The smile stretched on my face starts to ache. My attempt to portray a happy persona has been effective but exhausting and I find myself repeatedly checking the clock on the studio wall. Time is running out for me and yet, here in this room, it has slowed down, trapping me in locked minutes. Each time my eyes bore of looking down at the script, they look up at the clock until I become transfixed, following the large hand as it plots its clockwise rotation to oblivion. A sound of ticking that I have never noticed before today gets louder and louder until I can barely hear what the guests are saying. I see the faces of the team in the gallery, it feels like they’re all staring at me. I look for Jo, but she isn’t there. I’m picking the skin off my lip again. I stop, irritated by my lack of self-control and rub my lipstick-stained fingers on the cloth of my dress. Red on red. I must try harder not to be myself.
When the show finally reaches its conclusion, I take pleasure in watching Madeleine retreat to her office, knowing exactly what she’ll find there. I thank the guests, someone has to, and leave them with Matthew, who has his coat on, ready to take them out. I pop to the toilets to check that my mask is still in place. Madeline’s current PA is there, staring at herself in the mirror. She looks tired and there is a sadness behind her eyes that makes me want to save her. I smile and she gives me a half-hearted smile in return. One of her many jobs each morning is to go through Madeline’s mail; she’s too busy and important to read it herself. There’s always a tidy pile to tackle: press releases, invites, free stuff, the usual. She gets more post than the rest of the team put together, including me. Then there’s the fan mail. That gets left on her desk after the show. She likes to read anything that looks like a personal letter herself once we’re off air and then she marks the ones that she deems worthy of a reply with a small red sticker. She doesn’t keep the letters. She inhales the admiration and breathes out arrogance, her own bespoke photosynthesis. The letters with red stickers get sent a signed photo of Madeline. She doesn’t write the replies, she doesn’t even sign the photos, that’s another job for her PA. I watch her reapply her make-up and wonder how she feels, pretending to be someone that she’s not every day.
I head for the meeting room and wait with the others for the debrief. Jo gives me a nod as I take a seat, Project Madeline is so far going according to plan. A low rumble of chatter has sparked over the rumours of Madeline’s departure online, and I’m pleased to hear word is spreading. Lies can seem true when told often enough. The hot gossip is extinguished as soon as she enters the room. Madeline slams the glass door behind her and sits down at the table. I’m guessing she’s seen Twitter too. She can’t figure out how to print her own scripts, but she can tweet. I know she checks her account after each show, to make sure her fifty thousand ‘followers’ still adore her, and discovering that she’s trending for all the wrong reasons will not have gone down well.
‘Where’s my coffee?’ she barks at nobody in particular. Her PA’s face burns bright red.
‘It’s . . . right there, Madeleine,’ she says, pointing at the steaming cup on the desk.
‘That’s not my mug. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘It’s in the dishwasher.’
‘Then wash it. By hand. Where’s Matthew?’
I stare at her, this successful, formidable woman and wonder where all her anger comes from. I know things about Madeline, things that I shouldn’t and that she’d rather I didn’t, but it still doesn’t explain all the hate. I clear my throat and ball my hands into fists beneath the table. Time to deliver my lines.
‘Matthew has taken Jane and Louise out for a meeting and some food,’ I say.
‘What? Why?’ asks Madeline.
‘I’m not sure. He said he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.’
Madeline is quiet for a moment. Everyone waits while she looks down at the table, a small frown folding itself onto her already heavily lined face.
‘Right, well, maybe someone else can explain to me where this “Women at Fifty” idea came from. This morning was the first I heard about it.’
I let the others do the talking while I sit back to study my enemy. Her dark-rimmed glasses perch on the end of her upturned nose and behind them her dead eyes dart around the room.
Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
Her long, witch-like nails drum an impatient beat on her notebook and I spot something poking out from between its white pages, the crisp edge of a red envelope. She’s read it then. I smile to myself.
Step One is complete.
Before
Thursday, 24th October 1991
Dear Diary,
So Taylor, the girl I sit next to in class, wants to be friends. She didn’t say that, but I can just tell. It’s a problem. She’s a nice girl, doesn’t seem to be very popular, but that isn’t what’s bothering me. Being popular isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, people expect too much from you. Far better to blend in with the crowd, that way, when you do shine, people notice.
One of the popular kids was mean to Taylor in the changing rooms before hockey today. Kelly O’Neil, who always has a tan because her family go on lots of holidays, is not a nice person. She called Taylor flat-chested, which is stupid, we’re all flat-chested – we’re ten. Everyone laughed, not because it was funny, but because they’re scared of Kelly, which is also stupid. She’s just a spoilt moron. Taylor’s cheeks went all red but she did a good job of blinking away the tears in her eyes. Nana used to say that if you didn’t let the tears out of you they can turn to poison. Mum says only babies cry and that it is a sign of weakness. I think it must depend on the type of tears because I catch her crying all the time.
There are three things I’ve cried about recently, when nobody could see:
1. Nana being dead.
2. My fountain pen leaking all over Little Women.
3. Going to bed with no dinner and my tummy hurting so badly I couldn’t sleep.