‘It was not a pat on the arse,’ I protested, ‘there was a lot more to it than that.’
‘Says you, the other junior AP. That’s not the way Simon tells it.’
‘This is unbelievable,’ I said.
Gerry shrugged. ‘You girls are going to have to toughen up if you want to work in the media,’ he said. ‘This is not a knitting circle. This is the real world. Jobs are hard to come by.’
Jo trooped sadly out of Gerry’s office, I followed to the door, where I stopped, turned around and said, in a loud, clear voice: ‘I don’t care how hard jobs are to come by, actually. This is bullshit. You – and Simon – can go fuck yourselves.’
Jo was ‘let go’ a few weeks later. She and I managed to talk our way into work at a rival production house where we made
Boys’ Club
, an hour-long documentary on sexism in the workplace which was shown in prime time on Channel 4. We got lucky, managing to get an interview with the best-known (only well-known) female hedge fund manager in the UK who laid into some pretty high-profile people in an extraordinarily candid interview. She’d just had her fourth child, she wasn’t planning on going back to work. and my god did she enjoy burning her bridges. The programme caused a huge fuss and ended up winning the award for best one-off documentary at the BAFTAs. It put me on the map. It put Jo on the map, too: she was pictured at the awards ceremony throwing a glass of champagne in Simon’s face, her pretty face was then plastered all over the newspapers, and a few weeks later she was offered a presenting job by some US station. Now she lives in Beverley Hills.
Smiling at the memory, I make myself a cup of tea and drink it standing at the kitchen window. It’s almost five o’clock, still pitch black outside. But I won’t be able to take the dogs out for a week after this, so what the hell. I creep back upstairs and fetch an old pair of jeans from the closet. Dom is still sleeping peacefully, in exactly the same position he was when he first dropped off. Unbelievable.
Back downstairs, Mick and Marianne don’t even get excited when they see me putting on my wellies. They just look at me, sleepy, disbelieving. Surely she can’t want us to go out at this hour? But with a bit of coaxing I get them up and out and the three of us walk down the lane in the freezing dark, our breath clouding the air.
We walk out onto the common. I stumble a couple of times, I can’t really see where I’m going, and I’m afraid, but there’s something exciting about the fear. I remember it now, how I used to enjoy that adrenalin surge, that twisting knot in the pit of my gut, blood roaring in my ears as my heart rate soared. Somewhere in the gloom to my left I hear a noise and I jump, stumble, turn back, start to run, the dogs racing ahead of me. Then I stop and look around. I can’t see anyone. Why would anyone be out on the common at five in the morning in December? But still, the fear’s not quite so intoxicating now, so I take the dogs back home.
There are still two hours to go before we have to leave for the airport and I can’t settle. I’ve finished the packing, there’s nothing else to do. I can’t bear just sitting around doing nothing, so I write a note for Dom, get into the car, drive to a service station on the A3 where I buy two coffees, then drive down to Cobham. It takes less than twenty minutes at that time of day. I park my car in the street outside Mum’s house and ring her mobile.
‘Nic, what’s wrong?’ she says when she picks up. Calls at that time of day are always bad news.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m outside in the car. Can you come out? I need to talk to you.’
‘Have you had a row with Dom?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘We don’t have to sit in the car. You come in.’
‘I don’t want to wake Charles.’
‘He had three-quarters of a bottle of red wine and a couple of super-strength painkillers before he went to bed last night. He wouldn’t wake up if the house fell down.’
We sit in the kitchen drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. Mum takes a couple of sips and pulls a face.
‘This is revolting. I’ll make us a proper pot.’ You’d have thought that thirty years of working in NHS hospitals would have immunised my mother to crap coffee, but no. She still demands the good stuff.
‘You look great, Mum,’ I say, and I mean it. She’s tanned and slim, glowing with health.
‘You look tired,’ she replies.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, but you do. And since you’re turning up on my doorstep just before six in the morning I’m assuming you’re having trouble sleeping again.’ I nod. ‘Anything particular you’re worrying about?’
I take a deep breath. ‘There is, actually Mum. It’s Dad.’
She sits back down and takes my hand, an expression of concern furrowing her brow. ‘He’s been in touch, has he? Was he unkind?’
‘No, it’s not that. Nothing like that. He’s ill, Mum. It’s cancer.’
Mum doesn’t say anything, she gets to her feet, goes over to the kitchen counter, pours us each a cup of coffee. It smells rich and comforting, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by how relieved I am to be in my mother’s kitchen again, and by the time she places the mug of coffee down in front of me, I’ve started to cry. She sits beside me with her arms around me, stroking my hair, saying, ‘I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ I sniff. ‘I shouldn’t be this upset. I hardly know the man any more, I’ve barely seen him since he left us.’
‘He’s your dad,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re upset. And he didn’t leave us, you know. I threw him out. He didn’t have any say in the matter. And I’m not sure he ever got over the shame.’
I blow my nose noisily. ‘Well, he wants to see you. I went to see him and he asked me if … he asked me if I would talk to you. I think he wants to … I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’ll apologise. He might just want to have a go at you again …’
Mum sips her coffee thoughtfully.
‘What do you think I should do?’ she asks me. ‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No! I mean … I don’t want you to go because you think I want you to. I don’t want you to go unless you want to.’
‘Maybe we could go and see him together? After you get back?’
‘I think he’s worried he might not make it through the operation.’
‘What kind of cancer is it?’
‘Prostate. Apparently it’s not particularly advanced, but they need to operate …’
‘That’s a simple op, Nic, believe me. They have very high success rates. Anyway, you know what your dad’s like – he’s not exactly Mr Glass Half Full, is he?’
‘That’s true.’
‘I’m perfectly happy to go to see him, but I’d be a lot happier if we did it together.’
‘That’s brilliant, Mum, thanks.’
We drink some more coffee, she asks me about the New York trip.
‘You looking forward to seeing Karl?’
‘Can’t wait.’
‘How long’s it been since you saw him last?’
‘God … it’s been ages. Our wedding, I suppose. I haven’t seen him since our wedding.’
‘And how is Dominic?’ There’s a slight edge to her voice when she asks this. Not so long ago, she’d always ask, ‘How’s my lovely son-in-law?’ or at least ‘How’s gorgeous Dom?’ Now it’s ‘How’s Dominic?’ and I can always tell she isn’t really all that interested in how he is, she’s just doing it out of courtesy. My mother is a lovely, forgiving person but when it comes to me, to my feelings getting hurt, man can she hold a grudge.
The sky is just starting to turn from black to grey. It’s three minutes to seven. Time to go. I kiss Mum goodbye at the front door.
‘Have a lovely trip, darling,’ she says. And then, ‘Oh, by the way, should you speak to Charles, please don’t mention anything about your dad. About me going to visit, I mean. He wouldn’t understand. There are some things I think it’s best I just don’t tell him.’
Like mother, like daughter.
* * *
I break the speed limit all the way home, arriving back at twenty past seven. Dom is pacing anxiously in the kitchen
‘Jesus Christ, Nicole,’ he says as I walk in the door. ‘Cutting it a bit fine aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, kissing him as I hurry past. ‘I had to see Mum. I couldn’t leave without seeing her.’
‘Okay then, but hurry. We need to leave in five minutes.’
I shower, dress, kiss the dogs goodbye. Twenty minutes later, with Dom working himself into a frenzy, we’re ready to go. We argue over who’s going to drive.
‘You’ll drive too fast,’ Dom says. ‘You drive like a maniac when you’re in a hurry.’
‘You won’t drive fast enough, Dominic. You drive like an old lady even when there’s an emergency.’
I drive. Dom clutches at his seat belt, ghost braking all the way from Wimbledon to Heathrow.
After check-in and security, Dom goes off to WHSmith to stock up on reading material. I sit in Costa Coffee and scribble down a new set of New Year’s resolutions on a paper napkin.
1. Organise fortnightly dinners with Dad
2. Lose half a stone
3. Ask Dom to wait (at least) one year before trying for a baby
4. Read everything on all Booker shortlists. And
War and Peace
5. Stop making awful television programmes
Next, I make two phone calls. The first is to my father.
‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ I ask when he answers.
‘About a hundred and three,’ he replies. He sounds exhausted.
‘I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘No, no. I’ve been up for hours. Pain in my gut. Indigestion I think.’
‘Well, I just wanted to say bye. I’m at the airport now. And I also wanted to tell you that I spoke to Mum, and that she said she would come and visit you … after New Year. When I get back.’
‘All right.’ He sounds disappointed.
‘Is that okay? She’s just … she’s got a lot on over the next few days.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sure it’ll go fine, Dad. Try not to worry too much.’
‘Okay, love. Have a good trip.’
‘Thanks.’
‘All right then. Thanks for speaking to your mum.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I love you, Nicole.’
The words sound so strange coming from him, I can’t remember the last time I heard him tell me he loved me. I realise in that instant how frightened he must be, and for a moment I can’t say anything because I don’t want to start crying again.
‘Nicole?’
‘I love you too, Dad. It’s going to be fine. I’ll see you next week.’
The second call is to Annie Gardner. I get through to her voicemail and leave a message: ‘Annie, it’s Nicole Blake here. This is going to sound a bit odd, but I’m phoning to advise you not to take part in the
Betrayal
series. I know that I’m the one who’s been trying to convince you to do it, but I’m starting to get the feeling that the programme is not going to be helpful to you, it is not going to portray you in the best light. I’m concerned, in fact, that it could make your situation worse, and I’d hate for that to happen. If you do decide to go ahead, you should know that I am no longer going to be involved. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m going away for a few days but I have my mobile with me and I’ll be checking emails. All the best. Happy New Year. Bye.’
As I hang up I’m flooded with a sense of relief, as though some oppressive weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. I’ll be in breach of contract and they’ll be entitled to ask for my salary back. They could even sue me, though I doubt they’ll bother. Of course, my name will be mud and I won’t be offered any more work by that production house and possibly many others. I don’t care. For the first time in ages I feel like I’m doing the right thing in my professional life.
Dom approaches carrying two plastic bags stuffed full of newspapers and magazines for the flight.
‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ I ask him. I haven’t brought mine. ‘I need to send an email.’
‘Sure. To anyone in particular?’
I hesitate.
‘Nicole …’
I take a deep breath. Please god, don’t let this be the start of another argument. ‘I don’t want to do the programme,’ I tell him. ‘The
Betrayal
one. I’m going to email Paul Ronson to tell him I’m pulling out.’
‘Good,’ Dom says, unfolding the
Financial Times
on his lap. ‘That kind of shit’s beneath you.’
‘You don’t mind?’ I’m impossibly relieved.
‘Course I don’t. We don’t need the money, it’s not like you
have
to work. We’re fine on my salary at the moment.’
He’s missed the point.
‘You know that I want to work, right? I’m not quitting because I don’t want to work, I just don’t want to do
that
kind of work.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ he smiles at me and reaches out his hand to massage the back of my neck. He reads for a while, and then an idea occurs to him, and he looks up at me, an expression of concern on his face. ‘This isn’t about the offer from Aidan Symonds is it? You’re not quitting because of that? You’re not taking him up on his offer?’