Obsession (18 page)

Chaos ruled. New computer graphics had to be designed, scripts had to be rewritten, stringer footage had to be bought in, plus more library footage, and the video itself had to be recut. Not only that, both video editors were off with the flu and the assistant who had taken over didn’t seem able to cope.

The day passed in a blur, and more than once Corrie reflected that if only everyone were to calm down a bit then they might actually get somewhere without putting themselves on the short list for a heart attack. Of course she kept her thoughts to herself, and dashed about the place with everyone else, trying to pull things together. Alan Fox was presenting the programme in Luke’s absence,
and
it was just after everyone disappeared into the links studio to record the programme’s opening and closing, that Corrie took the call from British Telecom. There was a major computer failure at the Telecom tower, meaning that they were not going to be able to send the programme down the line to the transmission centre that evening.

Corrie knew only too well how serious this was, but seeing no reason to panic anyone yet, she got straight on the phone to the Despatch Rider company to take the transmission tape to Euston. But their regular company didn’t have any riders available.

‘I’ll ring round some of the stand-by companies,’ Eileen shouted, having guessed what was happening. ‘You go to the studio and tell Annalise the bad news.’

‘What!’ Annalise shrieked. ‘You’re kidding me! That means we’ll have to finish by seven. We’re losing forty-five minutes editing time here.’

‘They said they’d get right back to us if the situation changes,’ Corrie told her. ‘Meanwhile, Eileen’s trying some other DR companies.’

‘Nothing doing,’ Eileen said when Corrie went back into the office. ‘But I’ll keep trying. Perkin’s been screaming for you, he wants the cuttings on that Manchester MP.’

‘Any luck?’ Annalise asked, coming into the office ten minutes later.

Corrie looked at Eileen.

‘Nothing,’ Eileen answered.

‘OK, the studio’s ready to roll,’ Annalise said, ‘you go outside Corrie and flag down a taxi.’

Half an hour later, with the links recorded and edited onto the programme, Corrie was packed off with the tape to the transmission centre. ‘I don’t care how you get it there, just get it there,’ Annalise shouted after her. She saw Annalise glance at one of the researchers, and knew instantly that they didn’t trust her.

But that was ridiculous, she told herself, as the cab
nudged
its way into the logjam of traffic on Battersea Bridge, they’d never have given her the tape if that was the case. But of all the times to be trying to cross London … The traffic was so bad that at Sloane Square she abandoned the cab and went into the tube station. The minutes were ticking by, the station was crowded, and there was no sign of a train.

Eventually it came. Corrie fought her way viciously on board, hugging the tape to her. The programme was due for transmission at eight o’clock, it was now seven forty-three and she’d got four stations to go, with a change of line in the middle. She’d never make it!

At last she arrived at Warren Street, tore across the Euston road and with minutes to spare raced into the transmission centre. Someone was waiting for her in reception, snatched the tape from her and ran off down the corridor telling her to follow.

Still panting, she watched as he loaded the tape into the machine. The commercials were playing on the off-air monitor in front of them, and Corrie was nearly sick with relief when she saw the TW logo come up on the VTR monitor. The man flicked several switches, all the monitors around her went to black, then she heard the transmission controller telling the operator to roll. He did.

Corrie looked on in panic. Nothing was happening. Then, in one blinding flash, she remembered the horror story she’d once heard about a tape being wiped by the magnetic forces on the underground train.

Her face was completely white as she looked at the man in terror. He was frantically pushing buttons and yelling down the talk back that yes, he’d ‘got the fucking tape, but nothing’s happening.’

He turned to Corrie.

‘I came by tube,’ she said in a broken voice. And only then did the real horror of the situation grasp her. It was eight o’clock, no time to line up a fill-in programme, what
the
Independent Television network was faced with now was half an hour of blank screen. And it was her fault.

She looked at the man, then heard herself mumbling that she was sorry, that she realized it was too late now, that she wished there was something she could do, but there wasn’t, and then she dashed out of the building.

Seeing a cab she hailed it and went back to her studio. Her humiliation and misery were complete. She couldn’t even bring herself to ring Paula to tell her what had happened.

She made herself go in to work the following morning. It was her error and she must face it. Of course they would fire her, and now any chance she might have of finding a job elsewhere was destroyed.

When she arrived a deathly silence greeted her. Everyone was looking at her. Annalise got up from her desk and came to stand in front of her. Corrie willed herself to meet Annalise’s eyes. But before either of them could speak, Corrie’s misery was compounded by Luke walking out of his office. She hadn’t even known he was back.

He looked at her. Corrie tried to speak, but found she couldn’t. Then before she knew what was happening Annalise was flinging her arms round her, laughing, and saying she was sorry.

Somehow, through the confusion of the next few minutes, Corrie finally realized what was going on. She had been set up. The phone call from Telecom was a hoax, the tape Annalise had given her had been blank to start with, even the men in the transmission centre had been in on the joke. The real tape had been sent down the line minutes after Corrie had left the office.

For a while Corrie was too dazed to respond. All around her everyone was laughing, even Luke, and though she tried to see the funny side herself, she couldn’t. She wanted to strangle Annalise for the hell she had put her through. In the end she turned and headed for the door.

‘Hey! Come on!’ Annalise called after her. ‘Where’s your sense of humour?’

Corrie spun round. ‘I don’t know, perhaps
it
got wiped on the tube, yesterday. But what I do know is that I’ve had enough. You’ve, all of you, laughed at me, ridiculed me, snubbed me, slandered me, you’ve even molested me,’ she added glaring at Alan Fox, ‘and I can’t take any more. I’ve got feelings too, believe it or not, and quite frankly I wouldn’t treat
anyone
the way you’ve treated me.’ And with that she slammed out of the office.

Annalise caught up with her in the street outside. ‘Corrie, please, wait,’ she cried, taking Corrie’s arm.

‘Just forget it,’ Corrie snapped, tugging her arm away.

‘Corrie, don’t be like this, please. I’m sorry. You’re right, it was mean of me. I shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry. Truly I’m sorry.’

‘It’s too late,’ Corrie said.

‘No, it’s not. Look, I’ve behaved badly – all right, atrociously,’ she admitted when Corrie threw her a look, ‘but I’ll make it up to you. Somehow I’ll make it up to you. Don’t go. Please.’ When Corrie didn’t answer Annalise took her arm again and pulled her to a halt on Battersea Bridge.

Corrie heaved a deep sigh and gazed past Annalise towards the cluttered houses of Chelsea Embankment.

‘I should congratulate you actually,’ Annalise said. ‘You passed your initiation test.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Corrie enquired, still not looking at her.

‘It means that when you thought there was a real emergency you acted coolly and responsibly by trying to fix things before throwing everyone else into a panic. Not many of us can keep our heads in a crisis. I expect you’ve noticed. You did brilliantly.’

‘But there was no crisis.’

‘I know, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make. You’re doing really well at TW you know.’

Corrie wondered if Annalise had any idea just how bad it really had been for her.

‘And I owe you an apology too, for all the dreadful things I said, you know, the night I came round,’ Annalise went on. ‘I didn’t mean any of them. I was half out of my mind with jealousy. The trouble is, where Luke is concerned, I can’t help it. I know it’s no excuse, but I am irrational about him I know I am. I’ve never been like it with any other man, but then I guess I’ve never had such trouble in hooking any other man.’

Corrie looked down at her and Annalise smiled.

‘He’s back from LA early because he missed me,’ she said, ‘or so he tells me. I don’t really believe him, but it’s nice hearing it. And last night he told me all about you, and what you talked about together, which, incidentally, is why I didn’t call you last night to tell you that all that business with the tape was a joke. Luke rang me from the airport and everything else just went clean out of my mind.’

Corrie was still silent. Annalise looked into her eyes and Corrie could see the nervous strain in every contour of her lovely face.

‘Corrie, I couldn’t bear it if you went,’ Annalise said quietly. ‘Say you forgive me, please. I know I don’t deserve it, but …’

‘It’s all right, I forgive you,’ Corrie sighed. ‘At least for the hoax. But you really are going to have to do something about the jealousy, Annalise.’

‘I know.’ Suddenly Annalise grinned. ‘You sound so maternal when you say things like that.’

‘Ugh!’ Corrie said. ‘That’s the last thing I want to sound. I think I’ll stick to common, thank you.’

‘Oh please,’ Annalise groaned, ‘can’t we forget everything I said, and start again?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Corrie laughed.

Annalise smiled, then lowering her eyes she turned to lean against the bridge. Corrie watched her for a moment or two then went to join her. She couldn’t see her face, her disorderly mass of white blonde hair was falling like a curtain between them. Eventually Corrie lifted her hand and pulled it back. She wasn’t surprised when she saw the tears on Annalise’s cheeks.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Corrie asked gently.

Annalise shook her head. ‘No. No, it’ll be fine.’ After a while she turned to look at Corrie. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know why, I just am.’

Corrie smiled. ‘I’m glad I am too.’

When they returned to the office everyone carried on as though that morning’s outburst had never happened. But at six o’clock, when they were all packing up to go, Alan Fox called over to Corrie to ask if she would like to join them all for a drink at the wine bar.

– 9 –

PHILLIP DENBY LEANED
forward in his seat and told the taxi driver to pull up outside the Dorchester. It was three thirty in the afternoon, his appointment was at four.

He was generally early for these meetings, and would often while away the time sipping coffee inside the Dorchester. It was half an hour he relished, sitting quietly by himself, watching the affluent world go by, while reflecting on the sordid purpose of his visit. Today was no exception. He ordered his coffee, took a newspaper from his briefcase and settled back to make a pretence of reading.

He only ever came when things had got particularly bad with Octavia, and last night they had. She had decided, as she did every now and again, that she wanted him to make love to her – if one could call the things Octavia wanted,
making
love. Her idea of foreplay was to get him to paint her toe and finger nails, an exercise she insisted got her in the mood, though he knew it was the act of belittling him that did it. Once the polish was on, he then had to blow it dry himself, and though with some women this might have been a nonsense they could laugh about together, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Octavia had shared anything remotely approaching fun.

What invariably came after the routine with the nail polish repelled him to the point of utter disgust. But it wasn’t only disgust at the fact that his wife so shamelessly indulged in sado-masochistic practices and gained such malicious pleasure in making him partake when she knew how he hated it, it was disgust at himself for the violence it generated in him that gave him an erection the like of which he never achieved otherwise.

More often than not he faked his orgasm, knowing that he had to get away from her as fast as he could. To stay would be dangerous, for it was all he could do to keep his hands from her throat, to stop himself squeezing the very life from that artificially exquisite body. Which was why the following day would find him sipping coffee at the Dorchester before paying a visit to a prostitute.

In his briefcase was a bottle of Octavia’s perfume. There was a photograph of her too, one that he could look at while he thrust himself in and out of a nameless, faceless woman he could pretend was his wife. The rope he didn’t need to carry with him, prostitutes always kept that sort of thing – just as they kept their silence while he tied them face down to the bed. Their bodies, of course, were never as good as Octavia’s, but that hardly mattered. What he craved was to hear their screams as he beat them, screams he would never get from Octavia, her pleasure in mindless pain was too intense for her to disguise.

He guessed that if he asked Pam to do this for him she would. She would do anything for him. But what he had
with
Pam was pure. He didn’t want to sully it with his hatred for Octavia, which was why he chose to exorcise his abhorrent feelings of violence on a whore.

Glancing at his watch he saw the time was approaching four o’clock. He summoned the waiter, paid his bill and got up to leave. As he walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight, heading towards the heart of London’s red-light district, his erection was already beginning to grow. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, neither seeing nor acknowledging anyone else in the street. He felt good about what he was doing, for in a perverse way he saw it as protecting his wife. A man was expected to protect his wife, even though there were times when she might fill him with a rage so murderous that to control it was almost impossible. This way no harm would come to anyone.