Tell the Truth. Amanda Brittany

I can’t recall, causing me to stay in my apartment day in, day out?’ He sounded defeated, on the verge of tears.

      What a ridiculous position I was in. How was I meant to answer someone I knew nothing about?

      ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Call your doctor as soon as possible. They can advise you.’ Pathetic!

      ‘We have John Burton on the line, Rachel,’ Emmy said, once the agoraphobic man had hung up. She pressed her finger to her ear, as though listening through her earpiece.

      ‘Hello, John,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

      ‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he sang. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’

      ‘Do you remember that nursery rhyme from your childhood, John?’ I said, feeling uneasy, and glancing over at Emmy.

      There was a pause, before he said, ‘Yes.’

      Emmy furrowed her brow, and shrugged. Surely they would cut him off. Blame a poor connection.

      ‘What age do you think you were when you heard it?’ I asked, trying to sound professional.

      ‘Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away.’

      The hairs on my arms rose, despite the heat of the studio.

      ‘I’m crying out,’ he said. ‘But they won’t listen. And now you must pay, Rachel.’ The line went dead, and within moments we went to a commercial break.

      ‘Oh my God,’ Emmy said as soon as we were off the air, jumping up and dashing over. She plonked down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Why the hell did they keep him on the line so long?’

      I didn’t reply; instead, I dashed off set, barely looking at the concerned faces following me through the door. I rushed through the labyrinth of corridors, desperately seeking an exit, my heart thumping. Eventually I spotted the automatic doors that led to the car park, and raced through them, freezing air hitting me like a smack. I stood for some moments, my eyes darting around the area, trying to catch my breath.

      I drove home, relieved Emmy was still on the air and couldn’t call me. I needed time to process what had happened, before discussing it. I collected Grace from Angela, keeping the conversation with my next-door neighbour brief so she didn’t see how anxious I was. ‘You knocked them dead, sweetie,’ she said in her throaty middle-class way, as I dashed down her path, holding Grace’s hand.

      ‘Thanks,’ I called back, certain she couldn’t have seen the live show.

      Inside my house, with the bolts pulled across the door and the deadlock on, my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. Grace settled herself in the lounge, building with Lego, and I padded into the kitchen to make tea, the song ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ worming its way into my head on repeat, driving up my anxiety.

      I rummaged in the freezer for fish fingers for Grace’s lunch. As I closed the freezer door, I noticed a photo of Lawrence and me on holiday a couple of years ago, pinned amongst the magnetic letters. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and touched Lawrence’s face with my outstretched fingertip. We were happy once. Weren’t we?

      ‘Mummy!’

      I jumped at the sound of my daughter’s voice, dropping the box of fish fingers to the floor with a thud. I fell to my knees.

      ‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Grace said, running over and crouching beside me, as I shoved broken fish fingers back into the box with shaking hands. She craned her neck to see my face, touching my cheek softly, and I realised tears were filling my eyes.

      ‘Don’t cry,’ she said.

      ‘I’m not crying, lovely. I’ve got something in my eye.’

      What the hell was the matter with me? Was it Lawrence taking off, or the stupid call? I took a deep breath, trying to escape the silly nursery rhyme in my head. It’s just some weirdo. A troll. Nothing personal.

      I rose and slipped the battered box onto the worktop, and lifted Grace up into my arms, burying my nose into her dark curls. She smelt of strawberry shampoo. ‘So did you have a lovely time with Angela?’ I said, as the kettle boiled.

      ***

      The phone blasted on my bedside table. It was 7 a.m. Only one person would ring so early – someone who got up at five.

      ‘Emmy,’ I said as I answered the call, my voice croaky.

      ‘I’m so sorry about the odd phone call yesterday, Rachel,’ she said. If she’d been angry about my comments on air about her childhood, she’d let it go.

      ‘It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry too … for rushing off like that.’

      ‘No worries. You dealt with it all amazingly while you were on air. After the break we had that cute contestant from The Bake Off on, and carried on as though nothing had happened. There’s been a few tweets about it, but nothing major.’

      ‘Thank God.’

      ‘Live TV, especially phone-ins, can be a nightmare.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position, and propping myself against the headboard.

      ‘I still can’t believe they let him stay on the line for so long.’ Her TV persona was confident, loud and bubbly, yet the real Emmy – the one on the other end of the line, was softly spoken. ‘The guys handling the phone lines said he sounded upbeat and friendly when he called in. Had a great question to ask you.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Despite ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ playing in my head during the night, I felt sure I was over the call. Lawrence had left. My mum was ill. I wasn’t about to let some creepy caller add another layer of worry to my life. ‘It was just some fool with nothing better to do,’ I said, sounding strong. ‘I’m sure the call wasn’t aimed at me personally.’

      ‘I’m not so sure, Rach,’ she said. Words I didn’t want to hear. The phone line went quiet for a few moments, and I imagined her twirling a curl of her hair around her finger, forming the words she sometimes struggled to get out. A trauma twelve months ago had triggered a childhood stammer, although she could mainly control it now and rarely stuttered on air. ‘The thing is …’

      ‘What is it, Emmy?’ I leaned forward on the bed, and threw back my quilt, suddenly hot. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘Nothing’s happened exactly,’ she went on. ‘And to be honest, I’ve been deliberating over whether to tell you – but then I feel you should know. Just in case.’

      ‘Just in case what?’ The hairs on my arms rose.

      ‘The thing is, a man came to the studio looking for you earlier this morning.’

      ‘Was it the man who called in?’ Is that fear in my voice?

      ‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I don’t know who he was, but he was quite normal, nothing like the bloke on the phone. He was waiting outside when I arrived. He’d been there a while, as he was soaked through.’

      ‘It’s raining?’ I glanced at the window. Part of me didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Let’s talk about the weather instead.

      ‘It’s dried up now. Rach, are you taking this in? Did you hear what I said?’

      I nodded, as though she could see me, before rising and pacing the room. ‘Of course. Yes.’

      ‘He didn’t tell me his name, despite me asking several times.’ Another pause. ‘Just that he was desperate to talk to you. I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. I thought you should know.’

       Just in case.

      ‘Yes,