Coming Up Next. Penny SmithЧитать онлайн книгу.
back of a cupboard, left over from Christmas. She did three sit-ups and phoned Jim.
‘Jim Break.’
‘It’s Katie again.’
‘I assume you’ve heard my message that they’ve released a statement?’
‘I’ve got twenty-four calls on my phone that I’ve no intention of listening to at this stage. Where did you say my career was going from here?’
‘I told them what we’d agreed. Other projects. When they asked what they were I said there were a number in the pipeline and that we couldn’t discuss them until they were further along the production route.’
‘So, basically they know I’ve got nothing to go to?’
‘Katie, if you’d listened to me instead of becoming more and more convinced of your own unassailable position, we wouldn’t be in this position now,’ he said acerbically. ‘I warned you that you were on dodgy ground. That even The Boss told me you needed to sort out the jokes. That you were going to have to do more publicity, get yourself in the papers, generate a buzz. But you decided you were going to keep your job by being good at your interviews. Like, who gives a flying fox that you managed to stitch up the home secretary with his general amnesty for thieves or whatever the hell it was? Who gives two shakes of a limp knob whether you can hold your own with some two-bit actor or comedian? You’re too clever by half. And there’s Mike, who’s handsome, well turned out –’
‘Uncultured.’
‘They don’t care. He comes across as nice. His jokes may not be particularly funny either, but at least they understand them. Yours are sometimes so far off the planet they’re nearing the heliosphere and heading towards the last-known solar system in the universe. I told you you needed to get more real. Take a leaf out of Mike’s book and sound shocked that anyone could pay more than twenty quid for a pair of shoes, that you couldn’t imagine anything more boring than reading a book, that your idea of a good night in is watching back-to-back soaps, while eating chicken curry and a packet of Penguins. But no. You’d talk about your opera, your books, your obscure European cinema – and you kept on with the jokes, like that one about Nietzsche.’
‘Finding my own Nietzsche in the philosophy world. I still think that’s good.’
‘It’s not. It wasn’t. You’re supposed to be talking to women with children. Women who have got twenty pence and a bag of sprouts to last them till the end of the week.’
‘Well, the advertisers wouldn’t want them, then.’
‘You know what I mean.’
There was silence.
‘Incidentally, Mike’s been very supportive, according to my inside sources. He’s apparently been saying you’re a great presenter and he wants you to stay on the sofa. But The Boss – and the chairman – want you off it. Have you been out of the front door yet?’
‘No – there are reporters there. And, I assume, photographers. No idea how many are out there. How big do you think this story is?’
‘Sadly, no mass deaths anywhere at the moment, no politicians shagging their secretaries, no celebrity marriages on the rocks. It’s a slow Monday on a damp spring day. Could be page five. Could be front page, if nothing happens between now and ten o’clock tonight. Do you want me to come over?’
‘No. I’m going to have to deal with it at some stage.’
She phoned her mum and dad and left a message telling them that under no circumstances were they to talk to anyone they didn’t know, about anything. She phoned her brother, Ben, and told him the same thing.
‘Can I speak to my patients?’ he asked, faux-serious.
‘No. Anyway, no doctor speaks to his patients,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘So, you OK?’ he asked.
‘How would you feel if they told you you’d been replaced by a performing monkey because it looked good in a stethoscope?’
‘Keera’s hardly a performing monkey.’
‘Yeah, right. She’s got bags of presenting experience and is a bundle of laughs.’
‘Viewers don’t necessarily want funny women, Katie. I think it’s great. Wakes my brain up in the morning. I like the one you did about “Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.” I’ve been using it on some of my mates. But, you know, there are people out there who prefer Mike’s gentle humour. Easy, self-deprecating. He doesn’t talk about anything complicated or use long words.’
‘That’s because he doesn’t know any. And thanks for being so supportive.’
‘Well, I am. But I think you’re better than that bollocks anyway. I only watch it to check whether you’re still living.’
‘You should see me today. Barely breathing.’
‘Do you need me to come over and check your pulse?’
‘Thank you, Doctor, but I think I can manage that.’
Ben had made her feel slightly better. Maybe she should get out of the flat. She checked in the mirror.
No, she should most certainly not go out – or, at least, not looking like that.
The intercom buzzed again.
‘Yes,’ she answered, in the gruff voice she’d used earlier.
‘Is Katie Fisher there?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me when she’ll be back.’
‘No. I’m the house-sitter – sitting in the house until she gets back.’
‘Which is when?’
‘No idea.’
She hung up.
The intercom buzzed yet again. She ignored it, and decided she had been idiotic. How was she going to go out of the flat for photographs, now that she had said she wasn’t in?
‘Moron,’ she berated herself.
Did it matter? Yes. Some reporter would make a big thing of how she had ‘lain low, pretending to be out … dah-dah-dah.’
She searched through the fridge. No, still nothing but beer and vodka. She took the vodka and lay on the sofa to watch television, her mobile phone on vibrate. She might as well get some enjoyment out of this hideousness.
The home phone rang. Then again. And again.
She wondered how many messages the answerphone would take before it conked out.
That Monday morning, Hello Britain! was abuzz. Katie Fisher had been replaced by Keera Keethley. Nobody could quite believe it. There had been rumours, of course, but any newsroom with more than two journalists in it was awash with them.
Most of the women were not fans of Keera. Katie might have got to the top through ‘hard grind’, as she was fond of saying, but she was also a good journalist. And they found her hilarious, even if the bosses didn’t.
Keera wasn’t funny. She was desperately ambitious. She was ingratiating. She was political with a small p but had a large ego. She was very good with men. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her journalistic skills because it didn’t matter. You asked questions. Full stop. End of story. Not difficult. No, she wanted to be thought of as pretty and sexy. And famous.
The men in charge, who had seen her lithe body, didn’t mind that her interviews were often tedious and that she was more interested in making sure her long, shiny black hair was in tiptop condition than whether