The top floor is another world of light, air and wide corridors. Matthew’s room is right at the end. I knock on the pale oak door – and, oh, my God, there’s a click and a flash of light from behind me! A photographer!
Whoever it is, they’re holed up two rooms down from Matthew’s. I scurry down the corridor, give the door a sharp rap, and when no one appears, I call, ‘I’m Amy O’Connell, I’m Matthew’s publicist.’
The door opens. It’s a paparazzo I vaguely know and I start laughing because it’s all so mad. ‘Len … ah, Lenny? Right, Lenny. I’m his publicist, you fool. Amy O’Connell, you know me!’
Belligerently, Lenny says, ‘He could be diddling you.’
‘He’s not.’ I’m still laughing. I think it’s the adrenalin. ‘He’s not diddling anyone.’
Lenny looks deflated.
‘But everyone else will be diddling each other tonight,’ I say. ‘You won’t go home empty-handed. Right. Bye.’
I give Matthew’s door another good ra-ta-tat-tat and after ten seconds I hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Then the door is wrenched open.
‘Sorry!’ Matthew’s shirt is crumpled and he looks stunned with tiredness. ‘I fell asleep. Come in.’
‘Oh, this is lovely.’ His room is actually a suite. It has a living room with two sofas and armchairs, and the whole place is flooded with blue light.
‘They upgraded me.’ He stifles a yawn.
I rush to the window. ‘A sea view!’
‘You didn’t get one?’
I laugh. ‘I’m lucky I got a bed. So? Dante around?’ I expect him to be hiding in the wardrobe.
He smiles. ‘Dan’s room is on another floor.’
Yeah, I can well believe it. Dante is probably billeted in the Shithole Annex along with me and all the other nobodies.
‘Coffee?’ Matthew asks. ‘Or something else?’ He gestures at a sideboard. ‘Look. I’ve a bar with full bottles of alcohol.’
‘God, no. Long night ahead. Coffee is fine.’ He has an actual Nespresso machine!
He carries the two cups to the table by the sofa. ‘Okay,’ he says, fixing me with his brown eyes. ‘So, tonight’s instructions. No women?’
‘You have been listening. Seriously, circumspection around all females.’
‘No slow dancing at the disco? No grinding?’
‘No disco at all.’
‘What? It’s a tradition.’
‘Photos of you over-refreshed and enjoying yourself? No, Matthew.’ Time to get brutal. ‘There’s a pap stationed in a room two doors down from here.’
He goes pale. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re Ruthie Billingham’s husband. Because Ruthie is still churning out cheating hints. The press, the public, they want incriminating photos.’
He puts his face into his hands. ‘When is this nightmare going to end?’
‘I don’t know. All I can promise is that it will. Meanwhile you hold the line.’
He exhales, long and world-weary.
‘Another thing, Matthew. Just say you don’t win your award tonight?’
‘You mean, “in the unlikely event”?’ He tries an unconvincing twinkle.
‘Exactly! You must smile. A lot. Clap enthusiastically.’ In PR terms, it’s almost better to lose graciously than to actually win.
‘Got it.’ Then, ‘Do you think I won’t win?’
‘Of course you’ll win.’ He won’t. Jeremy Paxman will win.
‘Not Paxman?’
‘Not Paxman.’
‘I bet you a tenner.’
‘You’re on.’ Shite. That’s a tenner gone. ‘Finally, what are you wearing tonight?’ It’s a black-tie do. ‘Is it a hired suit?’
‘It’s mine.’
‘Show it to me.’
It’s from Zara Man. At least it’s not a sharp-cut designer beauty from the likes of Gucci. All the same … ‘Just try not to be too good-looking tonight, okay?’
‘How do I do that?’
I’m not quite sure whether to laugh or not. ‘See you later, Matthew.’
Downstairs in the bar, Alastair is waiting and Tim has joined us.
‘How’s Matthew?’ Alastair asks.
I shake my head. ‘If …’ It’s hard to find the exact words. ‘If … yeah, if he had a sense of humour, he’d be the ridiest man on the planet.’
Something passes over Alastair’s face and, in exasperation, I demand, ‘What?’
‘I’ve a sense of humour? I’m funny, right?’
I boggle my eyes at him. ‘Funny peculiar.’ I do a double-take. ‘And needier than usual.’
Then, to my great surprise, Tim – Tim! – asks, ‘Have you a crush on Matthew Carlisle?’
‘Um, no.’ I feel myself colour because Tim … I’m so uncomfortable talking emotions with him.
‘I never feel right unless I have a work crush,’ he says.
I’m speechless! The best I can manage is, ‘But you and Mrs Staunton …’
Gravely he says, ‘Mrs Staunton, I’m sure, has work crushes of her own.’
‘But you don’t actually do anything with these crushes of yours?’
He gives me a wry look, then twinkles – twinkles!
‘You’re messing with me,’ I say, then beseech Alastair, ‘He’s messing, right?’
‘You’re asking me? I’m in worse shock than you.’
‘Please, Tim, not this week of all weeks. I need something, someone, I can depend on. Please say you’re joking.’
‘I’m joking,’ he deadpans. But I’m not sure I believe him.
67
‘And here to present the award for Political Broadcaster of the Year is …’
This is Matthew’s category and it’s no surprise when Jeremy Paxman wins. Matthew jumps to his feet, claps wildly, wolf-whistles, then gives me a meaningful nod across the huge ballroom and mouths, ‘You owe me a tenner.’
Dante Carlisle follows Matthew’s gaze, and when he sees me, he looks cross. I blow him a kiss.
When the award-giving finally ends, the fun bit of the evening begins. I plan to table-hop, meet tons of people, go to the disco and dance till they throw me out.
But, first, I’d better commiserate with Matthew and give him his tenner.
He’s sitting all alone at the big round table. Everyone else must have lunged towards the bar.
‘Too bad,’ I say.
‘Told you Paxman had it.’ Matthew attempts a smile but it wobbles off his face.
‘Are you okay?’ Did he want to win that much? Alarmed, I slide into the chair next to his. ‘What is it?’
‘Just … I miss my wife.’ He twists his body away from the room and towards me. His gaze is fixed on the table-top. ‘I still can’t believe she’s left me.’
Wide-eyed, I nod.
‘Every morning when I wake up, there’s a moment when I pretend it hasn’t happened. Then I have to face it and the sense of loss … It’s like being a kid again, when my dad left.’
All I can do is nod. This is agonizing.
‘It’s not just Ruthie I miss. It’s our family, the four of us.’
Now I’m wishing he’d stop talking.
‘Like Eden before the fall. It was perfect but it’s gone.’
Hugh had adored me, he’d adored all of us – me, Neeve, Sofie and Kiara. We were a happy family. I haven’t lost just him, I’ve lost every bit of it, our unique five-way dynamic.
A lump is swelling in my throat.
‘People thought I took care of Ruthie,’ Matthew says. ‘But she took care of me, we took care of each other and … Are you okay? Amy? Are you okay?’
‘Yep.’ I nod, even though tears are spilling from my eyes.
‘God! What did I say?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. This is embarrassing.’ I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
‘Tell me. Please.’ His brow is furrowed oh-so-handsomely. ‘Please,’ he repeats.
I know it’s unprofessional, but I’m broken. ‘Can I show you something?’
‘Of course.’
I touch my phone a couple of times and scroll down through various stuff until I find Raffie’s most recent photo, of herself and Hugh on a dock, wrapped around each other. ‘See that man there? The man with that woman? That’s my husband.’
‘But he’s –’
‘Yeah. With another woman. They’re in Thailand.’
‘And … what? How do you know about it?’
‘We’re on a break. Well, he is. Six months. He’ll be back in March. Except he won’t be, will he? I mean, would you come back?’
Matthew’s face is shocked concern. ‘Amy, do you want to duck out of here? Knock tonight on the head? No one will notice. Come on, I’ll see you back to your room safely.’
Suddenly I’ve run out of all steam, all strength, and I just want to escape. ‘Okay.’
We stand up, and Dante appears out of nowhere, carrying drinks. ‘What’s going on?’