Bad Friends. Claire Seeber

      She considered the question gravely for a moment. ‘I don’t know really, Maggie.’

      This was starting to feel like a bad edition of Oprah. I prayed fervently that no one I knew was watching.

      ‘But we are considering getting some counselling to get us through the bad patch.’

      I was sure Troy would be overjoyed to hear her admitting this on national television.

      ‘I mean, I’ve read some stuff, you know, like from Relate or marriage guidance people, you know, and they say the best thing is not necessarily to stay together. I mean, if you have counselling, they won’t always advise that. If, you know, things aren’t right.’

      ‘No, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d say that was pretty obvious. Any counsellor worth their salt would tell you that.’

      She looked at me. ‘Would they?’ There was something incredibly intense about her expression. ‘Do you really think they would?’

      ‘I mean, like I said, I don’t want to offend you. But if you find him – stifling – why would you want to stay?’

      ‘I guess you’re right,’ she said, very slowly. ‘I just hadn’t thought about it like that. I thought he was just being, you know – nice.’

      ‘Well, I’m sure he is nice. But that doesn’t mean he’s doing the right thing, being over-protective. Some men are just like that, aren’t they? They like control.’ For the first time today I felt almost impassioned. Almost. ‘They want to know where their women are at every moment, whether –’

      Renee was bearing down on me. She had absolutely no time for what she’d term ‘feminist claptrap’ on her show: too worthy, not enough blood and guts.

      ‘So, Maggie –’

      I recognised that tone.

      ‘You’ve had to have some help yourself, eh, sweetheart?’

      I couldn’t field it in time. The air crackled around me and my face froze. She knew. I stared at the floor in front of me as she paced before my chair. But what exactly did she know? Her leather boots were very high, as pointed as a cartoon witch’s.

      ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed, babes.’

      Charlie had betrayed me: he must have done.

      ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, so terribly caring, they thought. ‘You look a little tearful.’

      ‘Oh no,’ I blurted. ‘Sorry. It’s just the flowers.’ I waved vaguely behind me. ‘Lilies. I – I don’t like – I get a weird reaction, you know.’ I would never tell the truth here. ‘Hayfever.’

      ‘Share your feelings with us, Maggie. Come on, don’t be shy.’ Her voice dropped to a singsong lilt; its cruelty wrapped up carefully in coruscating kindness. ‘Perhaps we can help you, eh, Maggie?’ She raised her eyes to the audience. Her audience.

      The air felt electric now; it sizzled round my head. Everybody waited. I could sense Charlie on his haunches, as expectant as a gundog waiting to collect its kill. Panic began to build in me.

      Fernandez was sick of being overlooked. He pulled his lip over yellow teeth and unwittingly dispelled the tension.

      ‘So this is exactly what I mean in my latest book, Shadows in a Modern World. Often we ignore situations that we are –’

      Renee held up an imperious hand. He’d blown it. ‘Thank you, Mr Fernandez –’

      ‘Doctor Fernandez.’

      ‘Sorry, Doctor Fernandez,’ she spat each syllable out like a small piece of dirt, ‘but I think we really need to know a little more about how tragedy affects the everyday life of our guests. How exactly do you drag yourself out of bed in the morning if you’ve lost the love of your life? Please give a huge round of applause to someone who can tell us – let’s welcome Lesley Quentin, widow of Stan, the brave driver who gave his life so heroically that night.’

      I didn’t think poor old Stan had had much of a chance to prove his heroism that night actually. Fay was staring at me with a beatific expression on her gorgeous little face. And it was starting to seriously unnerve me.

      In the final break they walked the face-transplant lady on, and the freak-show finally finished me off. Heart pounding, I gestured frantically at Charlie. He was busy eyeing up Transplant Lady’s glamorous sister on the sidelines.

      ‘I’m really not feeling that great,’ I muttered. ‘It’s all been a bit of a shock.’ I tried to sound reproachful, but he was impervious. ‘Do you still need me?’

      ‘For God’s sake, Maggie. There’s only another fifteen minutes to go. You need to pull the bloody stops out, okay? The reunion was fantastic, don’t let it go flat.’

      ‘Please, Charlie. I – I really do feel a little bit – queasy.’

      He frowned, stepped back quickly in his Gucci loafers, just in case… Then Fay beamed at him and I saw him drowning blissfully in her violet eyes. She wasn’t even his type.

      ‘Okay, Maggie. Go and take five in the green room.’ Baring his perfect teeth at Fay, he straightened his tie. ‘We’ll talk later.’

      I grabbed my crutches and hauled myself out of there before he could change his mind. Funnily enough, Renee didn’t bother with a goodbye.

      In the deserted green room I sloshed some more wine into a glass and downed it with a not-quite-steady hand. Then I poured myself a strong coffee and sat down to wait for Charlie. I wished I was anywhere but here. I thought desperately of Pendarlin, of the soft yellow light and the space and the clear, clean Cornish air. It calmed me a little.

      After interminable adverts about loo freshener and nappies, a multi-coloured Renee tripped girlishly through her titles and the show was back on air. She was at her best now with poor faceless Leonora. When Fay reached over and held the poor woman’s hand, the audience actually moaned with joy.

      ‘Abso-bloody-lutely sickening.’ I snapped the television off with the remote.

      ‘I have to say I agree, mate.’

      My coffee went hurtling across the horrible beige appliqué sofa.

      ‘Sorry.’ An East-End accent: the policeman. He was disentangling himself from the mike, fishing the lead out of his scruffy white shirt. ‘What a complete waste of time that was.’

      I delved around for a napkin. ‘Didn’t you get your chance to shine?’

      He grinned. ‘Got turfed off before I could make my mark. They ran out of time for me apparently. I’m relieved, to be honest.’

      ‘Oh?’ I made a pathetic attempt to wipe up the coffee with a soggy serviette.

      ‘Drummed in to do a bit of police PR, you know. Not really my cup of char. Give me a con over a celebrity any day. What shall I do with this, d’you think?’

      ‘Just shove it on the side.’ I gestured vaguely at the table of stale croissants.

      ‘You done this before then?’

      His direct gaze never left me.

      ‘I – I work for them, normally. When I’m not, you know –’ I tapped my leg again. ‘Not injured.’

      Did his grin fade just a little? ‘Oh right. I see.’

      I wasn’t sure I did. Since I’d been off sick I felt more out of place here than I ever had before.

      The policeman was switching his phone on, checking the time. ‘I’d better do one. Nice to meet you.’

      I smiled a half-hearted smile. ‘Likewise.’

      ‘Hope your foot’s better soon.’

      ‘Thanks.