After the Break. Penny Smith

of watching you make a complete tit of yourself and say no.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘OK yes or OK no?’

      ‘OK, I’ll think about it.’

      ‘All right. What are you up to?’

      ‘Drinking tea.’

      ‘As one does. Well, have a good morning, and I’ll speak to you later.’

      Katie put the phone down and took a long draught of tea to warm up her nose. The air was positively frosty. Then she picked up the phone again, and dialled Adam.

      He answered on the first ring.

      ‘That was a very speedy response,’ she said, putting her mug down on the bedside table and snuggling under the duvet.

      ‘That’s because I saw who was calling.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ she said coyly. ‘What are you wearing?’

      ‘Is this a dirty phone call?’

      ‘Only if you make it one. I like to know what you’re wearing, so I can imagine it.’

      ‘A navy suit, a cream shirt and a tan watch.’

      ‘A tan watch?’

      ‘Yes. Why? You don’t like tan watches?’

      ‘I’d have thought a silver one would go better.’

      ‘You know nothing. Are you still in bed?’ he asked suspiciously.

      ‘No,’ she said briskly, sitting up.

      ‘Yes, you are,’ he said, laughing. ‘I can hear the sheets rustling.’

      ‘I was up,’ she said guiltily, ‘but then I got back into bed because I was cold.’

      ‘Yes. Of course. I believe you.’

      ‘Anyway. Listen. I know we weren’t supposed to be seeing each other tonight, although I’ve forgotten why. Was it one of your meetings? But could we, at some stage?’

      ‘Hold on a second,’ he said, and she heard him leafing through what she imagined was his diary.

      She slurped some tea.

      ‘Nice,’ he drawled.

      ‘Sorry Got my lips in the wrong order,’ she said.

      ‘Is ten o’clock too late?’ he asked.

      ‘No. That would be brilliant. How about going to that new bar that’s opened in Soho in that street that’s erm, sort of perpendicular to the one that runs parallel to Regent Street? Or do I mean adjacent?’

      ‘Journalism is so good for the communication skills. I assume you mean The Rag Room?’ he asked.

      ‘That’s the one. Oh, good. Something to look forward to.’

      ‘Nothing in the diary until then?’ he asked sympathetically.

      ‘Tons. I really ought to get on. There’s a bit of dusting needs doing behind one of my books,’ she said, with dignity.

      ‘Well, don’t be late for The Rag Room,’ he admonished, I know how dusting can drag on. You start with one book and before you know it you’re dusting behind another.’

      ‘Am I ever late? Of course I won’t be. And, in all seriousness, I do have a meeting at twelve. See you later.’ She pressed the little red phone icon. Won’t, she thought. Won’t. Funny word. Even funnier when you consider that it’s the short form of ‘will not’. Why don’t we say ‘willn’t’? I will marry you or maybe I willn’t.

      She grimaced. Maybe I willn’t because I haven’t been asked. Would I say, I will,’ if I was? That’s a difficult one.

      She wriggled further under the duvet, and pressed her non-phone ear into the pillow to warm it up. Maybe I should put the heating on. Or maybe I willn’t. She smiled. She might ask Adam later if he knew why it was ‘won’t’.

      She didn’t have a meeting, but she didn’t like to think of him picturing her lying in bed all day like some latter-day Hollywood starlet. ‘Ooh, ’ark at me, Hollywood starlet,’ she muttered to herself, as she sat up again and drank the rest of her tea, making exaggerated lip-smacking noises for the sheer hell of it. ‘Hollywood tartlet, more like. Or Stollywood tartlet. Hey, maybe I will have a vodka martini tonight. A nod to the old days.’

      Since she’d been stepping out with Adam, as she liked to describe it, she had cut down drastically on the alcohol consumption, but there was nothing in the world like a vodka martini. The oil from the two olives lying on the meniscus. The smell of the vermouth. The way it almost crept into your mouth and past your throat, coating it with a glow. She started to salivate at the memory.

      She tried to conduct an internal debate about the pros and cons of doing Celebrity X-Treme, but large wads of money kept hanging over the proceedings so she gave up.

      She could not have known just how much Siobhan Stamp wanted to get her on the show–that she had been given a big budget for the fee by Lamplight, the production company. And that she was already laying the groundwork for a spot of skulduggery by seducing one of the confirmed contestants, Paul Martin–not that she needed much of an excuse to seduce a handsome man but the prospect of killing two birds with one stone was delicious.

      Siobhan was facing a late night working on Celebrity X-Treme. She would have been pleased to know that not only was Katie more than halfway to accepting the company’s kind offer of £150,000 for three weeks’ work, but that she was going to appear in the newspaper the next day in a very unflattering pose. She found it therapeutic seeing a woman who had bested her–even if she was unaware of it–not looking her best.

      The Hello Britain! roadshow was on its fourth day and Keera had had enough. As she had predicted, Dee had been hogging the headlines with her broken ankle. She’d been an ‘…and finally’ on the late news, and had appeared on two afternoon chat shows. It wasn’t exactly Anklegate, but Keera had been relegated to a supporting role in both senses of the word–not only a shoulder to lean on as they were making their way to the outside broadcasts, but once at them people were all over Dee and virtually ignoring the star presenter.

      She opened a bottle of water from the minibar and elegantly sipped. She had been sent the duty officer’s log from the morning, with all the calls that had been received, and looked through it as she sat on the bed, her suitcase open at her feet, its contents immaculately folded.

      A man called Kevin Drayton had rung in: I watch your programme regularly. Obviously I’m not well’

      What a rude man, she thought, before reading on.

      ‘I’ve been housebound for some years now. Could I please have Keera’s autograph?’

      Oh, she thought, not as rude as all that, then.

      Miss Pam Franks had called: ‘When are Girls Aloud coming in?’

      Girls Aloud. She didn’t think they’d been booked to come in any time soon. She’d have to have a word with the head of entertainment. On a need-to-know basis, she did need to know these things.

      Dave Gilbert: ‘Could I please come and visit because I love everyone on the show. Apart from Dee, who is very annoying. She always says it’s going to rain and then it doesn’t. Her hands are too big.’

      Excellent. She’d make sure Dee saw that one. She wondered if there was any way of making the last two sentences disappear, since it somehow made Dave sound less sensible.

      Four doors down the corridor, Dee had found one of the Sunday supplements from the week before in her suitcase. She was searching for a particular shirt that she could have sworn she’d put in. She wanted to wear it for her appearance on a local television station. The bed was piled high with clothes, makeup, hair-drying paraphernalia and a vase. Oliver had threatened to send flowers and