Suddenly I feel almost tearful. I want to be good. I want to get my life in order. I want him to tell me what to do to make things right.
“All right,” says Derek Smeath at last. “Let’s see what we can sort out. You come into the office tomorrow, nine-thirty sharp, and we’ll have a little chat.”
“Thanks,” I say, my whole body subsiding in relief. “Thank you so much. I’ll be there. I promise.”
“You’d better be,” he says. “No more excuses.” Then a faint smile passes over his features. “By the way,” he adds, gesturing to the set. “I thought you did very well up there, with all your advice.”
“Oh,” I say in surprise. “Well. . thanks. That’s really. .” I clear my throat. “How did you get into the studio, anyway? I thought they had quite tight security.”
“They do,” replies Derek Smeath. “But my daughter works in television.” He smiles fondly. “She used to work on this very show.”
“Really?” I say incredulously.
God, how amazing. Derek Smeath has a daughter. He’s probably got a whole family, come to that. A wife, and everything. Who would have thought it?
“I’d better go,” he says, and drains his polystyrene cup. “This was a bit of an unscheduled detour.” He gives me a severe look. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” I say quickly, as he walks off toward the exit. “And. . and thanks. Thanks a lot.”
As he disappears, I sink down onto a nearby chair. I can’t quite believe I’ve just had a pleasant, civilized conversation with Derek Smeath. With Derek Smeath! And actually, he seems quite a sweetheart. He’s been so nice and kind to me, and his daughter works in television. . I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll get to know her, too. Maybe I’ll become friends with the whole family. Wouldn’t that be great? I’ll start going to dinner at their house, and his wife will give me a warm hug when I arrive, and I’ll help her with the salad and stuff. .
“Rebecca!” comes a voice from behind me, and I turn round to see Zelda approaching, still clutching her clipboard.
“Hi,” I say happily. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” she says, and pulls up a chair. “Now, I want to have a little talk.”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly nervous. “OK. What about?”
“We thought you did tremendously well today,” says Zelda, crossing one jeaned leg over the other. “Tremendously well. I’ve spoken to Emma and Rory and our senior producer”—she pauses for effect—“and they’d all like to see you back on the show.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “You mean—”
“Not every week,” says Zelda. “But fairly regularly. We thought maybe three times a month. Do you think your work would allow you to do that?”
“I. . I don’t know,” I say dazedly. “I expect it would.”
“Excellent!” says Zelda. “We could probably plug your magazine as well, keep them happy.” She scribbles something on a piece of paper and looks up. “Now, you don’t have an agent, do you? So I’ll have to talk money directly with you.” She pauses, and looks down at her clipboard. “What we’re offering, per slot, is—”
Twenty-three
I PUT MY KEY in the lock and slowly open the door of the flat. It seems like about a million years since I was here last, and I feel like a completely different person. I’ve grown up. Or changed. Or something.
“Hi,” I say cautiously into the silence, and drop my bag onto the floor. “Is anyone—”
“Bex!” gasps Suze, appearing at the door of the sitting room. She’s wearing tight black leggings and holding a half-made denim photograph frame in one hand. “Oh my God! Where’ve you been? What have you been doing? I saw you on Morning Coffee and I couldn’t believe my eyes! I tried to phone in and speak to you, but they said I had to have a financial problem. So I said, OK, how should I invest half a million? but they said that wasn’t really. .” She breaks off. “Bex, what happened?”
I don’t reply straight away. My attention has been grabbed by the pile of letters addressed to me on the table. White, official-looking envelopes, brown window envelopes, envelopes marked menacingly “Final Reminder.” The scariest pile of letters you’ve ever seen.
Except somehow. . they don’t seem quite so scary anymore.
“I was at my parents’ house,” I say, looking up. “And then I was on television.”
“But I phoned your parents! They said they didn’t know where you were!”
“I know,” I say, flushing slightly. “They were. . protecting me from a stalker.” I look up, to see Suze staring at me in utter incomprehension. Which I suppose is fair enough. “Anyway,” I add defensively, “I left you a message on the machine, saying not to worry, I was fine.”
“I know,” wails Suze, “but that’s what they always do in films. And it means the baddies have got you and you’ve got a gun jammed against your head. Honestly, I thought you were dead! I thought you were, like, cut up into a million pieces somewhere.”
I look at her face again. She isn’t kidding, she really was worried. I feel awful. I should never have vanished like that. It was completely thoughtless and irresponsible and selfish.
“Oh, Suze.” On impulse, I hurry forward and hug her tightly. “I’m really sorry. I never meant to worry you.”