From the hard stare the security guard at the BBC gives me, it’s clearly not working. However, the show must go on. I do the usual rigmarole of signing in, getting a lanyard and being told someone will come and fetch me. Then who do I see, cooling his heels in the giant marble lobby? Only Dante. Not today! Not when I’ve just had a knocker emergency! And what the hell is up with the brothers Carlisle? Must they do everything together?
Dante’s inspecting the ceiling, then checks his phone and then, with a sharp snap of his neck, spots me. Instantly he looks like an aggrieved whippet, as if I’m the one who shouldn’t be there. Briskly, his heels clipping on the cold floor, he crosses to me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hello to you too.’
He pauses, straightens the lapels of his suit jacket, then seems to gather himself. ‘Sorry. Hello, Amy. But why the sudden need for action?’
Childishly, I don’t want to tell him. ‘Client confidentiality.’
He seems almost sad. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Your help isn’t needed. Seriously, Dante, I’m very good at my job.’
‘Yes, you are.’
I receive this with a stiff nod.
‘And I’d prefer if you called me Dan.’
‘I know.’
He sighs audibly.
‘Dan? Amy?’ One of the thousands of people who work in television, indistinguishable with their clipboard, headset and trainers, has materialized.
We go up in a lift and the headset boy says, ‘Matthew’s in a meeting. He’ll be out soon.’
On the third floor, Dante and I follow the minion down endless corridors and through clusters of workspaces. The underling is going at quite a lick and it’s a hard job to keep my rogue knocker from jumping right out from the bra cup. Eventually, in a clearing outside a small office, the glass walls shielded with black venetian blinds, we stop. ‘Wait here,’ says the minion, who promptly disappears.
There’s nowhere to sit. Dante gets out his phone, then so do I, but neither of us is giving them our full attention because we’re waiting for Matthew to emerge and we both want to get to him first.
Finally he materializes from the glassy office, trailing a couple of other people. Dante and I hurry towards him – we’re this close to actually shoving each other out of the way.
‘Amy.’ I get a cheek kiss from Matthew. ‘Come in here.’ Dante and I follow Matthew back into the office, which really is tiny, more of a cubicle. You’d think a man as important as him would have his own penthouse suite, but the BBC must be very egalitarian because there’s barely room for the three of us around the tinchy desk.
‘So?’ Matthew’s nervous.
‘Okay. And it is okay.’ I’m being Reassuring Amy. ‘Ruthie’s got a big interview coming in this weekend’s Sunday Times.’
Matthew swallows. ‘Saying what?’
‘I haven’t seen it. But I hear it’s more of the same. Hints but nothing actionable. She’s still getting flak for Ozzie Brown, which is why she’s continuing to throw shade at you. We’ve no choice but to act now.’
‘An interview!’ Dante declares.
‘Shush, Dante! I’ve told you why that’s a bad idea and I’m not telling you again. We’re doing a photo op.’
Matthew takes off his black-rimmed glasses and rubs his face. ‘Okay. Let’s hear it.’
‘Paparazzi shots of you at the football with your kids. The picture we want to create is single dad, doing his best, while his wife has left him for another man.’
God, the pain on his face.
I give him a moment and say, ‘The children must be warmly dressed and look cared for.’
‘They are.’ This, of course, from Dante.
‘Do they have Fulham hats, scarves, all of that?’ I ask Matthew. ‘Good. The three of you will look like a mini-team of your own. Now this is important, Matthew. Be safety-conscious. Don’t let the kids stand on the backs of the seats in front of them. Nothing that might make you look like a bad dad.’ We could do without a Britney-driving-the-kids-with-no-seatbelts scenario.
He nods, chewing his bottom lip.
‘Have lots of toys ready in case the kids start crying.’ It would be potentially disastrous if photos of weeping Carlisle kids were taken on people’s phones.
‘And plenty of treats. But no chocolate or sweets.’ That would also be Bad Dad stuff. ‘Raisins, rice cakes, you know. Finally, look affectionate.’
‘I don’t need to be reminded to look affectionate with my own kids.’ His mouth is mutinous.
‘Of course, sorry, of course.’ Such a delicate flower! ‘But go big on it, Matthew. This isn’t the time for subtlety. And I need your seat numbers to identify the optimum spot for the pap.’
‘The idea of being spied on …’
To my surprise, tears start to roll down his face. I locate a tissue in my bag, then take his hand and close it around it. ‘I’m sorry, Matthew, but it’ll be worth it in the end.’
‘Will you be there?’ Matthew asks me, and no one could miss the alarm that lights up Dante’s face.
‘You can’t be seen with another woman, remember?’ I’m gentle. ‘And this can’t look staged – a PR person hanging around won’t do your cause any favours.’
‘But I can call you? From the match? If I need to?’
‘I’d advise against it, Matthew. You’re spending time with your kids. If you’re caught on your phone, it’s going to look like you’re bored. So no checking emails or anything. Your phone doesn’t exist for those two hours, right?’
‘Matthew.’ A young woman sticks her head around the door. ‘I’ve got your shirt.’
‘Greta?’ Matthew wipes his face with his hands. ‘Five minutes?’
She shakes her head and just about manages to squash into the tiny space, carrying a shirt and a handful of ties. ‘Needs to be now. Time for make-up.’
Matthew stands up. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, in my general direction, then pulls his T-shirt over his head and tosses it to Greta. Sweet Jesus, the abs on him. Actual real-life abs. It’s a long time since I’ve seen that sort of thing. And the chest! Dusted with dark hair, just the right amount, not too much, nothing gross.
Greta takes a vanilla-coloured shirt off a hanger and, in a rustle of freshly ironed cotton, Matthew shrugs it on and does it up. Before my astonished eyes, he quickly unbuttons the waistband of his trousers and unzips the zip, giving a shockingly enticing flash of navy Calvins and dark hair leading down to an evident bulge and – Oh! No! Way too quickly, the show is over: the shirt is tucked in, the thrilling stuff is covered with a bland white nothingness and I’m stunned with loss, as if I’ve been watching a gripping movie and suddenly, at the vital moment, the screen has gone blank. In under a second, everything is zipped back up and tidied away. Actually, my head is slightly reeling.
And what about Dante’s face? Sour as you please. It must be hard to have a brother who’s a demi-god. No wonder he’s always cross.
‘Well?’ Matthew asks Greta.
‘Good.’
He throws a dark tie around his neck, and Greta moves towards him. I see. Among Greta’s duties is knotting Matthew Carlisle’s tie.
‘No one does it like Greta,’ he says apologetically.
Greta says nothing while lifting his shirt collar, then methodically threading the tie over and under, her youthful face mere millimetres from Matthew’s beautiful one. What a job! Mind you, she probably has a PhD in political science and hates every demeaning second of this.
When she’s done, she silently holds out a little hand mirror to him, clearly part of a well-worn routine.
‘Nice and fat.’ Matthew shifts the knot a little and smiles. ‘Thanks, Greta.’
Matthew is hustled away by Greta, then Dante and I and my rogue knocker make our way back downstairs into the outside world.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asks.
‘You live in Islington. I’m going to Heathrow.’
‘Can I do anything helpful?’
‘No.’ I’m abrupt. Then, ‘Actually, would you be able to get me a map of Fulham’s ground?’
He focuses on something in his head, his eyes flicking as he considers options, the same eyes as Matthew’s, I notice, the only thing they have in common.
‘How soon do you need it? ASAP, I know. Tomorrow morning do?’
I nod. What now? There’s a spare hour before I should leave to catch the later flight. There’s plenty to be done – nailing down a photographer, making contact with the picture editor at one of the nationals, probably The Times. But I’m tired and I need a new bra and the thought of buying something is attractive – the thought of buying something is always attractive. The bra wins.
60