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After the Break
Penny Smith
The brilliant second novel from GMTV’s Penny Smith. A sequel to ‘Coming Up Next’, Katie Fisher’s back in front of the cameras, but not exactly on the sofa.Katie Fisher, one-time presenter of breakfast TV show Hello Britain!, nearly has her life in perfect order. She's recovered from her humiliating dismissal, improved her relationship with the drinks cabinet and, most importantly, found a gorgeous new TV producer boyfriend. But her dream job as a chat show host has come to an end and there doesn't seem to be much work around - she's starting to get worried.Then she's offered a place on Celebrity X-treme - the latest celebrity-humiliating reality show. But is a reality TV program really a good idea? Will it save her career or be the final blow? And just how tempting are two weeks in a freezing cabin in Norway, with a group of people no one's quite heard of? Very tempting - when the pay check is that big.So Katie takes the risk - along with a page 3 model, an out-of-work soap actor, an old, failed comedian and some woman who had an affair with a politician. She's soon out of her depth, as scheming producers do everything in their power to get the show they want - it's going to take all Katie's good humour and bad puns to bounce back from this one.
After the Break
PENNY SMITH
To my brothers and sister
Table of Contents
Chapter One (#u67e1b157-15d9-5443-97af-cc4e5ad4039d)
Chapter Two (#ud08ef604-2245-5dd3-b999-5075c6c1a7d9)
Chapter Three (#u2d021c28-f303-5f2e-85c8-6a7ec78e0819)
Chapter Four (#ucf03dff8-f4de-5ab6-91c8-4ba58e2a8377)
Chapter Five (#ubab29b13-4369-543b-8302-91a699f941fb)
Chapter Six (#u22f34c0a-50dd-5562-90a1-bd01fa0a741f)
Chapter Seven (#ufe2905b6-6a28-58bb-a110-923eebcd5af8)
Chapter Eight (#u5e0b1c59-0bc6-5557-afd5-9251dfd47173)
Chapter Nine (#uaa6b0e66-7c43-5ac5-a3c1-0528b47c515b)
Chapter Ten (#u6b6727fc-c28d-56e6-9cb3-48a546ae6635)
Chapter Eleven (#u6d77b165-b95c-5c33-9cf3-5c0294a00542)
Chapter Twelve (#u657dd554-53f0-509e-8cb8-bf4246082d92)
Chapter Thirteen (#u912478fa-399c-56f4-b82b-d82a225c8a18)
Chapter Fourteen (#ue6040114-a3b3-5279-bb6c-a1ba88a26f35)
Chapter Fifteen (#u270511e1-eb99-5a69-b37b-d73be6b34c86)
Chapter Sixteen (#u6e92223c-b134-5b81-a1da-719973aca589)
Chapter Seventeen (#u258b4ad0-aeeb-52b9-aba5-4f6cd0813629)
Chapter Eighteen (#u3d8c9974-c1f4-5a68-ac21-00a07f27f47f)
Chapter Nineteen (#u4ef16d6c-23ab-538b-9156-6c6b9d0bf9ee)
Chapter Twenty (#u39bd4d83-d7d1-5726-9001-fd3ee9c4178a)
Chapter Twenty-One (#uac4bcee4-f894-519f-85d1-3f5ed3eb60a6)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#uae122210-dd7a-5c1b-a3da-37a5a795441d)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u6e67a0df-f941-5d49-849f-efb55cc0e544)
Also by Penny Smith (#ucbed5214-0fde-53c3-8750-07f0d915b4b4)
Copyright (#ucdc14f17-1251-547b-82dc-09a38e601bcc)
About the Publisher (#u7fc6353c-a991-5034-8c11-808678074af0)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9d3d0bab-f43e-53e7-b446-0a915d9f421a)
It is a well-known fact that celebrity game shows are only for those who crave fame, more fame or fortune. The producers of Celebrity X-Treme had trawled the usual suspects for their new show, set in Norway. They were trying to get the last two people to sign up, but had already decided on a number of possible storylines. They wouldn’t be so much manipulating (an accusation they vehemently denied) as helping things along.
A meeting of executive producers, producers and directors had been convened at the headquarters of the production company before many of them flew out. Siobhan Stamp, the striking woman who would oversee the entire thing, stood at the front of the room. She was slim, with translucent skin and deep-set blue eyes, which were always lined with kohl pencil. Today her strawberry blonde hair was tied back loosely, and a few tendrils had been teased in front of her ears. I know we’ve been through the list over and over again, whittling it down and discussing it ad infinitum, but I thought I’d just make sure we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet. So, let’s go…Denise Trench.’
A picture of her appeared on the screen behind.
‘Lead singer in Label. Two hits. Won the Eurovision Song Contest. Twice in rehab–alcohol and drugs. Single. Ageing woman-about-town.’
The picture changed to that of a page-three model who had been allegedly ‘comforting’ a Premier League footballer after his marriage split. ‘Crystal Blake,’ said Siobhan. ‘Tony Belt, of Arsenal, says he’s categorically not dating her, and never has. Which seems likely, considering she’s willing to do Celebrity X-Treme. Young, but not as dim as you might think.’
She turned to look at the next photo, of a woman who bore a striking similarity to Naomi Campbell. ‘Tanya Wilton. Has had a two-year relationship with Howard Elph, the shadow environment minister, who has since ended his marriage. But they are no longer an item. Seems to have no visible means of support.’
One of the male producers sniggered. Tanya Wilton was a natural G cup.
Siobhan smiled at him. Little did he know it, but she had plans for him. She paused. Looked back to the screen. ‘Flynn O’Mara. Astrologer to the stars. Married to her manager. Two children. Columns in the Mail and various glossy magazines.’
The handsome face of a soap star filled the screen. ‘Peter Philbin. His contract hasn’t been renewed. He says it’s his choice. He wants to go travelling, possibly trace his real parents in Jamaica and Ireland.’ She had imbued that sentence with a degree of cynicism.
‘Dave Beal,’ she went on. ‘Comedian of the old school. Fifty.’
There was a sharp intake of breath–he looked at least fifteen years older.
‘Hasn’t worked on television for years. Mostly lives abroad. Did very well out of the property boom. Unlike Steve Flyte…’ The face of the man who had been in all the papers talking about his divorce from a renowned cocaine-snorting actress appeared behind her. ‘DJ. Confirmed heterosexual’ She left it there. Everyone knew that he batted for both sides. ‘Helping out when they’re busy’, as one member of staff had put it.
‘Paul Martin. Columnist/rent-a-quote, getting a higher profile by the week. Says he’s doing this to have an insight into the world of the celebrity. Often to be seen at premières, parties, nightclubs, et cetera. And…’
She turned to check.
‘Alex Neil. Clothes designer. Gay. Single. No long relationships. Finally, Katie Fisher,’ she said, trying not to sound venomous. ‘Katie used to be one of the main anchors on Hello Britain!. She got sacked. Did a late-night series called Start the Weekend. Currently dating Adam Williams, one of the owners of Wolf Days Productions.’
She looked down at her notes. ‘Now, as you know, Katie Fisher and Flynn O’Mara are not confirmed as yet, and a couple of others are waiting in the wings. In terms of stories coming out of the show, we do anticipate at least one relationship. And when I say relationship, I don’t necessarily mean one resulting in marriage. But if we can all keep our eyes peeled–you know the sort of thing we want. I don’t need to tell you that the success of this will rest on what keeps viewers on the edge of their seats. Will he, won’t he? Will she, won’t she? They’ve all got massive egos. That’s why they’re in this show. We want flirting, we want fights. We want confrontations, conflagrations. We want a soap opera. Let’s give the audience the best reality TV show they’ve seen in the last decade.’
Katie Fisher had not set out to be a television presenter. She had wanted to be a journalist ever since she could remember, and had been ecstatic when she had got a job as a cub reporter on a local newspaper. She had worked her way up from there to the job she had loved as co-host on the number-one breakfast show.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman in her forties with clear skin, wavy auburn hair and green eyes. On a good day, she felt passable. On a bad day, she felt almost too dreadful to approach the front door, let alone walk through it.
What the men who fell in love with her saw was a woman in her prime with sparkling eyes and a body made for the bedroom.
Katie had made enough money during her years on the prestigious sofa at Hello Britain! to have a flat in Chelsea overlooking the river, and a pretty cottage in Dorset, which she had bought after she’d done a chat show in a nearby village. It had seen a lot of use during her relationship, now ended, with landscape gardener Bob Hewlett. He lived in a beautiful house near her parents and was one of her brother’s best friends. He looked like a blue-eyed Richard Gere, had the most attractive forearms and a cat called Caligula.
Months of bliss had been brought to an abrupt halt by a stray remark from a friend, who revealed that Bob’s protestations of faithfulness during a temporary split had been overstated. He had apparently indulged in a fling with a marine biologist called Clare McMurray, who continued to keep in touch.
Katie discovered her jealous gene, which she had previously thought missing.
One of her great friends, Dee–the weather presenter at Hello Britain!–wasn’t convinced that this was the end of Katie and Bob. She had never seen Katie as happy, funny, silly and full of the joys of life as she had been with Mr Hewlett.
Katie and she met up at the gym they had joined in a drunken pact at New Year. They were now familiar with the café’s offerings, rather less so with the inside of the adjoining gym. They sat drinking herbal tea in their tracksuits, having done no more than change into them. Dee had (as usual) claimed fatigue from the early mornings. Katie had (as usual) pleaded idleness. The window was open, allowing an occasional waft of vaguely fresh air to blow through.
‘Yes, I know I did the dirty on Bob first,’ said Katie, taking an accidentally noisy slurp of her tea. ‘He lied to me, though, for months. And that is unforgivable.’
‘To be fair,’ said Dee, ‘you probably wouldn’t have told him about that bloke, Krishnan Casey, if it hadn’t been in the papers.’
‘How on earth can you remember his name?’ asked Katie, impressed.
‘He was very good-looking and I always remember very good-looking men.’
‘Well. Anyway,’ said Katie, ‘the point is, I only kissed him. And kissing someone is not the same as going to bed with them. Not in my book.’
‘But you’d split up. Bob was a single man to all intents and purposes. He thought he could go at it with impunity.’
‘Her name was Clare.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said he was at it with Impunity’
‘If you don’t want to discuss it, then tell me to shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with your crap punning today.’
‘Oooh,’ sang Katie, lips pursed.
‘No. Really. I’m knackered. Simon’s being a total tit and keeps hunting me down in corridors to tell me I’m shit and that he doesn’t know why I bother. Why can’t they get a different editor? I don’t believe the entire success of Hello Britain! rests on his skinny arse.’
Simon had been one of those responsible for Katie leaving the show. He was a vindictive man with sparse hair and a penchant for weak tea with sugar.
‘Try not to worry too much,’ said Katie, immediately solicitous. ‘He can’t get rid of you, you’re too popular.’
‘You know that’s only as true as my last press cutting,’ Dee responded. ‘The only reason he wouldn’t sack me is because he sacked you. If he got rid of another presenter, it would look bad.’
‘To lose one presenter is unfortunate. To lose two is careless.’
‘Exactly.’ Dee smiled, reaching back to untie her dark hair from the elastic band she had shoved it into for the alleged workout. ‘It’s exhausting. I say something on air, then wait for him to come and tell me how rubbish it was. It’s doing my head in. It’s got to the stage where I start a sentence and then, because I’m worried, I don’t finish it. So it actually is shit. As he says it is.’
They sipped their infusions, contemplating the man they both disliked.
‘Which flavour is this?’ asked Katie.
‘Passionfruit and vanilla, I think. Why?’
‘They all taste the same. Like tangy hot water. They always smell nicer than they are. What’s yours?’
‘Mandarin and grapefruit.’ Dee offered it, and Katie took a sip.
‘Yup. Tastes like mine.’ She put down her own cup, pondering the infidelity question. ‘It’s about honesty. At any stage, Bob could have told me he’d shagged that woman. But he didn’t.’
‘He only lied by omission.’
‘No. He lied. I asked him what he’d got up to while we were in limbo–’
‘Separated,’ corrected Dee.
‘Whatever. And he said he’d missed me–and that’s mostly what he did. Pined. Or some such tosh.’
‘You can miss someone and sleep with someone else, can’t you? To get over it, perhaps?’ asked Dee, raising her eyebrows questioningly.
‘In that case, he should have told me,’ said Katie, emphatically.
‘Maybe he thought you wouldn’t understand. You can be a bit, erm…’
Katie smiled at her friend as she searched for the right word. ‘Yes, I know I can be stroppy. But he should have tried. It was much worse the way he did it. Anyway. It’s all over. For ever,’ she said, standing up and draining her cup.
Dee reached for her bag and sighed. ‘Well, I think it’s a crying shame. You two were brilliant together.’
Katie looked arch. ‘I’ve got a date tonight.’
‘Oh, yes?’ asked Dee, her eyes alight with enquiry.
‘With Matt Damon.’
‘No. Really?’ Dee demanded disbelievingly.
‘No. Not really,’ Katie agreed. ‘The next best thing, though. Adam Williams.’
‘Oh, God, he’s gorgeous,’ said Dee, elongating the word, and trying to zip up her overflowing gym bag.
Adam Williams and Nick Midhurst were co-owners of Wolf Days Productions, the company that had produced Start the Weekend in Dorset.
They were both extraordinarily handsome. If Adam looked like Matt Damon, then Nick bore more than a passing resemblance to Ben Affleck.
‘He’s not only gorgeous, he’s also very nice,’ said Katie, running both hands through her long hair, bringing it forwards over her face and peeping seductively through the strands. ‘And he isn’t a lying toe-rag,’ she added provocatively.
‘Bob isn’t a toe-rag,’ Dee asserted, rising to the bait. And this is all a bit quick, isn’t it? You finish with one, and another pops up before you’ve put the lid on the pen, or whatever the expression is.’
‘Bonnet on the pig?’
