studio this afternoon?’ Elizabeth tries to think back over the day’s routine. She’d been in the production office till the early afternoon, trying to sort out next week’s show. She’d only joined for the dress run when Ricky was ready to rehearse his monologue at the top of the show.
Lola looks at her miserably. ‘I didn’t like to call him.’ She looks defensive. ‘You know, it’s not MY job to chivvy up the presenter…’ Her eyes well up again and Elizabeth strokes her back.
‘Of course it’s not. It’s just that you do it so well. Normally.’
‘But he was only an hour late. And you know, sometimes it’s been worse than that. And he was in such a good mood when he arrived.’
It’s true that Ricky had seemed much more his old self and Elizabeth had been hopeful the show might improve. It was very unlike the last couple of weeks, when he’d been bored and bullying. She’d had to have words with him after she found a camera assistant in tears. Yesterday, he’d missed the production meeting because he’d failed to return from lunch. Elizabeth was getting fed up with it and had begun to think about leaving the show and leaving Ricky Clough.
As if reading her thoughts, Lola turns to Elizabeth, her face streaky with grief. ‘I thought he was getting better. You know…’
‘Yes, I did too.’ Elizabeth pauses, but the whisky has done its job. ‘Lola, hon, when did you last…um…you know, with Ricky?’
Lola screws her soaking napkins into a tight ball. ‘Not in the last few weeks. He hasn’t wanted to. He didn’t seem to want company – or at least, not my company. To be honest, I’d wondered if there was someone else.’
‘Oh, Lola. You didn’t tell me! So no more late-night visits after the show?’
‘Not for a few weeks, no.’ Lola looks up, sharply. ‘You won’t tell Matthew, will you?’
‘If you haven’t seen Ricky – I mean, alone – for a while, then I don’t see how it could be relevant,’ she says slowly, glancing over at her boss. ‘But Lola, I’m not sure it’s as secret as you think it is…’
‘Has anyone from the team said anything to you?’
Elizabeth considers this for a moment. When she’d first gone to discuss her presenter’s bad behaviour on the show with Matthew, he’d asked if Ricky had ‘inappropriately’ propositioned anyone on the team. Elizabeth had said, truthfully, that no one had complained and Matthew seemed very relieved. But she’s wondered a lot since about that word ‘inappropriate’. Was it inappropriate that Lola should phone Ricky late at night, when she ‘unexpectedly’ found herself close to his Kensington house? Or inappropriate that she should accept his offer of a nightcap – and then a bacon butty? Or inappropriate that she should then go back for more at Ricky’s urging? Inappropriate maybe, but definitely consensual. Over the years, Ricky had entertained a number of dalliances – Lola was merely the latest. They’d all lived with it, condoned it, covered for him, even. And Lola is her best friend. No, Elizabeth isn’t about to tell tales about this affair.
‘No, no one from the team.’ (Elizabeth decides that Matthew doesn’t really qualify for this distinction.) ‘Why don’t you go home, Lo? Nothing’s going to happen here. Let’s speak in the morning. I’ve got to see the police again at 10. I’ll call you after that.’
‘Promise?’
‘Of course.’ Elizabeth hugs her. ‘By the way, hon – do you know who Ricky had lunch with yesterday, when he missed our planning meeting?’
Lola bends down to pick up her vintage peep-toes, which she’d dramatically discarded in the heat of the crisis. ‘Oh yes. Didn’t you know? He had lunch with the boss.’
Elizabeth turns to her in surprise. ‘With Matthew?’
Lola nods.
‘Oh.’ She glances over at the whispering two men in the corner of the room. ‘Funny. Matthew didn’t mention it.’
Lola looks at Elizabeth ironically and she smiles ruefully back at her. ‘Yeah, you’re right, hon. Of course, knowledge is power.’ She kisses Lola on the cheek.
‘Will you be okay yourself? I mean, going home to an empty flat?’ Lola looks at Elizabeth meaningfully.
Elizabeth feels her sides constrict and her heart sink as she thinks of the deathly silence waiting for her: the unlit rooms, the unoccupied double bed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, turning away.
‘Well, if you’re sure. Speak tomorrow. Call me.’ Lola squeezes her hand and leaves.
Elizabeth makes a half-hearted attempt to stash the empty bottles into an already overflowing recycling bin. She realises her silk shirt is clammy and clinging uncomfortably to her flesh. There are some unidentifiable stains on the front of it. She leans against the sofa and runs the shaking fingers of one hand through her fringe – her forehead is damp and strands of dark hair fall wetly on to her cheeks. The waistband of her skirt suddenly feels tight and restrictive; she feels she might have trouble breathing. She catches Matthew looking across at her, his face creased with concern. Kevin leaves the room with a brief nod in her direction.
Matthew puts down his whisky glass and moves towards her. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’
Elizabeth is thirty-five but it’s somehow become accepted between them that he will occasionally confuse her, his most senior female producer, with his teenage daughter Millie. It’s a subtle but useful reference to the power play between them and Elizabeth is perfectly aware why he does it. And equally, she knows that occasionally she finds it comforting to treat Matthew like a dad. For too many long years now, she hasn’t had a dad – and the older she gets, the more she realises what a void this is in her life. She’s genuinely fond of her boss; she indulges all his foibles (as you would a dad) and allows him to tell his celebrity anecdotes uninterrupted, even though she’s heard them a hundred times before. It’s a purely professional partnership but it works well and she’s grown to feel genuinely fond of him, especially given his recent trauma. But she’s no longer sure she needs Matthew – or any boss, in fact. She’s begun to harbour dreams of setting up a production company of her own. It’s high time, she thinks, to call the shots herself.
‘Is someone going to the hospital to meet Lorna?’
‘Yes, Kev’s organising it. She’ll need help with the press – word is creeping out.’
‘I hear you had lunch with Ricky yesterday.’ She speaks more sharply than intended.
Matthew raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Yes, I think it is. Especially as he missed our programme planning meeting because of it.’
‘Did he?’ Her boss moves to open the door in an elaborate display of chivalry and gestures for her to lead the way out. ‘Well, yes, I had lunch with Ricky. At The Ivy actually. I suspect there may be paparazzi shots, which are bound to get used once the papers hear about this. Kevin’s checking it out now.’ Matthew seems quite pleased at the prospect of some intrusive evidence of his celebrity lunch.
Elizabeth hesitates at the open door. ‘Will you be telling the police?’
‘Well, yes. If it comes up.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Actually, as lunches with Ricky Clough go, this wasn’t so bad. He seemed, well, reconciled to the inevitable.’
‘The inevitable? Did you tell him we’re making a new show without him?’ Elizabeth stops in surprise.
‘Yes, I did. Although actually I think he knew anyway. He just wanted confirmation. But yes, Ricky took it remarkably well. He asked if the new show was with Hutch, and I said it was. He had quite a few very nasty things to say about Hutch and what he thought were his fatal flaws. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’ Matthew gestures that they should continue walking and Elizabeth, whose face is aflame at the mention of Hutch’s name, avoids looking at him as he continues. ‘But you know, Ricky seemed more