After the Break. Penny Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ that. Particularly since one of the camera angles had got his fully muscled-up chest emerging in all its glory. That would go into the storyline they were hoping to manipulate in which the handsome soap star would end up in some way, shape or form with Crystal, the model. He checked on the camera which was pointing at her to see what she was doing. Sleeping prettily, with her lipgloss surprisingly intact. She was so much better-looking without all her usual makeup, he thought.

      He watched Katie as she tiptoed past the others, and boosted the sound.

      ‘Who’s that?’ whispered Tanya Wilton, who was close to the door. The woman more infamous than famous after a fling with a politician was having a fitful night.

      ‘Sorry,’ murmured Katie, ‘I’ve got to get more clothes. My head feels like an ice cube.’ ‘Mine too,’ said Tanya, quietly.

      ‘Do you want me to pass you something? I’ve got a spare hat.’ ‘Could you? That would be great, thank you.’ Katie tiptoed to her suitcase, which she could see in the dim light of the moon, shining through the uncurtained windows, and rummaged through its contents. Her years as a presenter on breakfast television had stood her in good stead for pitch-of-night rummaging. Even at home in the flat, she hardly ever put the lights on if she had to get up in the dark, preferring instead to move around partially blind. So here in Norway, at three o’clock on a frozen spring morning, she was in her element, mentally logging where everything was. She found her hat and then, buried underneath, discovered a balaclava. Lovely, lovely balaclava. Thank goodness her chin was going to be warm. She also found a scarf and her sheepskin mittens and crept back past the sleeping bodies to Tanya. ‘There you go,’ she whispered, handing over the hat.

      She snuggled back into her sleeping-bag, and pulled on her balaclava, wrapped the scarf firmly round her neck and slid on the mittens. Within half an hour she was finally warm enough to sleep.

      Up in the viewing gallery, Mark peered closer at the camera. As daylight cast a gloomy glow, it was quite clear that the erstwhile queen of the breakfast sofa had crammed an enormous pair of green pants on her head, the stout gusset protecting her nose from the cold, her closed eyelids nicely framed by one of the leg holes. The producer and director shared a smile. That would definitely go in.

      At six o’clock, they handed over to the early birds. The story producer was the glorious strawberry blonde Mark rather fancied. ‘Morning, Siobhan,’ he said, unfurling himself from the seat.

      ‘Hi, Mark. Anything happening?’

      ‘Not a huge amount. Peter having an early-morning fumble. Katie with a pair of knickers on her head.’

      ‘Really? May I ask why?’

      ‘Think she mistook them for a hat.’

      ‘Ah. Yes. Easily done. Same number of holes. Not.’

      ‘No, seriously. She was rooting around in her case in the dark.’

      ‘Why didn’t she use a torch?’

      ‘Probably trying not to wake the others.’

      ‘You don’t think she did it hoping for air time?’

      ‘Watch the tape. It didn’t look like it to me.’

      Siobhan went over to talk to the director as Mark gathered up his belongings. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

      ‘Looked genuine to me,’ he answered, yawning and stretching. ‘Actually, even if she did it for effect, it’s still pretty funny And not much else has happened. I think we’re going to have to stop wearing them out during the day. Four hours on that ice assault course yesterday–I was exhausted just watching them.’

      ‘I’ll have a word with the activities people,’ she said, ‘but they seem keen on distancing us from other reality shows by having them out and about. Otherwise it’s just Big Brother Does the Jungle in a cold place. It seems to be holding up well so far, ratings wise. As soon as we start the voting next week, the senior executives will probably have another look at it. I’m going to get a coffee–do you want anything?’

      ‘No, thanks. I’m whacked. I’m going to get straight off as soon as we’ve done the handover.’

      Mark picked up his holdall and walked over to the desk to join the other overnighters as they ran through the storylines that were emerging. Page three’s Crystal was being flirty with Peter Philbin. Denise Trench was doing lots of ranting at columnist Paul Martin. Alex Neil, the outrageously gay designer, was getting very close to the DJ Steve Flyte, who appeared to be enjoying the proximity. Tanya Wilton was continuing to spill the beans about her fling with the politician to Flynn O’Mara, ‘astrologer to the stars’. Katie Fisher was falling over a lot. And Dave Beal, the alleged comedian, was still telling jokes that failed to raise a laugh.

      Mark straightened up from where he was leaning on the desk. I also think it might be worth keeping an eye on Katie Fisher and Paul Martin. There might be something going on there.’ He turned to lob his plastic water cup into the bin and failed to notice Siobhan’s slight smirk.

      Siobhan was a man’s woman. She dressed for men. She studied men. She hunted men. She hated women. She particularly hated successful women. It didn’t matter that to Mr and Mrs Average, as she thought of them, with their drudge-end jobs, she was successful in the exciting world of television. She was a bitter woman. She had chips on her shoulder. And they were well-nurtured chips.

      Many years ago, when she had cherished dreams of being a presenter, she had been beaten to her ideal job of hosting Hello Britain! by Beatrice Shah. She had been covering holiday shifts, and had thought it was a done deal. After finding out that her position had been usurped, she had stormed into The Boss’s office to demand an explanation. He had looked surprised and said she had never been considered. That under no circumstances would she ever be considered after research had shown her to be out of touch with the viewers.

      ‘Out of touch with the viewers?’ she had shrieked. ‘What do they mean “out of touch”?’

      ‘Apparently you sound snotty, for want of a better word,’ he had said. The Boss was not an unkind man, but he hadn’t taken to Siobhan. She was too ballsy for his liking. He preferred a more emollient woman. She did an efficient job, but her predatory nature meant that some of his male staff had confessed they felt hounded.

      ‘Look, I’m sorry if you were under the impression that you were a shoo-in for the job. But I was told Simon had said there was no point in you applying for the post.’

      Siobhan had gritted her teeth. Simon hadn’t told her. And she had been given the impression that she was a shoo-in for the job. And she knew exactly why he hadn’t seen fit to let her know. She had literally been sleeping with the enemy. What a fool. What a waste of her unquestionable talents. She wouldn’t have minded so much except that he was such a very inadequate lover, with an unattractive pouch of fat under his stomach and rather girly pink nipples. She curled her lip derisively. Lover! No love involved on either side. A business arrangement that had worked out well for him.

      He would pay. She would make him pay.

      A week later, she had gone into his office and told him she was pregnant. If an etiolated man could have been said to blanch, then he did.

      ‘I don’t know whether you and your wife,’ she imbued the word with venom, ‘would be prepared to bring up the child as your own?’ She let the sentence СКАЧАТЬ