Chapter Two
Blame Justin and spindly-legged arsehole insects, I silently instruct him.
When the driver at last pulls up outside the cast and crew entrance, he grins as I thank him.
‘You’re welcome, Ms Carpenter.’ He pauses, as I inelegantly clamber across the backseat. As I go to shut the door, he adds, ‘Your nails look lovely, by the way. Very Instagram ready.’ I laugh nervously and thank him again.
Weird.
Especially since one of them is broken and scuffed.
A member of the production staff called Maz is waiting just inside the building entrance.
She’s holding a clipboard and is deep in conversation with a guy I vaguely recognise as being a breakout star – slash narcissistic villain – from a recent reality show.
He’s probably one of today’s guests on the sofa.
Maz glances up as I enter, surprise registering on her face.
I give her a quick wave and she returns it after a moment’s hesitation, her expression confused.
The reality star looks up, clocking me. ‘It’s you!’ he says, looking excited.
‘It’s… me!’ I confirm, because how else is a person supposed to respond to that?
I hear it a lot and always have to resist the urge to reply, ‘Yes, it is me because I am me. And it’s also you, and aren’t pronouns fun?
’ I’m not famous-famous, but I am on TV three mornings a week – Wednesday through Friday – handing out relationship advice to the country’s broken-hearted women.
People do get like this from time to time.
Although, I note with interest, this twenty-something bronzed triangle isn’t my usual type of fan.
They tend to be shy young betas who’ve been shat on from a great height by everyone for most of their lives. Often by men like this one, actually.
I smile my best public-facing smile at him and give Maz a half-hearted little finger wave. Then – clinging for dear life onto my bag to keep me upright – I make a beeline for the green room.
A few people are dotted around on sofas, looking 5am-glazed and buried in newspapers or their phones.
I dump my bag by the espresso machine, making myself an extra strong coffee.
I feel hungover even though I didn’t drink much last night.
I head straight for the make-up room, my head spinning.
I love the beauty team and today I urgently need the beauty team.
‘Morning, Jools! Hiya, Andi!’ I burst into the small, well-lit room, mirrors glinting off every wall. ‘How are you gorgeous creatures today?’ I take a long sip of my coffee, feeling the joyous placebo effect of caffeine coursing its way through my nervous system.
‘Liv?’ Juliette – Jools – blinks at me with horror. ‘You’re here?’ Andi stares at me vacantly, a strange look on her face.
I tilt my head at them and for half a second I’m certain I must’ve got my days mixed up. Am I here on my day off?
No, it’s definitely a Friday, I know it is. And the taxi picked me up; it wouldn’t have been at my house at 4.30am if this wasn’t one of my scheduled appearance days.
So why are Jools and Andi looking at me like that? Like they can’t believe I’m here?
Oh shit, maybe someone called to cancel me this morning.
My phone died last night at the restaurant, and in the aftermath-y, up-all-night hysteria, I didn’t plug it in.
I wanted to ask the driver to charge it for me on the way in, but he was being such an oddball.
Too dazzled by my Shellac, it would seem.
‘Er, I am here, yes!’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘And I haven’t slept at all. Please save me from my own eyebags. They are like wet bin liners under my skin.’ The pair exchange a look of concern but then Jools gestures at her chair.
‘Of course, sweetheart, have a seat.’
I do so, pulling out my phone and charger. ‘Do you mind if I plug this in?’
Jools nods towards the socket on the wall and prepares her make-up station. I settle in, readying myself for the usual soothing routine.
Jools is probably my favourite person at the studio, though I’m dimly aware it’s part of her job to make everyone feel good.
With nervous guests passing through this room just minutes before they have to go on air in front of millions of judgemental viewers, the head of make-up is required to be everyone’s calming best friend.
She’s got a natural maternal energy, with her short, grey hair and big, knitted cardigans – and I always feel a million times better when I sit in her chair.
Her breath is cool and minty on my face as she gets to work, slathering on pounds and pounds of primer. I take her in for a moment, wondering like I always do, how her glasses don’t get steamed up when she has to be so up-close-and-personal with people’s hot breath every day.
Jools is, like, known for her glasses. She has a wide variety but they’re always huge, always brightly coloured, and always sparkly.
She has 400,000 followers on Instagram because of them, with people declaring her to be a style icon on a near-daily basis, but she confided in me once that she just copied Elton John’s look from the late 1970s.
I close my eyes, the familiarity of her movements making my breath slow.
I’ve been doing this gig on Morning Tea for two years now, and I love it.
Even the early mornings! There’s nothing like that burst of nerves and adrenaline that floods me when I sit on that sofa, ready to go live.
Plus, Jools isn’t the only lovely person who works here, everyone is great, really, really gr—
‘Olivia?’
Ugh, apart from him.
I open my eyes to see the show producer eyeballing me in the mirror.
Spencer Tate. Textbook narcissist. A prime example of nepotism in action – his dad owns the studio – and just a really horrible little man on a power trip to end all power trips. And he’s younger than me! Yuck.
He’s framed now by the doorway, his massive pores enlarged by the intense lighting. He’s wearing a Peaky Blinders cap, which is so sad because even the worst of Peaky Blinders’ fans have at last realised what fashion victims they were being, and stopped wearing them.
‘Spencer,’ I reply evenly, as Jools works scrupulously on my bin liner eye circles, ignoring the boss in her work space.
Nobody likes him.
‘Can I see you for a minute, Liv?’ he says coolly, and I nod.
‘Of course. Can it wait ten minutes? I’m just having my make-up done.’ Jools lightly strokes some kind of magical powder across my cheeks and nose, pausing for a moment to push the Elton John glasses from her bridge to the top of her head.
The reality star is suddenly in the door frame behind Spencer.
He shoves his way past and into the seat beside me.
‘All right, birds!’ he crows, ironically sounding quite a lot like a bird as he addresses the room.
‘Time to make me even hotter, yeah, if it’s even possible!
’ He laughs and even this noise sounds like it’s straight out of a David Attenborough documentary.
I catch Andi’s eyes across the room and she rolls them, then turns to the boy, smiling brightly.
‘You’re on Morning Tea today, are you love?
’ she asks, so nicely, because she has been well trained by Jools.
She picks up some brushes and asks carefully rehearsed questions about the reality star’s recent bookings.
He seems to be immensely enjoying the 15-minutes of fame reality circuit, boasting about slightly sad club appearances and his massive new TikTok following.
Spencer steps properly into the room.
Hovering a few inches away from my face, Jools moves on to my eyelashes. She coats the left eye with thick black mascara, and I can feel my face coming back to life. I always feel more like myself with make-up on, which might not make sense, but is a fact nonetheless.
‘No, it can’t wait,’ he says starkly. ‘Jools, put the mascara thingy down.’
‘I’ve only got one eye done!’ I protest, feeling suddenly afraid.
What is so urgent? Why can’t I finish? Why does the head producer need to talk to me anyway?
We mostly just ignore one another. Honestly, I don’t really ever like to get too close to Spencer because he smells of too much cologne.
It’s inescapable, clinging to me all day long, making me gag whenever I catch another whiff.
‘Two minutes, Spencer.’ Jools does not do as instructed with the mascara thingy.
She is an institution around here – she’s been head make-up artist for twenty-five years.
She doesn’t back down to snivelling little grotbag gnomes with daddy issues.
She begins coating my other eyelashes and I watch Spencer carefully through my one available eye.
‘Liv, you know what this is about!’ Spencer cries, his voice raising an octave. ‘You don’t want me doing this in front of everyone!’
His threat gets the attention of the room, and the reality star spins in his chair to face us, rudely knocking over Andi’s face powder. She tuts but he doesn’t notice – or care.
‘Oooooooh, you’re in trouble,’ the boy says like a small child delighting in a sibling scolding.
He leans closer. ‘To be fair to you, babe, I thought you were well funny in that video. And I’ve had loads worse from my crazy bitch exes!
One of them once threw a shoe at my head just cause I cheated on her with her sister.
’ He scowls. ‘And, like, I’ve never actually had tiramisu – I don’t know what it is actually – but it was well annoying that they wouldn’t get you some.
It really pisses me off when I ask for a protein shake in one of those restaurants and they’re too up their own arses to get it.
’ He scowls. ‘I mean, like who doesn’t have protein powder? Uptight knobheads.’
I stare at him, some of his words penetrating my fog of confusion. Crazy exes? Tiramisu? Video? Somewhere at the back of my brain, something jangles. An alarm bell.
Tiramisu.
The taxi driver mentioning my Instagram ready nails.
Tiramisu.
The reality star is grinning at me.
It’s you!
Oh god no. What – no. It couldn’t be.
‘Liv?’ Spencer says impatiently, and it is at this moment that my phone springs back to life on the table before me, vibrating aggressively as notifications start coming in. Message after message – missed call after missed call.
Ding ding ding.
Oh god no.
The tiramisu.