Protection (17 page)

Sitting on the floor in front of the tele, Isobel could neither settle to her scrapbook or to what was showing on the screen. Instead, all she could think about was what she'd seen at the leisure center and how it was keeping her awake at night.

The darkness of her ceiling the perfect canvas on which to project her memories of the two of them screwing as the thought of their naked bodies entwined around each other became too vivid for sleep to come and steal her away. Not that she was complaining. She wanted to remember. While it was still fresh in her mind.

The only downside was the fact that the stupid bitch had felt the need to announce her sexuality so soon afterwards, though it was obvious to see why she'd done it. She was scared she would running to the gutter press and spill everything, but it had never been her intention to do so. Instead her plans had leaned more towards the idea of blackmail and forcing her to meet face to face, where she would enjoy hearing her beg and promise anything for Isobel not to tell what she had seen at the gym.

But all that was gone now, thanks to that pompous agent appearing on tele and opening his big trap.

Still, there was one consolation. Now the press had hold of the story, it could only be a matter of time before the pressure became too much for them and they split up.

And she would be free again.

Above her head, the TV announced the evening news and shaking herself free of her reverie Isobel stared up at the screen and watched Boscastle in Cornwall drown under a tidal wave of flood water. The filthy cascade tearing down the streets, upending both cars and trees as it went and forcing dozens of people to climb onto rooftops, helpless to do anything but watch their homes and their livelihood wash away beneath them.

Sighing, Isobel wondered why no one had thought to put up flood barriers and yawning she paid no heed to the following item about interest rates.

Nor did she pay any attention to the next story, and busy picking at her nails, she almost missed the bulletin she did want to see.

Carrie Shilling's house. Filling the screen. The initial pictures clearly taken from a helicopter which soared over the roof and gardens before the view switched to a ground based camera fixed upon the front gates and a reporter, surrounded by dozens of bouquets, as he talked earnestly into the lens.

Isobel couldn't believe her eyes. What the hell was going on? Where were the hordes of disillusioned fans besieging the gates? Where were the banners and cries of outrage at Carrie having turned out to be a dyke? And what the fuck were all those bloody flowers? This wasn't what she'd imagined! This wasn't the way her plan was supposed to go. How could she force a meeting now when the cow clearly wasn't suffering in the slightest? She probably didn't give a toss now if the whole flamin' world knew what she'd been up to in the gym. Shit! She had nothing. Nothing!

Screaming with rage, Isobel snatched up her scrapbook and hurled it across the room where it hit the wall and fell to the floor, disgorging dozens of carefully trimmed photographs.

“... credited it. Just goes to show how you never can tell with some folk.”

Once again, Mrs.McKenzie, the newsagent, was holding court to a group of her assembled customers. A conversation that Isobel, having popped in for her usual morning paper, caught the end of and thus, felt justified in asking about the rest.

Mrs.McKenzie was only too happy to fill her in and whilst the rest of her long suffering customers gratefully took the chance to escape, the newsagent helped herself to an extra strong mint and waded in with both feet.

“It's that Carrie Shilling woman.”She began. “Fancy announcing to the world that she's a lesbian! It's a disgrace! And right here on our doorstep too! It doesn't bear thinking about!”

Irritated, Isobel opened her mouth to speak, but Maureen McKenzie was in full flow and nothing Isobel had to offer was going to stop the tide.

“That blessed party she's having ought to be stopped too.”She went on. “It's disgusting to think they'll all be there huggin' and kissin' and Lord know what else. It's probably not even legal!”

“Must be worrying to think Rita will be waitressing up there then?”Isobel said, enjoying the look on Maureen's face. “Just think, she'll be surrounded by them. What if they turn her ‘funny'.”

“Funny? Whatya mean funny?”Maureen asked and turning her back on Isobel, screamed for Rita to get herself downstairs this instant!

Rita dully appeared chewing on a slice of toast. Two of her fingers glued together with strawberry jam.

“What is it?”She grumbled, biting off a chunk. “Can't I even have me flamin' breakfast in peace?”

“You're not waitressing at the party.”Mrs.McKenzie declared without preamble. “I'm not ‘aving that lot turn yer ‘ead with their funny ways.”

Rita rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God's sake mum, she's only gay. The way you go on you'd think she'd been found with dead babies in the cellar.”

“I don't care, my mind's made up and they'll just have to do without you. I'm not having you surrounded by lesbians and their filthy ways.”

Rita's face hardened. “What filthy ways? Bloody hell, it's only a party mum, and you've never minded before. Besides, I need the money. How else am I gonna afford me bike?”

“Oh, I don't know! Get a job at the supermarket or something. It's hardly going to kill you if you have to wait a bit longer.”

Isobel, momentarily forgotten by both of them, coughed discreetly and two pairs of eyes instantly swiveled in her direction. “Look, I know this isn't really any of my business, but can I make a suggestion? What if I take Rita's place and we share the money? That way, Rita still gets her money, you don't have to worry about her turning ‘funny' and I get to mingle with the stars for a night.”

“Yeah, brilliant idea!”Rita snorted sarcastically. “But it ain't that easy you know! It's bloody hard work and you're on your feet all night. Lucky if you get five minutes off for a quick pee.”

Isobel shrugged. “Doesn't bother me. I'm on my feet all day anyway and if I don't drink anything...”

“Are you serious?”Maureen butted in. “‘Cos if you are you must be off your head. But if it means my Rita's kept away from all those weirdos, then you've got my vote. What about it Rita? Sound like a good idea to you?”

“Oh, all right!”Rita sighed. “I suppose it means I can go out with me mates instead. But I want somethin' about the money in writing.”

“Everywhere!”Isobel gasped into the phone. “All over my body! Thank God there's none on my face, but the doctor says I still can't rule that possibility out. Its some sort of virus apparently and very contagious. Loads of people have got it here.”

She listened whilst her boss made appropriate noises.

“A few days at least.”She went on. “Until the rash has gone down. Don't want to give it to anyone else.…Okay, fine. I'll ring in a couple of days. Hopefully be better then.”

A male voice spilled sympathy from the other end of the line, and hanging up, Isobel thought how easy it had been to fool the boss.

Everything was again starting to fall into place and thanks to Maureen McKenzie's prejudice, her original idea to get close to Carrie had now taken on a new and hassle free twist.

Whereas before she'd been intending to waylay Rita on her way to the hotel, knock her out, steal her uniform and then pass herself off as the McKenzie girl at the party, which, no matter which way you looked at it, was one hell of a risky plan, now all she had to do was turn up on the night in the uniform Rita was thoughtfully going to provide for her and enjoy herself big time.

Holding her hand up to her face, Carrie shielded her eyes from the glare of the studio lights and waited anxiously for Patrick Westfield to announce her.

Westfield, or ‘ Westie' as he was known to his fans, was tall, distinguished and moved with such an air of authority that before he became known as a chat show host, most people assumed he was a consultant in medicine. A post that would have suited him perfectly as his ‘bedside manner' proved just as effective at soothing his interviewees as it would have done any distraught patient.

Even the shyest of stars had been known to ‘open up' to Patrick Westfield.

Which was precisely why Carmichael had arranged for Carrie to appear on his show. After they'd argued about it.

“But don't you want your fans to know how you really feel.”He'd said when Carrie had first resisted the offer. “Don't you want them to know the truth rather than the bilge the press are churning out? You must do! What's in the newspapers is such crap! “

It sure is, Carrie had thought, but I still don't want to be interviewed by Patrick Westfield and bored with the whole thing she'd tried to explain again.

“I'm tired.”She'd said. “I've had a really long day, and the last thing I need right now is some smug idiot fawning over me and trying to make me confess to all my innermost thoughts. He's only going to be disappointed anyway. The party's looming and at the moment that's all I want to think about. Not how to answer awkward questions from an oily geek like Westfield.”

But Carmichael had refused to back down and too weary to argue with him any further Carrie had given up and agreed to come on.

Now here she was. Waiting in the wings to be grilled by the silver tongued ‘ Westie.'

If only she could have felt a little more gracious about it. The situation, after all, did, at least, deserve a little of her undivided attention especially when she took into account how understanding the TV channel had been and how fortunate she'd been over the public's response to her ‘coming out? But that didn't stop her from thinking that for every person who applauded her, there were probably half a dozen more who really didn't give a toss what she got up to behind closed doors, and parading herself on national TV seemed like she was shoving it down their throats.

But try telling Carmichael that. “Show yourself.”Had been his answer. “Show them that you're comfortable with who you are. If nothing else the gay population will love you for it and anyone who doesn't like it can always turn over. Just get it over with before the party and before Christmas. That way you can enjoy both without having to worry about what the media are printing.”

It was easier said than done, though, and if Carmichael mentioned one more time how much good George Michael had done to his career by being honest, she was going to strangle him with his own flippin' tie!

Standing in the same spot recently vacated by Carrie, Andrea watched Patrick Westfield guide Carrie to her chair before making a big show of kissing her on both cheeks. But the gesture seemed contrived, as if he were trying to say ‘ hey, look at me people, I'm completely without prejudice, kissing a gay girl,' and secretly she longed to thump him.

Like Carrie, she wasn't overly keen on Patrick Westfield, even if half the country did think he was the next best thing to Parkinson.

In her opinion he came across as a patronizing, slimy bastard and he also wore white socks, which on their own were bad enough, but to wear them with a dark grey suit and a tie that... oh, for Christ's sake... had a little, pink triangle on it, simply proved what a total prat he was.

But at least she had the audience to distract herself with, though for a Patrick Westfield show, this lot seemed to be oddly lacking in wrinklies. Generally they turned out in force, charmed from their zimmer frames by his radiant smile and oily charisma. But tonight there was a definte lack. Why? The weather? A free meal at the local church? Or was it simply because they found the whole idea of homosexuality and lesbianism too awful to bear? A sign of the times in which they'd been born.

Or maybe it was because Westfield, who despite the pensioners' devotion to him, still liked to consider himself a ‘young person's' interviewer, had somehow managed to fiddle the age scope for audience admittance to make sure he had a full studio?

That was probably more like it, for although being gay certainly wasn't as frowned upon as it had once been, it was still a long way off from being universally accepted or better still, treated with indifference.

She only had to look at her own parents' reaction to the news that grandchildren were most definitely not on the horizon to know that.

What a flamin' awful day that had been. Although, with hindsight, it might have gone better if she'd approached them calmly and with a speech already in mind rather than crying her eyes out. But, like a lot of things in life, her carefully laid plans had gone to pot as soon as she'd been face to face with them, and far from being calm and collected, everything had come out in one huge jumble of words. Accompanied by a lot of tears.

Typically, her mother's instinctive reaction, once she'd finished reeling, was to cuddle her and rock her gently back and forth, telling her that everything would be alright and that they still loved her. While her father, sitting slightly apart from the little drama unfolding in front of him, had simply told her it was all just a phase and she'd grow out of it the moment she found a boyfriend.

No daughter of his could possibly be gay!

Not a statement he'd actually uttered if truth be known, but Andrea had been under no illusions that was what he'd meant and she'd argued back.

How could it be a phase? She'd sobbed. When these feelings had been with her for most of her life? How could he say that when she'd spent most of her life trying to work out why she was attracted to girls? Years she'd spent hoping it would go away and leave her ‘normal', and that she wouldn't feel the need to sneak furtive glimpses at women in magazines, knowing all the time that her parents would probably kick her out if they knew the truth.

But it had all gone in one ear and out the other, and her father had remained adamant that all she had to do was find a nice, young lad and she'd never think about girls again. A belief thankfully not shared by her mother who instead asked considered questions and actually listened to the answers, before admitting she was loathe to loose her only daughter just because her husband couldn't pick his words with more care.