. I had my breathing almost under control. A challenge on a reality TV show. That’s what it was. All pretend. Somewhere in a viewing gallery there were people watching me and laughing themselves silly at my reaction, overreaction. It was only pretend.
Of course Will couldn’t say anything in the office. There were cameras in the office. That’s it. I’d have to get him outside. Somewhere there weren’t cameras. Somewhere where we could talk properly.
I was calmer now. It began to make a sort of sense.
But I couldn’t forget that blank look. That blank look had seemed too genuine. Could Will be that good an actor? I tried to shrug the memory from my mind.
It was a test, that’s all, just a test. But what a test …
Right now, what I needed was a drink, a very large drink. A large vodka would hit the spot. Or a nice rich red Merlot. Just the thought of it cheered me up and made life seem almost normal. I went out into the street and up into the Market Place, looking for a supermarket or an off licence, but there didn’t seem to be one, just lots of little shops, already shut up for the night. It all seemed very dark. No wine bars. No restaurants. No burger joints. Didn’t anybody ever eat out? Plenty of pubs though. Some of them looked a bit rough.
I carried on walking through the town centre. Then I saw The Fleece. Of course! The Fleece must have been a coaching inn centuries ago. It was terribly respectable, the sort of place that the Rotary meets. I bowled into one of the side bars. It was full of smoke and smelt really strongly of beer.
‘Hey you! Get out!’
I made my way past the tables and headed for the bar. The bar was already quite full and I needed some big fat chap to move his chair a bit so I could get past.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to get past please.’
‘You can just bugger off,’ he said and turned back to his drink, with a grin at his companion.
‘There’s no need for that!’ I said crossly.
‘There’s every bloody need. You shouldn’t be in here,’ he said, still not moving. The man with him laughed – not a nice laugh – and some of the other men joined in.
I wished to God I hadn’t gone in that bar, but I wasn’t going to be bullied. I squared my shoulders and said firmly, ‘I have every right to be in here.’
‘No you haven’t. Now get out.’
I looked over at the barman. Surely he would do something.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘but you’re not allowed in here. Men only.’
‘Men only? That’s illegal!’
‘No it isn’t, miss. This has always been a men-only bar. You’ll have to go.’
‘You can’t have bars that are just for men!’
‘Yes you can, miss. And this is one of them. Will you go now, please.’ He made a move as though he were going to lift the counter flap and come around and chase me off.
What else could I do? With my face bright red I left, making my way past all the little tables, while some of the men still laughed. Horrid. Horrid. Hateful. Another test. I tried not to let it worry me. I pushed my way out and in the corridor opposite I saw a door marked Lounge Bar. That would be all right. I walked in, trying to calm myself down.
This room looked much nicer. Comfortable chairs, horse brasses, a log fire and an air of quiet calm. And there was a woman here – a middle-aged couple were sitting in one of the corners beneath a picture of a hunting scene. I’d be all right here. I walked up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. There was a different barman, older. He was wiping glasses.
‘A large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
He carried on wiping glasses.
I waited for a moment. I was still getting myself calmed down from the other bar. But then the barman stopped wiping glasses and started stacking bottles on the shelf.
‘Excuse me,’ I said in my Like-I’m-here-can’t-you-see-me? sort of voice. ‘Could I have a vodka and cranberry juice please?’
This time he did at least bother to look up. He put his hands on the counter and looked around the room, towards the door.
‘You on your own, madam?’
‘Yes and I’d like a large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
He looked at me, not particularly pleasantly.
‘Two things, madam,’ he said. ‘First, we haven’t got any Russian drinks. And second, we don’t serve unaccompanied ladies, madam. I’m sure you understand why.’
I was gobsmacked.
‘No I don’t actually. I haven’t a bloody clue.’
‘Language, madam, please. I can’t serve you and I must ask you to leave.’
I looked towards the middle-aged couple, thinking they’d be sympathetic and help me out here. But they were suddenly intent on the pattern on the table.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, getting really angry now. ‘If you haven’t got vodka, then give me a large glass of Merlot.’
He leant forward menacingly and said, ‘I’m not giving you anything, madam.’ Then, in a fierce undertone, ‘Now just sling your hook before I call the manager and get you put out. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want your sort in here.’
My sort? What did he think I was? A tart touting for custom?
And then it dawned on me. That’s precisely what he did think. The idea was so ridiculous I started to laugh, despite myself. I slipped off the stool and made quite a good exit. But outside I was shaking. It was ridiculous but it was also insulting. I still hadn’t got a drink. And Will had got a wife. Not a good day.
I headed back to the Browns’. I desperately needed to talk properly to Will. This was a challenge too far, no joke. I remembered his blank look and started to panic again, wanted to cry. But no, it was a game, a TV show. It wasn’t real, I reminded myself firmly. It’s not real. We’d sort it all out tomorrow.
I blew my nose on the silly little lace-edged hanky I’d found in my jacket pocket and headed for home. I wasn’t sure of the way but I strode out purposefully and kept my head held high and my expression determined. I even tried to smile – just in case those cameras were watching.
Chapter Five (#ulink_fa90d488-8e0a-5132-b1a2-a795304a4c15)
Oh they’re clever, whoever’s doing this. Clever and crueltoo. But I must not let them get to me. I’m not going to let them. Whatever nasty sneaky tricks they pull.
I thought the 1950s house was going to be about practicalthings – like doing without decent wine and hotshowers, wearing scratchy underwear and not being ableto do my hair. Not psychological warfare. But then Iremembered a piece Caz wrote last year about how cruelreality TV was getting. Every new series pushes thebarriers a bit further. The last one locked people alonein the dark for days on end. They were so disorientatedthey lost all sense of reality and of who they were. Publicexecutions are the next step, Caz reckoned. But I thinkshe’s wrong. I think it’s mind games to see who can copebest. That’s why there was no warning, no preparation.Well, no one’s going to make a victim of me. Certainlynot for a TV programme. Certainly not for a TV programme I didn’t ask to be in. Not even after theirlatest trick.
We marched into work, Peggy and I, walking together, umbrellas up against the suddenly fierce spring rain, neither of us in the best of moods, neither of us saying a word. Not only had I not been able to get a drink last night, but when I got back to the house, supper was liver and onions and congealing cabbage, left in the oven for me, stuck to the plate with skin on the gravy. And that Janice was there again, doing sums about compound interest that stretched for pages and pages.
‘Always get an interest-free credit card,’ I’d offered as an attempt at a bit of cheerful advice, but then had to explain to her what a credit card was. It sounds so stupid when you try to explain it. And all the time my mind was full of thoughts of Will and his wife. And three children. It had to be a trick or a challenge, didn’t it?
It was like that bit in 1984 where Room 101 is full of all the things that people dread most. Well, I realised that what I dreaded most was losing Will. Only I hadn’t realised it until now. Obviously the TV people knew more about me than I knew about myself. Clever and cruel. No wonder I hadn’t slept. My eyes felt raw.
At breakfast Peggy was being a real pain, obviously more than normal as even her dad kept asking her if she was all right, but she only snapped back at him. Anyway, his mind was on other things and Mrs Brown was worried about a friend who was having some problems with her husband. So everyone was a bit distracted really.
Mrs Brown had dashed out even earlier than usual. ‘I want to go around to Joan’s and sort out a few things for her there. Dennis has had one of his turns again. Smashed the kitchen up this time.’
‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘Has she called the police? Is she safe? You don’t have to put up with domestic violence.’
‘He can’t help it,’ she said, gathering up her bag and scarf. ‘It’s them bloody Japs. They worked him almost to death in that prison camp. Before the war he was the loveliest, kindest man you could imagine. Now he gets these rages.’
‘Isn’t there some treatment he could have? Therapy? Counselling? Compensation? How on earth does his wife cope?’
I’d read all the articles on domestic violence, and written a fair few too. I knew the score and the helpline numbers.
Mrs Brown looked at me pityingly. ‘She’s just glad she’s got him back at all. And it’s not as bad as it was. It was fearful at first, like looking after a wounded animal. Now he’s much better, most of the time. But then something will start him off, something will remind him, and she has to sit with him and hold him and talk to him and keep him out of the children’s way. So I’ll just pop round to give her a hand and at least I’ll make sure the kids get a decent meal. You two can fend for yourselves. There’s some ham in the pantry and some cheese and I’ll pop a couple of potatoes in the oven for you so they should be baked when you get home. And there’s some of that treacle tart left.’
‘Right-o, Mum,’ said Peggy, ‘but I might be going out anyway.’
‘That’s nice, dear. In by ten o’clock, mind. You’ve got work tomorrow,’ said Mrs Brown, but she was already halfway out of the door before Peggy could say anything in reply.
I expected her to sound off. In by ten o’clock! Peggy was twenty-six, not sixteen for heaven’s sake. But she didn’t say anything. Staggering. On the other hand, if Peggy’s another competitor then maybe it was a test for her and she’s better at not overreacting than I am.
We arrived at The News offices still in silence, and as we got to the front door, both of us sort of stopped and took a deep breath before we went into the building. I glanced across at Peggy. There was a hint of a smile, a glimmer of recognition and fellow feeling, but not enough for me to ask.
I wasn’t sure about all this at all. If this was a reality TV programme then I should have had some rules, some instructions, some guidelines, some clue about what was going on. And if it was Narnia, then where was a helpful faun or a Mrs Beaver with buttered toast? Or an Aslan to make everything right?
I took a deep breath and went into the reporters’ room, bracing myself for seeing Will. I could cope. Of course I could cope. This was only a TV programme, for goodness’ sake. It wasn’t real life. As I hung my coat up, I took a quick look around, oh so casually, and when I came to his desk, I prepared myself, controlled my expression … but he wasn’t there. I let out a huge sigh. I didn’t know whether from relief or disappointment, but I’d been holding my breath so hard that my chest hurt.
Gordon was talking to the other reporters, Alan, Tony and Derek, allocating jobs.
‘Billy’s over in the district office today, chasing something up, so you can do his jobs,’ he was saying to Alan.
‘Anything for me?’ I asked, keeping a desk between me and Gordon. I was careful not to stand too near to him. Already he had a habit of getting even closer and ‘accidentally’ brushing against my bum or breasts. He didn’t smell too sweet either. Personal hygiene doesn’t seem to have been a big thing in the 1950s. I felt like hitting him, hard, but remembering I had to be all teeth and smiles, I had, so far, restrained myself.
He looked up at me as if wondering who the hell I was.
‘If she does all the shorts today, why doesn’t she do the Prettiest Village feature tomorrow?’ asked Marje quickly, lighting a cigarette. You only ever saw this woman through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve booked a photographer but I’ve got a lot on.’
Gordon looked at me again. ‘I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘If you’ve got other things to do, Marje. I suppose if she makes a mess of it, you can do it on Friday.’
