Chapter 31
There’s a scramble to the ladies’ immediately after the ceremony so I wait a little while, making all the right noises about Jamila’s team’s loss – namely that awards are meaningless (which is obviously not what I’d be saying if she’d won). When I finally make a break for it, I’m crossing the beautiful art-deco foyer of the hotel, when I lock eyes with a familiar face.
Martin O’Donoghue, the producer of Our Girl in Milan , is one of those men who looks uncomfortable in a tux, though maybe it’s just the bow tie, which makes his wide neck almost disappear. There’s a strange moment, a bit like seeing someone in a supermarket you don’t really want to chat to, when we both consider pretending we haven’t seen the other.
I’m not sure which one of us decides to be grown up first, but we wave simultaneously and head semi-reluctantly towards each other.
‘Good to see you, Martin.’
‘And you, Lisa.’
He’s a decent man and a good producer. But my unease isn’t merely because the last time I spoke to him it was to say we weren’t going ahead with his show. It’s because the project that’s now dominating my time in its place – My Teenage Bombsite – is not exactly running smoothly. At least it hasn’t been this week. There have been several disagreements between the two production companies, first over the wording of the ‘treatment’ – the two-page summary of the concept – then over whether the title should be adjusted to My Teenager’s Bombsite , My Teen Bombsite , or something else that has no reference to bombsites at all in case it is misconstrued as a programme about terrorism.
‘Listen I’m sorry about, you know . . . not being able to proceed,’ I say, feeling like it’s better to mention the elephant in the room straight away.
‘Hey, it’s fine,’ he reassures me. ‘We all know what this business is like. We’re over it.’
I nod, gratefully. ‘And are YouTime treating you well?’
‘Very,’ he says. ‘I’ll admit I was unhappy after that last phone call we had. We were so close to the wire. But now . . . well, we’re philosophical. Who knows – maybe one day you and I can make something work.’
We chat for a little while, before I excuse myself and finally make it to the bathroom, where I take the opportunity while still in the cubicle to perform a task that’s become increasingly imperative as the night has worn on. My multiway bra started out as taut as a parachute harness, but over the course of the evening, the straps have loosened. As a result, the scaffolding that originally kept my breasts in the optimum position has now allowed them to droop by a good three inches, offering absolutely nothing in the way of support.
I tighten them up and look in my clutch bag for some hair pins to fix each side in place, but it seems I haven’t brought any. After experimenting with a variety of fruitless solutions, I decide to whip down the top of my dress, wrestle off the bra and secure both sides with a small knot. I’m in a state of slight dishevelment by the time I’ve redressed, but at least those four years as a Girl Guide didn’t go to waste.
I’m about to step outside when a text arrives from Mum who, despite it being 10.30pm, is clearly still awake.
Do you know anything about a washing-up bottle and some loo roll for Jacob?
‘Oh . . . fucking Gaudi,’ I mutter, though my beef has nothing to with the Catalan Modernists.
I dart out to wash my hands, then quickly exit the bathroom in search of somewhere quiet to call her. I cross a busy landing, saying, ‘Hi!’ enroute to various industry people – one of whom I realise immediately afterwards was a bloke in Line of Duty who I’ve never met in my life.
I eventually find my way onto a large balcony that overlooks the whole of Hyde Park and the sparkle of London beyond. It seems to be occupied by a handful of smokers and one couple – or maybe not a couple – getting amorous in the corner.
I lean on the thick stone wall and press call. She answers after a few rings.
‘I was heading to bed.’
‘Sorry – I was just responding to your text,’ I explain.
‘Oh, that,’ she says, through a yawn. ‘Yes, Jacob seemed to think he’d be in enormous trouble if he doesn’t take this long list of things in tomorrow. I told him it definitely won’t be tomorrow because you’d have organised it otherwise.’
I wince.
‘Lisa?’ she says, after a moment.
‘Well, the thing is . . .’
‘Please do NOT tell me I’ve got to find six rubber bands and an empty box of Pringles before 8am tomorrow? I was about to snuggle up with Richard Osman!’
‘No, you don’t,’ I say firmly. ‘Of course you don’t. This is my fault, so leave it with me. I’ll phone the school in the morning to explain.’
‘But Jacob seemed very worried—’
‘Honestly, Mum. Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll sort it.’
We have a brief conversation about how Leo spent the evening watching Fawlty Towers with Dad, despite the fact that the last television programme he willingly watched with me was Teletubbies . Jacob meanwhile has had a fun evening of jigsaws and fairy cake baking, before his homework was done on time without her even having to ask.
I end the call unable to decide whether my overriding feeling is gratitude or an acute sense of my own inadequacy.
‘Got a light?’
I look up to see a young guy in his early thirties draped languorously on the balcony. He’s strikingly handsome in a foppish, Cambridge Footlights kind of way, tall and tanned with a floppy, dark blond fringe. He’s undoubtedly ‘talent’, an actor I suspect, though I can’t recall seeing him in anything.
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ I reply.
‘Ah . . . never mind,’ he sighs, leaning back on the wall with both elbows and sliding me an odd sideways smile. ‘I should probably vape instead anyway, but it just isn’t as . . . romantic , is it? You’d never have caught Don Draper with an e-cigarette.’
‘From what I hear, vaping is not especially good for you either,’ I reply, with matronly disapproval, as my thoughts immediately turn to Leo.
‘True,’ he says, with a long drawl that suggests he is very , very drunk.
I’m about to leave, when he adds: ‘Are you an actress?’
I laugh. ‘Me? No.’
He pushes away from the wall and starts sauntering towards me in slow motion, his eyes fixed as if he’s looking down the lens of a camera for an aftershave advert. It’s partly the way he sashays that makes me realise what’s odd about the expression on his face. It’s... God what’s the word? Seductive .
I blink in frozen astonishment. When he’s right in front of me, he rests his elbow on the stone wall and I half expect the next words out of his mouth to be, ‘Martini, shaken not stirred.’ But, by now, he’s not looking at my face. Only my cleavage. In fact, his mouth is slightly parted, tongue near lolling, pupils widening as if in a state of pure hypnosis. I follow his gaze downward and only then register that I might have gone a little overboard with my clove hitches.
As a result of my, admittedly excellent, knotting skills, my breasts are positively mountainous. In fact, they bring to mind the last papier maché scale model Jacob’s enthusiastic art teacher organised – of Cheddar Gorge.
‘D’you know who you remind me of?’ he murmurs.
‘Um . . . go on.’
‘Gillian Anderson.’
I feel a tug of relief that he didn’t say someone who works in Hooters.
He leans in, so close now I can smell the whisky on his breath. ‘And by the way . . . I’ve always had a huuuuuge crush on Gillian Anderson.’
At that point, I jerk backwards in a gesture that sets off an unfortunate chain of events, which happens so fast I can barely take it in.
It begins with a ping in the region of my right bra cup, as one end of the strap catapults out of my décolletage. This is followed by a shriek from my young suitor as he crashes away, clasping his eye, like the stuntman in some terrible, tragic scene in a Western movie.
‘ARGH! WHAT THE FUCK?’
He staggers across the balcony, emitting a sound of pure agony, as he clutches his face and I scurry after him, muttering apologies and attempting to get a proper look. But he’s too busy shrieking and by now a small crowd has begun to gather.
‘This is an emergency!’ a guest declares heroically as he reaches for his phone.
‘Are you calling an ambulance?’ someone asks.
‘No, his agent.’
Next, a woman pushes through the door announcing that she’s a doctor, though it’s not entirely clear whether that means she’s a cast member from Casualty . It takes several minutes before calm is restored and the victim of my wayward lingerie finally removes his hand to allow her to see the damage. She peers in, using the light from her iPhone to give him a thorough examination. Then she stands up and purses her lips.
‘Not even a scratch,’ she says, with an air of disappointment that very much does suggest the only medical qualifications she has were picked up at the Central School of Speech and Drama.
He pushes out his bottom lip as if he’s just lost his teddy bear. ‘Well, it’s really sore ,’ he says, but by now it seems the drama’s over and I take the opportunity to dart back inside.