Читать книгу Sometimes I Lie: A psychological thriller with a killer twist you'll never forget - Alice Feeney, Alice Feeney - Страница 16

Then

Tuesday, 20th December 2016 – Morning

‘Managed to get you a table at the Langham, pulled some strings,’ I say.

‘Marvellous. What for?’ says Matthew, without looking up from his computer screen. We’re on air in just under ten minutes and almost everyone, including Madeline, has already gone through to the studio.

‘Brunch,’ I say.

‘With who?’ He looks up at me, giving me his half-full attention. Then I see his expression change as he notices my new dress, my make-up, my hair, bullied into shape by brushes and hot air. He sits up a little straighter and his left eyebrow exerts itself into an appreciative arch. I find myself wondering whether he is actually gay or whether I had just presumed that he was.

‘Today’s panel. The women in their fifties guests. We talked about it last week,’ I say.

‘Did we?’

‘Yes. You said you’d take them out after the show, talk through some future ideas.’

‘What future ideas?’

‘You said we needed to be more innovative, shake things up a bit.’

‘That does sound like me.’

It doesn’t. When he hesitates, I bombard him with more well-rehearsed words. ‘They’re expecting to meet you straight after the show, but I can cancel it if you want me to, make up some excuse?’

‘No, no. I think I do remember now. Is Madeline joining us?’

‘No, it’s just you and the guests.’ He frowns. ‘So they can talk freely about what they think works and what doesn’t.’ I didn’t rehearse that part, but the words form themselves and do the trick.

‘OK, I suppose that makes sense. I’ve got a physio appointment at three, so I’ll need to head home straight after.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘And joining us now on Coffee Morning are Jane Williams, the editor of Savoir-Faire, the UK’s biggest-selling women’s monthly magazine, and the writer and broadcaster Louise Ford, to talk about women working in the media in their fifties,’ says Madeline, before taking a sip of water. For once, she looks as uncomfortable as I feel in the studio. I dig my fingernails into my knees beneath the desk as hard as I can; the pain calms me enough to stop me from running out of the tiny, dark room.

I set up a fake Twitter account last night, took me five minutes when Paul was having a shower before we went to bed. I posted a few pictures of cats I found on the Internet and had over a hundred followers by the time I woke up. I hate cats. I can’t pretend to understand social media, either. I mean, I get it, I just don’t understand why so many people spend so much time engaging with it. It’s not real. It’s just noise. Still, I’m glad that they do. Is Madeline Frost leaving Coffee Morning? has been retweeted eighty-seven times since I posted it twenty minutes ago and the #FrostBitesTheDust hashtag is proving very popular. That bit was Jo’s idea.

The make-up I don’t normally wear feels heavy on my skin. My red lipstick matches my new dress and the carefully selected armour makes me feel safe. The protective mask hides my scars and soothes my conscience; I’m only doing what I must to survive. I catch myself slipping out of character and stare down at my red fingers. At first I think I’m bleeding, but then realise I’ve been picking the skin off my red-stained lips.

I sit on my hands for a moment, to hide them from myself. I have to stay calm or I’ll never get through this. I realise I’m chewing on my lower lip now, my teeth picking up where my fingers left off. I stop and focus all of my attention on Madeline’s half-empty glass. The hiss and fizz of the sparkling water it holds seems to get louder as my eyes translate the sound to my ears. I retune them to the noise of her voice instead and try to steer myself back to centre.

I smile at each of the studio guests sitting around the table with us. So good of them to come in at such short notice. I study their faces as they continue to talk over one another, all of them present and incorrect for the same reason: self-promotion. Each one of us is sitting here with a motive today. If you were to strip us all down to our purest intentions, the lowest common denominator would always be wanting to be listened to, needing to be heard above the noise of modern life. For once, I don’t want to be the one asking the questions; I wish someone would listen to my answers and tell me whether my version of the truth is still correct. Sometimes the right thing to do is wrong, but that’s just life.

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.