Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.

      ‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’

      ‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’

      ‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’

      I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.

      ‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’

      The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’

      The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.

      ‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.

      ‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.

      ‘– Terry’s a bastard!’

      ‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’

      ‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’

      ‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’

      ‘– and it was really interesting.’

      ‘Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north … ’

      ‘– I had an ovarian cyst once.’

      ‘Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day … ’

      ‘– very painful, actually.’

      ‘With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls … ’

      ‘– it was the size of a lemon, apparently … ’

      ‘And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic … ’

      ‘– and full of pus.’

      ‘We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.’

      ‘– low pleasure?’

      ‘I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise … ’

      ‘– God, Faith looks tired.’

      ‘A cold, nasty day for most of us … ’

      ‘– Terry, sit up straight.’

      ‘But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north … ’

      ‘– and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine, eight … ’

      ‘But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping … ’

      ‘Seven, six, five … ’

      ‘To no higher than four degrees … ’

      ‘Three, two … ’

      ‘So do remember to wrap up warm … ’

      ‘One and … ’

      ‘See you in half an hour.’

      ‘Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!’

      Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between ‘hits’ I check the charts, phone the met office and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that’s when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you’re giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then – and I hate these ones – there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it – such as a hair trim – produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the ‘requests’ from those viewers who seem to think I’m God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay! I write back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework – I hate it, but we can’t afford a cleaner – I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say things I don’t like – including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever – was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book – Madame Bovary – but even that didn’t help. My mind returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. ‘Neeeee … ’ it went. ‘Neee … neeee