of her notepads and wrote ‘ideas’ on it with a pale blue pen.
The creamy expanse of fresh paper normally invited creativity. Not today. Some doodling later, she gave up and flicked through a couple of recent copies of House Today, hoping for inspiration. In one magazine, there was a photoshoot of a television presenter called Candy, who worked on an afternoon chat show. Abby had met her once in Dublin and, innocently expecting some sort of camaraderie because they were both TV stars, had been startled to encounter frosty hauteur.
‘You’re from that sweet little programme on tidying houses, aren’t you?’ Candy had said bitchily to Abby. ‘I do so love to see newcomers getting on. But you have to be in this business for the long haul. I see so many people come, and then go when the ratings drop.’ And she went on to tell Abby all about her own successful career, clearly implying that the star of Declutter would not last the course.
Abby was far too vulnerable and unsure of herself to be a successful bitch, but she wasn’t a pushover.
‘It’s true, you never know when a show will start to lose viewers,’ Abby said, with some innocent eyelash-batting of her own. ‘The ratings have been so high – better than EastEnders for the final show in the first series – but we can’t sit on our laurels. Bye, so nice to meet you. I’ve always thought you’re such a trooper for all those years in the business.’ And she walked off, leaving Candy spitting at both the mention of mega ratings and the implication that she was getting old. Although she certainly didn’t look old in the magazine, Abby reflected grimly.
‘Candy welcomes House Today into her lovely home,’ cooed the editorial, under two large photos of a kitchen and a bedroom, both of which must have been overhauled by an army of Filipino cleaners if the sparkle on the granite kitchen worktops was anything to go by.
For once, Abby’s gaze didn’t concentrate on the house, searching out things she hated, like the swagged curtains so beloved of everyone and their granny. She stared instead at Candy, who looked spookily young with her long caramel limbs, wide blue eyes and skin plumped up and dewy as a just-picked peach.
‘She’s forty-eight if she’s a day,’ Abby said crossly. ‘They’ve touched up those photos.’
She unearthed her magnifying glass from a drawer and began to examine the pictures: Candy wearing low-slung denims with a saucepan in one hand; Candy, barefoot and curled up in a giant armchair. Abby peered closely but couldn’t detect a line anywhere. Bitch. She must have had some work done, an entire renovation job from the foundations up, at that. Abby slapped the magazine shut and glared at the wall behind her desk. On it hung the big ‘Star Certificate’ that the Declutter team had given her as a joke at the end of the last series.
‘Thanks, Abby,’ it said. ‘We love working with you. You’re a star.’ A big gold star surmounted the words. She’d been so touched.
Abby stared at it dully. ‘You’re a star.’
‘I don’t bloody well feel like one today,’ she said crossly.
On Tuesday morning, Abby was the first up. She wanted a head start on looking good because today she was going to meet Beech’s just-hired executive producer and new commissions head, a woman called Roxie O’Halloran, who apparently wanted ‘to toss around some new ideas for the show’. Abby had a bad feeling about that. She might not have much experience of this kind of meeting, but an instinct told her that ‘toss around new ideas’ was business code for ‘change everything utterly’. She’d rung Flora, the show’s director and a good friend, for inside information on the newcomer but Flora knew nothing and had blithely said that Beech were hardly going to change such a successful format, were they?
‘Stop obsessing, Abby. We’ve got a winning formula and you’re a big part of it.’
At the back of the bathroom cupboard, Abby found her highly expensive and rarely used Eve Lom cleanser and moisturiser. If it was good enough for superstars, it was good enough for her, she decided. Serious cleansing was the answer to holding back the wrinkles.
‘What’s got you up so early?’ mumbled Tom, shuffling into the bathroom ten minutes later. His legs were thin under his oversized T-shirt, thin and pale. He had a long-distance runner’s legs, he used to joke. She wondered if he’d be hurt if she called his legs ‘OK’ instead of sexy, which was what she always used to say if he moaned about how skinny they were.
She went back to rubbing scented body lotion assiduously into her shoulders and back. Tom didn’t ask if she wanted help with the hard-to-reach bits. Once, he would have been only too eager to do so, slowly rubbing the lotion into more interesting places. Abby tried to tell herself this didn’t matter.
‘I’ve a meeting with the production team this morning to run through ideas for the show,’ she said curtly.
Abby loved meetings. Nothing made her feel more businesslike than sitting round the long table in Beech’s modern office on the river-front, everyone with bottles of mineral water and clean pads in front of them, tossing ideas around, the creative buzz almost palpable. It made her feel like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl – beautifully dressed but a bit of a fraud. Hopefully, today’s meeting would be enjoyable too. Flora was right: she probably was obsessing about the new executive producer.
‘When you’re in the shop later,’ Tom said, turning on the shower, ‘don’t forget I need new razor blades – you know the ones I like – and we’re low on espresso.’
He stepped into the shower.
Ridiculously, Abby felt like crying. It wasn’t because her husband seemed completely unaware of the system that meant they never ran out of staples like coffee or razor blades, and that, ironically, underpinned her career success and therefore their comfortable lifestyle. It was because she finally realised what she’d turned into: his mother. The only difference was that occasionally – very occasionally – they had sex. She didn’t even bother to cast her mind back to when that had last been. Apart from the sex, she was a doppelgänger for the late Mrs Beryl Barton, replenisher of razor blades and laundry angel, who required only the odd vague compliment to keep her running on oiled wheels.
OK. You look OK.
Fiercely, Abby began to apply her ‘photo opportunity’ panstick with the skill that came from watching the Declutter make-up artist work on her face. She might not be a twenty-something leggy blonde, but she could still do more than OK.
At least the perky young receptionist in the Beech office was pleased to see her.
‘Hello, Abby!’ Livia smiled from behind the wall of her sleek glass and chrome desk. ‘They’re waiting for you in the meeting room. Will I phone someone to get you or do you want to go up yourself?’
‘Don’t get anyone, Livia,’ chided Abby. ‘I do hate fuss.’
‘I know,’ sighed Livia. Abby was so lovely to work with, a rarity in their business. Honestly, she never demanded anything, not like some of the stars who rushed in and out of Beech’s offices, rudely requesting taxis immediately and treating Livia like someone who could only hear if she was screeched at.
If Abby needed a taxi, she’d politely ask Livia if it wasn’t too much trouble to call one for her. And say thank you. Abby always remembered to ask about Livia’s mother, who adored Declutter and had been delighted to get a copy of the last video with a Beech compliments slip signed by Abby herself.
Abby rushed along to the meeting room, oblivious to anything but the loud swishing of her long leather skirt. The outfit had seemed like a good idea at the time – a sort of classy but modern look, worn with pull-on Lycra boots and a chic white shirt with big cuffs – but she’d forgotten how noisy the skirt was. Each step sounded like a legion of Russell Crowe lookalikes marching noisily into battle for the glory of Rome.
There were four people in the meeting room: Stan, the executive producer; Flora, the director; Brian, the MD of Beech; and Roxie, the new executive producer.