‘Look! Her hand… she’s pointing her finger.’
‘Amber, can you hear me?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means she’s still here.’
Then
Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Morning
I flush the toilet then wipe my mouth with a thin strip of recycled paper. I rub my lips harder than I need to, letting the rough edges sand my skin. I take a moment to breathe, grateful that none of my colleagues have seen me like this. It’s the last show before the Christmas break, just one more day to get through, then it’s done. Just a few more hours, I can manage that. I take a breath mint from my handbag and pop it in my mouth. I’m well practised at hiding hangovers, but that isn’t what this is.
I checked my diary on the train this morning, thirteen weeks and I hadn’t even noticed. It isn’t like we do it very often and I just presumed that this was never going to happen. All that time we spent trying and now, when I’d given up, now I’m pregnant. It doesn’t make any sense and yet somehow it does and I’m sure that I am. I’ll get a kit after work, that’s what I’ll do. I feel certain that I already know but I need to be sure.
I can’t hear anything, so I flush the toilet once more and open the cubicle door. I think I’m alone, but I’m wrong.
‘There you are. Are you quite all right?’ asks Madeline.
I feel my cheeks redden. I’ve never seen her in here before, seems out of place somehow. I thought she had a commode under her desk or something.
‘What have you done to your head?’ she asks, staring at my forehead. I look in the mirror and brush my hair over the bruise with my fingers.
‘I tripped over something in the hall when I got home last night; it’s nothing.’ It’s the truth and yet the words leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth.
‘Late night, was it? Drowning your sorrows?’
I turn on the taps to wash my hands and don’t reply.
‘Well, better that than morning sickness. Nothing like a pregnancy to ruin a girl’s career!’
I don’t react, just keep washing my hands over and over. She seems different, somehow, like she’s torn up the script. She’s improvising and I can’t keep up – the lines I’ve rehearsed don’t make sense any more. I turn off the tap, take a paper towel and turn to face her. Sometimes saying nothing says too much but the words won’t come.
‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ she says.
I want to run. My heart is beating so hard now that I’m sure she can hear it.
‘I need to know that this conversation is going to stay within these walls,’ she continues, as though we are old friends conspiring and I can be trusted. I still can’t force the words out just yet, so I nod. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a collection of red envelopes. ‘I want to know what you know about these.’
I look at them. Then I look her in the eye. ‘Christmas cards?’
‘They’re not Christmas cards. As I’m sure you’re aware, someone is spreading rumours about me on the Internet. I’ve also received some threatening mail in the office and at home this week. I’m sure the two things are linked and I want to know whether you have seen anything unusual, or anyone odd hanging around.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And you haven’t opened anything unpleasant yourself?’
‘No.’ I smile. I didn’t mean to.
‘This isn’t a joke, this is serious. I think whoever wrote these letters has been inside the building.’
That’s when I spot it, the thing that has changed about her. This is what Madeline looks like when she’s frightened, I’ve just never seen it before.
‘This last one was on my desk this morning, before I arrived,’ she says, holding up the top red envelope.
‘What does it say?’
‘It doesn’t matter what it says.’
There is a gap for words we don’t speak.
‘Have you told Matthew about the letters?’ I ask.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Well, maybe you should.’
She sizes me up. ‘I’ll see you out there,’ she says and leaves. I stay a while and wash my hands again.
I watch Madeline a little more closely during the show. I hate her, but she is good at her job, even if she doesn’t deserve to be here. I study her face, still looking for a resemblance I can’t see. She nods when I excuse myself to pop to the bathroom, as though she understands how I feel, as though she cares. I rush out, leaving my mobile in the studio. Jo comes to find me in the toilets, to see if I’m OK. She makes me splash some water on my face, which helps a little.
‘You just have to get through the show, it’s not much longer now. You’re doing so well, it will all be all right,’ she says.
I wish I believed her. I wish the words were real. She heads back to the studio without me, giving me a moment to catch my breath. I walk back, stopping briefly at Matthew’s desk. The office is empty when we’re on air and he always leaves his phone out here. It isn’t as though anyone would steal it, I suppose – his mobile is so old it doesn’t even require a passcode. It takes less than thirty seconds to send the text and then delete it from his sent items.
They’re halfway through a pre-recorded Christmas feature when I get back to my seat – the mics are off, I’ve got a couple of minutes.
‘You don’t look at all well. I can finish the show without you if you need to go,’ says Madeline.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I manage and take my seat. The screen on my mobile is still lit up with the unread message I just sent from Matthew’s phone.
Dinner booked for you, me and the new presenter next week. M x
One look at Madeline’s face confirms that she’s already seen it and I offer an apologetic smile. I watch her neck and chest redden as though the anger burns her skin.
The phone-in is all about families at Christmas. I listen patiently to Kate in Cardiff, who doesn’t want to visit her mother-in-law, and Anna in Essex, who hasn’t spoken to her brother for over a year and doesn’t know what gift to buy him. It’s all just nonsense, utter bullshit, all of it. These people have nothing real to worry about. It’s pathetic. The nausea bubbles up once more when Madeline talks about the importance of forgiveness.
‘Christmas is about being with family, whoever they are,’ she says, and I struggle not to vomit all over the desk. How would she know? She doesn’t have any family left.
When the show finally draws to a close, I feel exhausted, but I know there is so much more work to be done today. It’s my last chance and I’m just getting started.
Madeline is not a fan of watching television, but the one thing she likes more than the sound of her own voice on the radio, is seeing herself on a TV screen. As the face of Crisis Child, she’s required to do the odd TV interview, speaking on behalf of the charity, and today is one of those days. The news programme I used to be a reporter on have booked Madeline for an interview on their lunchtime bulletin, to talk about children living in poverty at Christmas. All it took was one phone call, pretending to be from the charity, offering their celebrity spokeswoman and the mobile number for her PA if they were interested. The rest took care of itself.
There’s an enormous satellite truck parked on the street, ready and waiting, down below. When I look out the window I can already see a camera set up on a tripod in front of the Christmas tree outside our building. As soon as the debrief is over, we head downstairs.
‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Madeline barks at one of the engineers.
‘Not long, just have to find the satellite and mic you up,’ says John, an old colleague of mine. He turns and sees me standing behind her, a wide smile spreading itself across his face. ‘Amber Reynolds! How are you? I heard you were working here now.’ He hugs me and I’m surprised by the show of affection. I make myself smile back and try not to look too awkward, unable to return the hug and willing him to let me go.
‘I’m good, thanks. How are the family?’ I ask when he finally does. He doesn’t get a chance to answer.