Flying Under Bridges (7 page)

‘Adam…’
I began. ‘I’ve been thinking about… my time.’ We both sat quietly while we
thought about this idea. This notion of
my time.
I moved on slowly. ‘Now
that the children have grown up—’

‘Grown
up? Tom’s never going to grow up!’

‘He’s
no trouble and he’s not at home any more. I was thinking about doing one of
those Open University courses. You know, art or something.’

‘Art or
something? Eve, what is the point of that? Where’s the point in art? Why don’t
you stick with what you’re good at?’

‘All
right, what am I good at?’ This made us both think. He’s not unkind, Adam, so
he really did try.

‘Lots
of things.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Like… cupboards.

Kitchen
cupboards. You’re very good at organising cupboards.’

The car
lurched through another unexpected gear change.

Kitchen
cupboards. That’s what he thought I was good at.

I have
to go now. Tom’s come to visit. He’s been wonderful. We talk and that helps.
Love to Shirley and some for yourself.

As
ever,

Eve

Chapter
Five

Inge moved to Edenford at
the end of May. The morning of the Friday before her departure from London
found her staring at the breasts of the BBC’s senior, female newsreader. The
removal firm had left her a pile of old newspapers to wrap around the china.
They had offered to do it as part of the service, but Inge wanted strangers in
the house for as little time as possible. The yellowing collection of newsprint
included the seamier Fleet Street papers that Inge never bought. Now she was
sitting on the floor staring at what passed for news in these publications. The
breasts she was looking at were slightly out of focus, but clearly breasts and
it was quite clear who they belonged to.

Carol
Hart, senior newsreader for the BBC, was reclining on a yacht wearing only the
bottom half of a rather finely conceived bikini. Her breasts lay exposed to the
sun and indeed now to the world. It might not have been news were she not
recovering from reconstructive surgery following a major breast-cancer scare
which had hit the headlines. She had nice breasts. The plastic surgeon had
done a good job. She looked great. Carol was loved by the nation and now the
nation could love her breasts. She had gone away to recover and now the nation
could rejoice. Even people who didn’t buy the paper could rejoice. The breasts
were on the front page.

Inge
knew Carol and knew that she had brought a complaint against the paper but
everyone also knew it was a waste of time.

The
breasts were in the public domain and Inge was using them for packing. The
other tabloids, who had failed to get the paparazzi pictures in the first
place, had generally responded with moral outrage. They were outraged at the
paparazzi, they were outraged on behalf of Carol Hart, they were outraged on
behalf of all recovering women (photographs of breasts in various stages of
repair), they were outraged on behalf of anyone with breasts (fine photographic
evidence), they were outraged at the cost of surgery to get such fine breasts
(examples of splendid breasts through the ages) and they were generally a
decent and fine publication which Middle England could embrace. It went well.
Middle English women were pleased with the outrage, Middle English men were
pleased with the breasts.

Inge
shuddered. The papers had never gone to town on her but she knew it was only a
matter of time. A couple of the gossip columns did have some inches on her but
it was a replay of an old rumour about her and Mark Hinks, the footballer. She
and Mark were friends, they were both single, they often went out together and
each time it caused talk. Would they, wouldn’t they? Did they, didn’t they?

Inge
looked around the place she had called home for the last ten years. The smart
flat with its high loft ceilings was full of boxes now and some of her best
mugs were carefully wrapped in the exposure of other people’s lives. Inge
packed the china into a cardboard box and sealed it shut. She had nearly
finished but she still didn’t know if they were doing the right thing. She had
never wanted to leave the flat or London. It was so perfect. So central. So
safe. She had never thought she would go back to Edenford, the sleepy Home
Counties town where she had been brought up. Edenford. God, it seemed such a
long time ago, but they needed the garden, needed the air. Inge had never sold
her parents’ house after her mother died, and when the tenants moved out it
seemed like fate. It seemed as though things had been decided for her, but Inge
was dreading it. Dreading going home.

When
the phone rang she called, ‘I’ll get it,’ although she oubted Kate would have
the energy to take a call. Inge wasn’t expecting anyone to ring and immediately
she felt afraid. She couldn’t have said what she was afraid of, but something
in her stomach turned over. It wasn’t a new feeling. It happened when the phone
rang, when the post thudded through the letterbox, when the morning paper
landed on the mat. It used to happen when the doorbell went, but in this
apartment building the porter didn’t let anyone up without getting clearance.
Despite that safeguard, Inge lived in a permanent and inexplicable state of
slight fear. It was as if she knew that someday something would happen to bring
everything crashing down around her head. It never had, but that didn’t mean it
wouldn’t. She had lived like this all her professional life. It was the norm.

The
porter was at his most businesslike.

‘Someone
from the BBC, Miss Holbrook. I expect you’ll want me to show them straight up. A
Miss Jenny Wilson.’

‘Wilson?’
Inge couldn’t think of anyone called Wilson. Maybe one of those waiting-room
women. Maybe something was being sent round. Maybe…

‘No,
wait. Let me have a word.’ There was some muttering as Miss Wilson came to the
phone.

‘I don’t
normally allow anyone in my booth … Mind my paperwork … No, don’t sit on
the chair, it’s specially adjusted for my back …’ The porter was
professionally unhappy. He handed the receiver over reluctantly and a bright,
booming voice thundered down the line. The porter needn’t have bothered with
the phone. The caller had a vocal quality that did not require the use of
amplification in order to be heard from the foyer.

‘Hello,
there. Jenny Wilson, BBC Talent Department.’

Inge
moved the phone a few inches from her ear and frowned. ‘I’m sorry, you are..

‘Jenny
Wilson, Talent Department.’ In the background Inge could hear the porter
muttering, ‘BBC pass, BBC person or I wouldn’t even have called up.’ He did not
like having his judgement questioned or his phone taken from him.

Inge
was still confused. ‘Yes, sorry, Miss Wilson, did we have an appointment?’

‘It won’t
take a moment. Shall I come up?’

Panic
filled the back of Inge’s throat. There was no need for it but it came
unbidden. ‘No, No!’ she replied hastily. She wanted the woman to go away. She
didn’t know her. She wasn’t booked. But Inge was terrified of seeming
standoffish. Of word getting out at the BBC that maybe she wasn’t the warm,
accessible human being she so wanted to be. ‘I’ll be right down.’ Inge hung up
and took a deep breath. Why the hell was she seeing her? The woman didn’t have
an appointment. Inge brushed her fingers through her hair and looked in on
Kate. She was sleeping. Perhaps she wouldn’t even notice Inge had gone.

Inge
took the lift down ten floors and headed for the porter’s small office. A very
large woman filled the doorway. She had more chins than seemed a fair share for
one person and appeared to be wearing a marquee as a summer dress. It was
bright orange with massive cerise flowers. Had it not been of such a violent
hue it could easily have been rented out to hold functions.

‘God,
it is!’ boomed the woman. ‘It is! It is! Inge Holbrook as I live and breath.’

‘Inge
Holbrook,’ repeated the porter, smiling. ‘In our very building. I tell no one
but it is a fact.’ He leant confidentially towards Miss Wilson. ‘I am silent as
a grave but I know a great deal. It’ll be a sad day when Miss Holbrook moves
out of here…’ Inge frowned at the man who blanched at his indiscretion and
tried to recover. ‘Not that she is … moving… and if she were, then you
wouldn’t hear it from me…’

Inge
smiled at the woman. ‘Hello?’

The
woman thrust forward a massive, plump hand. ‘Jenny, Jenny Wilson. You were
expecting me?’

‘No.’

The
woman shook her head. ‘No, you were. Jenny Wilson, talent team?’

Inge
shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘Oh,
but you are. You are not only with me, but top of my list.

‘Well,
she would be,’ agreed the porter, who seemed to feel he was now part of the
conversation.

The
woman smiled broadly. ‘You didn’t know I was coming and that makes it all the
more clear to me why I am needed.’ She flashed a BBC staff pass at Inge. ‘Shall
we go up? A little more private?’

‘Good
idea,’ agreed the porter and pressed the lift button. ‘Much more private.’

‘I was
just going to get a coffee… at the coffee shop… next door,’ Inge managed
hurriedly. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

Jenny
Talent beamed. ‘That would be lovely.’

The
porter shook his head with disapproval. ‘Not nearly so private.’

Inge
led the way as her large companion followed, causing an upsurge of wind as she
walked and her marquee flapped. The coffee shop occupied one small corner of
the apartment building’s ground floor and was often the only place Inge managed
to get any sustenance. The owner knew her well and swiftly seated the pair at a
quiet back table. On one side was a large bank of cushioned seating.

‘Lovely
place,’ boomed Jenny as she plumped down, covering every inch of the seating
space. She beamed at Inge who took a chair on the other side of the table. ‘I
hear there are great plans afoot for a new programme,’ Jenny continued.

‘Well,
I think some people in development are…

Jenny
leant forward and whispered confidentially,
‘Don’t Even
Go
There!’

‘Yes.
Of course, I don’t think anyone quite knows…’

Jenny
nodded. ‘Going to be a wonderful documentary.’

The
waitress came for the coffee order giving Inge a moment to pause. Once they
were alone again she turned to Jenny.

‘Documentary?
I thought it was a panel game.’

‘Was,
indeed,
was,
but they’ve moved on. Development.’ She looked at Inge’s
bewildered face. ‘Oh dear, not keeping you in the loop, are they?’ She raised a
hand in the air as if to part the very waters of the Red Sea of confusion. ‘Not
going to happen now I’m on board, I can assure you. Anyway, fabulous idea. How
many of us just love to watch sport?’

‘Well,
it is popular.’

‘Oh
yes, but how many of us have longed over the years to actually participate in a
major sporting event but haven’t actually had the … what can I call it?’

Inge
tried for the obvious. ‘Fitness?’

Jenny
shook her head in a movement that caused ripples down her body. ‘No. Opportunity.
But now all that will change. Members of the public will apply and, if
selected, you will train them to take part in an actual event like Wimbledon,
the Olympics, the FA Cup, that sort of thing. Obviously they won’t play in the
whole thing. I mean, we can only afford to train them for a week but, you know,
they will get their moment. It will be tough but before they begin you will
warn them…

‘Don’t
Even Go There!’
mumbled Inge with her eyes closed.
When she opened them again Jenny was still brilliant with pleasure at the
concept.

‘I
think it could become a catch-phrase.’

Inge
didn’t know where to begin. ‘What do you think the athletes will think about
this? Because if you actually get to the FA cup final, would you really want
Joe Bloggs from Derby to be on your side?’

Jenny,
thrilled to be asked for an opinion, considered the matter carefully. ‘I think
sports people are very realistic these days. It’s big business. They’ll know it’s
good publicity. Anyway, they all love you.

She
waited for Inge to bask in the love but the BBC legend was tired.

‘And
how is it that you know about this and I don’t, Jenny?’

‘Indeed.
Indeed, how?’ Inge’s companion removed a sheaf of papers from a large shoulder
bag and began to riffle through them. She really was an enormous woman. It was
like having coffee with the Alps.

‘You
see, Inge,’ she began, ‘this is what I am here to stop happening.’

‘I’m
sorry, Jenny, I don’t—’

‘No,
clearly. You didn’t know I was coming, you didn’t know about the show and that
is my brief. To see that this never happens again. Let me explain.’ She
assumed a look of deep seriousness and a low tone of confidence. ‘Inge, as you
will know, the BBC is very concerned about the talent drain. You know that
clever people like you are spending their formative years with the BBC and then
drifting off to just any old television channel the minute some more money pops
up. Now we don’t want that, but we do want you to be happy. That’s why Paul has
set up the Talent Team. We at the Talent Team are here to make sure you are
happy. Each established face at the Beeb is going to be given a “talent
guardian”. In your case that will be me. It will be my job to make sure you are
happy, to see that you have what you need, that no meetings come as a
surprise…’ Jenny laughed at this hilarious joke and shook like a blancmange. ‘You
and I will really get to know each other, and at any time, should you be on BBC
premises or attending a function on behalf of the BBC, I will be there to make
sure you are properly looked after.’