Trudi glanced down at her trousers and knew that even today she was looking pretty good. She’d only had four hours sleep but other people’s standards were low – they wouldn’t notice any blemishes. She just was gorgeous - what could she do about it? Trudi smirked a little at the half-joke, half-truth and felt a little more human, a little more awake. The trousers were fake animal skin in black and hung low round her minimal hips. Trudi knew that these days most people under forty five called things that covered your legs pants but she couldn’t get her head round that switch. She couldn’t grow out of the habit that pants were pants (as in knickers, as in underwear). You couldn’t start mixing things up like that. Who knew where it would end? Ray was talking (as usual) and in mid-flow about something far more important (no doubt) than the politics of pants. Without even turning, he rested his hand on Trudi’s fine right leg. He stroked the textured material and then took his hand back. He was on a favourite topic and that topic was beauty. “I mean look at Trudi,” he poured, “she’s beautiful. There’s no denying it and why shouldn’t she be able to exploit it? Men have exploited women for centuries haven’t they?” Everyone else in the room mumbled and tried to look away. It was a green room for a TV show though the walls were painted peach. Drinks, nibbles, TV show guests and their companions were all hanging around waiting amongst the nervous gases and departure lounge furniture. Ray (outspoken young writer who hadn’t written much and who, at 36, wasn’t that young) was warming up for the show. His girlfriend Trudi (quiet young model who at 22 wasn’t that young for a model either) had made the journey with him. With them waited the show’s researcher (Juliet Dobson, 24) and two other guests with their moral support. Family values campaigner Patricia Welland (44) had brought her eldest son John (unemployed, 20 but with a face of 16). Lairy old media personality James Muldoon (47) had gone for his much younger assistant Sophie Gordon (26). Only famously feminist campaigner Lynn Patrick (age unknown) had yet to show up. “I think you’re very concerned with who’s exploiting who, young man,” proffered Patricia (who preferred Mrs. Welland), “it makes for a cynical attitude and a very cynical world.” “That’s the world we live in though, Patricia,” thrust Ray, “it’s too late to stop humanity’s progress now.” “You call it progress…” “Now, everyone,” Juliet checked her watch and the clock on the sickly wall that always ran thirty seconds slow, “save a bit of debate for the show. Have some more dips. The onion bhajis are still warm”. Juliet herself was starving but never ate at this stage. She had too much to think about and preferred to get by on coffee and polos. Later she would go home and devour a family size take-out pizza (with extras) at something like half past eleven at night. It always gave her wild dreams but that wasn’t so bad. A wild dream was better than no wildness at all. “You never get a debate on these things,” Patricia Welland spoke with oblivious cynicism, “you get cut off in mid-sentence every time you try and say anything about decent moral values.” “You know Rupert is a better class of host, Patricia. You wouldn’t have been on the show so many times otherwise.” “He is better than some,” admitted the nation’s third best-known moral guardian, “he does care about families at least.” Juliet hid a cynical smile of her own behind her best bland please-all-the-people expression. She had worked on “Opinions Matter” for over a year and knew why so many guests couldn’t say ‘no’ to Rupert Devereux when the call came. The star was a cheap and cheerful blockbuster hero - a handsome stallion type with winning ways. He was unimaginably stupid and impossibly shallow but he had what could only be described as a way with people, especially women. Juliet had never worked out exactly what this way entailed but it was impossible to deny. The fee was the expected, the hospitality adequate and the audience sometimes rowdy but Rupert was always charm itself. As far as she knew he never did cheat on his strangely serious lawyer wife. He flirted plenty but not even a hint of a rumour had ever indicated any concrete naughtiness. He really was all talk. “Families! The old concept of the family is just dead in the water.” Ray couldn’t stop thrusting. He grabbed a can of Pepsi Max from the table. “Some of us couldn’t wait to leave our bloody families behind.” Patricia Welland was tired and tired of fighting. How many of these horrible young men would she have to deal with in her lifetime? They seemed to get worse and worse – more cocksure about their philosophies, more aggressive towards her for hers. She still took bookings for these shows because they were a habit she had convinced herself was necessary but more and more she suspected that it might be time to let someone else take her place on the light entertainment front line. “There’s no need for language, Mr. Frederick, some of us have our children here.” “He’s hardly a child, Patricia, he looks old enough to call his bollocks his bollocks.” Patricia Welland inhaled sharply. Why did he have to be so crude, so revolting? Her son John on the other hand was used to feeling uncomfortable and being brought into arguments without his say-so. He switched off his conscious mind with a light click and tried to enter another world where he could frolic in Trudi’s fine and fashionable trousers (though he would call them pants). She was one of the country’s up and coming catwalk models. Well, tonight (or this afternoon, to be precise) so was he. So was he. John’s imagination was not the only thing dwelling on Trudi’s trousers. Mrs. Welland disapproved of their obvious sexiness and in truth thought the model looked like one of those sad teenage prostitutes in the Sunday papers who needed a few hot dinners and tucking up under the flowery quilt in her spare room. Juliet knew how much the trousers probably cost and that Trudi more than probably didn’t pay for them. She felt a little envious but tried not to linger on the theme. TV was her career of choice and she was on exactly the right road to success. She had left the home counties (efficiently) and was now making it (substantially) in the harsh world beyond. And really, how much better to be paid for your ideas and efforts than for your thighbones and pout? Models went in and out of fashion like the clothes they wore, didn’t they? Wouldn’t Trudi be high class couture today but Freemans thongs tomorrow? Juliet smiled at the thought of that skinny thing advertising underwear to anyone – it’d be like hanging a bra on a broomstick. Still, she conceded, there are obvious plus points. You can be stroppy and demanding instead of having to deal with other people’s tantrums all day. Trudi had to put up with that gobby boyfriend of dubious celebrity value but he was kind of bearable in his way. He had lively eyes and nice stubble. Juliet kept an eye on the time and cursed feminists worldwide for Lynn Patrick’s lateness. Bloody woman. James Muldoon glanced at Trudi’s trousers on and off and when he did he imagined what sat waiting inside them. A bit skinny maybe but totty all the same. He’d never had a trendy model – only the glamour, car show variety and they were a lot curvier. Still he could force himself, he imagined, especially after a scotch or two and a good steak dinner. Sophie Gordon checked her watch and pager and knew exactly what her boss was thinking. If she hadn’t met some of his friends she might have thought he was the most predictable man in the world. As it was she knew there were lots and lots of them just like him, dirty old sods. They all had too much power, unnecessary Range Rovers and too much time to spend talking and thinking about sexual acts. She was proud that she hadn’t slept with any of them and didn’t intend to. They all thought she was a lesbian and fanaticised about her from time to time. The fact that she was what they called ‘dusky’ made them even keener for her be a dyke, apparently. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t, was all she would ever say. Looking at Trudi’s trousers, the tight little red top, the shiny brown hair and the sad eyes Sophie thought as ever – maybe I am, maybe I’m not. She couldn’t deny Trudi was lovely (even if she did look at least one size too small for her height) but Sophie didn’t know if that was lovely as in ‘desirable’ or lovely as in ‘nice to look at but not my cup of tea’. She had had boyfriends in the past but had never found any of them very satisfactory. She’d simply decided to put the whole matter of sex and relationships on pause until she felt strongly, passionately, one way or the other. Sophie took this level-headed approach to most areas of her life. She was a calm individual – possibly the calmest in the room. She was at ease with the way she looked and she knew how unusual that was. She had worries, mainly to do with work, but no matter how much her friends obsessed about diets and size tens she had never been able to fret along the same lines. If anything she liked to opt out of the beauty race altogether and keep herself under wraps for as quiet a life as possible. She tied up her dense black hair and used plain chain store clothes to conceal her natural curves. This still left her soft generous face and delicate brown skin on show but it made her less of a target for unwanted attentions. Because of her colour people often called Sophie mixed race whether she gave them permission to or not. For her, she was just brown, natural brown, the result of a family make-up no more or less complicated than anyone else’s (if they dug deep enough). Her Mum was one half Scottish and one half Italian (hence her real name, Sofia, that she’d changed in her teens to the plainer, easier Sophie). Her Dad was more of a mystery. Sophie knew he was from an Asian country but nothing more specific than that. Her Mum insisted he’d been a travelling entrepreneur who’d never told her the truth about anything but Sophie had no reason to believe her Mum’s protestations. Mum had said he was dead but there were no photos and even less details. Sophie guessed he was probably still alive and well and possibly not even aware of her existence. She sometimes looked at her skin and wondered who she was biologically. She could see why so many pink, peachy and grey women wanted to achieve a similar effect even if their attempts to brown up always made them look so absurd. That model at least had the confidence to stick to her natural-born shade. She was pale, the colour of hotel soap, but that was what she was. She was pretty like that. Sophie remembered the often incomprehensible module called film theory that she’d done as part of her media degree and the thought crossed her mind not for the first time – is the female gaze as criminal as the male? Her eyes studied Trudi’s immaculately made-up, almost too perfect mouth. Probably not, she thought, much more than probably not. I’m just seeing beauty and appreciating it – nothing more complicated or significant than that. Trudi herself was used to eyes watching her from every angle. The reactions did vary – envy, lust, disapproval, pity – but there was almost always some reaction to her presence in a room. She wasn’t the most famous face in the world or even part of the real super girl crowd but she was doing well and these days she worked regularly enough to be recognisable. She wore great clothes and applied cosmetics professionally. She knew the way to sit and stand and breathe to get attention. Today she could have done without quite so much of it but never mind. If you’re out in public you are on show, the agency had instructed her from the beginning, so she resisted the urge to slump in her chair and eat all the Pringles and spring rolls and then feel really, really sick. Models don’t have menstrual cycles and hormonal surges and mood swings, she reminded herself. We’re the same every day – always perfect, always flat-stomached, always mysterious and mysteriously desirable. Trying not to dwell on her state of mind, Trudi watched her man at work. Ray was a different operator. He mostly went for a particular look - moody dark clothes, more extravagant than they seemed, and in general the pallid French intellectual disguise that never seemed to go out of style and was easy for a dark-haired, pale-skinned third generation Irish man to perfect. Despite this he went to great pains to tell anyone who’d listen that his burning desire was to be understood not observed. He wanted to make his point, to get people inspired by his ardent speeches. Sometimes Trudi wondered what Ray’s points were (there were so many) and other times she knew his mouth just ran away with him. She had watched it happen often enough. For a writer, it had to be said, Ray really didn’t write all that much. Luckily for him he didn’t need to be too prolific because the tiniest product was assured plenty of publicity thanks to his media profile (angry young man) and his famous friends (angry young artist, angry young chef and angry young socialite and journalist). All he had to do was come up with something every now and then (a pamphlet, a poem, a tiny unfilmable screenplay) and he would keep his place in the circle that mattered. Since the age of about 15 he’d been after a line of work that would make everyone notice him - he’d been in bands, had a go at art and spent a couple of years being a relatively amusing stand-up performance comedian. Trudi had seen video footage of most of these phases and knew he’d tried extremely hard each time - just as now he put a great deal of effort into being Ray Frederick, controversial writer. She had a growing inkling that talent didn’t really come into it and that most of all without attention he’d die in a fortnight. Trudi always knew when one of Ray’s rare ‘work periods’ was coming up because he had to have a big talking binge first to get him through it. This usually meant a weekend without sleep, visiting a hundred bars, clubs and restaurants and chattering in all of these at a thousand miles an hour. Trudi could never keep up with the schedule and didn’t like white drugs so she dozed off in cars and taxis in between venues. Ray teased her and called her his Sleeping Beauty. It was their routine and she found some comfort in that. She’d learned to find his voice restful and let his constant stream of ideas floated by her like so many swans on a river. What did swans think about all day, Trudi mused as he talked from time to time. She’d like to his hear his theory on that - if he had one. Just now Ray was getting into a stride. That researcher was worried he would run out of material – she obviously didn’t know him very well. Ray could talk in his sleep about contemporary issues in politics, the media, the arts (any strand), public opinion and information technology and its benefits (a favourite). Some of it would be heavily recycled from other sources, some interesting and some a load of old drivel but if he talked fast enough it was hard to work out which was which. To begin with Trudi had tried to keep track of his theories. Of late she rarely made the effort. This show had taken the unusual step of asking whether she too would like to be on the panel. The subject was ‘what is beauty?’ and Juliet had thought the young model a good candidate to make up the female quota. Trudi had said ‘no, thank-you’ - models could look really stupid talking on TV. Let the pop stars and the writers and the jobless personalities do the talking for angry young women – she had no desire to argue with anybody, especially in public. She particularly didn’t want to get into any corners talking about looks and body shape and all that kind of thing. Tackling ‘does fashion cause anorexia?’ on a lazy afternoon was not her idea of a good time and there were never any straight-forward answers to questions like that anyway. Trudi hardly needed to glance at the other panellists to know their speeches. In the train on the way up (First Class, of course, at the last minute) Ray had been drawing up his plan of action and deciding who would say what. Also Trudi wasn’t a complete idiot. She reckoned she knew how these debate things worked. That moral woman would want to go back in time and have young women preserved for their husbands and their wedding nights. Her idea of beauty would be daffodils in springtime and babies in cribs with married parents of different sexes. The creepy TV guy (did people still wear medallions outside London, apparently so) - he would want to go back in time and have young women in bunny girl outfits (or less) delivered to his room later. Ray would want to be oh so contemporary and have beauty declared an essential for life as we know it. He would speak out for homoerotic art, lesbian art, modern art, old art, kitsch 70s patterns on curtains. Everything was beautiful to the right person and what mattered was how much it mattered. For today at least that was his angle of choice. The missing guest, the feminist, Trudi had never met before. She had seen her on TV once or twice and knew one thing – she’d give Ray more of a fight than the other two if it came to it. Lynn Patrick could talk with passion and she never let a point lie. She was attractive in an old art teacher kind of a way but no one would ever dare tell her that. How shallow, how superficial, couldn’t they think of anything more valuable to say? So what would a woman like that think was beauty? Womanhood in its natural hairy form, howling at the moon and standing tall and proud in the face of international oppression? Or was even thinking that just the result of hanging round with too many angry young men in your spare time? Ray had been well and truly taking the piss out of right-on women as the train sped past the empty fields north of North London. He wasn’t the biggest fan of feminism and he liked to tell Trudi how it had served its purpose and was out of touch with contemporary issues of civilian responsibility, personal identification and sexuality. So there. Sophie and James were muttering between themselves. James wanted to know what time the show finished recording because he had some business (horses in races somewhere, Sophie knew). Sophie gave him all the assurances she could without ever caring in the slightest. Let it run over, for all she was bothered, let him sit sweating in that treacly foundation till he gives me a pay rise and some more responsibility. Sophie was glad to be out of the office and seeing some new faces. Maybe one of this lot will like me and offer me a better job, she thought wistfully. She wasn’t quite ambitious enough to have figured out a good escape route from James’ horrendous “Big Mouth” show just yet but she knew she couldn’t stay there much longer without going completely la-la. The atmosphere in the office was even worse than the dreadful show itself (live, Fridays 11.30pm on selected regional channels) because the women in the office were all miserable and the men were all plain foul. Even the men who seemed OK were foul, in fact they were the worst – always trying to waste your evenings in the soulless pub over the road telling tales of their unsympathetic wives and umpteen children whilst staring down your shirt one minute and at the football on the Big Screen TV the next. As for James, she found him a totally depressing figure and knew she had to get away before his bleak life rubbed off anymore. He had been desperate for fame as a younger man and had settled for a shock-jock persona that even he didn’t really find entertaining. James was bad enough (a creep, sexist, low on imagination) but Mully the Media Mouth – he was unbearable. Mully did TV shows about how prostitution kept women in touch with their sexual side and how men should be allowed affairs if their wives couldn’t cook well enough. When he’d started he’d been mainstream but since then times had changed and now Mully was extreme TV and only a certain type of not very pleasant person appreciated the humour. James never noticed a clear change - all he knew was that somewhere in the 1980s his fan mail from sexy young women started drop off and in its place came rambling rants from middle-aged men about how their wives needed a good slapping. The only women who wrote to him now were angry ones who thought he needed a good slapping, and not in an erotic manner. James was disappointed with his lot – with his level of fame, his timeslot on TV and his wage packet. He didn’t really understand why Radio One didn’t want him to do their breakfast show or why Comic Relief never returned his agent’s calls. He felt out on a lonely limb so he drank to keep himself busy and employed pretty young women to give him something to smile about every morning. Across the room, Patricia tried to escape Ray’s opinion fountain by looking at the newspapers left out on the table. She wanted a few minutes to gather some strength for the coming performance. She tried to avoid the tabloids (gutter filth) even though she often did read them (at home) in the interests of research. She had a secret passion for the errant ways of a certain hunky star of one of the popular soaps and always read the tittle tattle about him first. The passion was so secret not even she knew of its existence. Next to Patricia, John’s mind wandered on. He was receiving a bouquet from Princess Margaret and George Michael at the British fashion awards. He had been voted ‘face of 2000 and the new millennium’. His legs weren’t bad either. Juliet clutched her favourite clipboard and went to the door to look out for Lynn Patrick. This was her first time on the show but she had no reason to be late. Juliet had provided full directions, contact numbers, emergency contact numbers. Couldn’t she bloody ring one of them? Did feminists not need phones? Just as the sweat began to bubble under her skin Juliet saw, to her relief, a figure the right size and shape came out of the lift. Dave the security guard was with her, a few steps behind. Thank God. There was just enough time to take them all down to the studio together. Some had chosen make-up but she was pretty sure Patrick would want to go without. “Hi, are we ready to go?” Juliet was confused. No ‘sorry I’m late’, no mumbled excuse, no bad temper or blaming the transport system or her fantastic detailed directions. “Just about”, she found herself replying. “Great. Do you want me in here?” “Er, yeh.” Juliet was put off by Lynn Patrick’s confidence, friendliness and moss green eyes. The eyes looked at Juliet most thoroughly and she felt unnerved, a little tingly. Feminist panellists were meant to be academic and dry or eccentric and smelly. Mesmerising and charming were not on the list and Juliet didn’t like being taken by surprise. “Hi. Hi. Good to see you again Patricia. Hi.” Lynn Patrick made an entrance like none of the others had managed so most of them tried to play her down by pretending they hardly knew who she was. Patricia rustled a right of centre newspaper loudly. James fiddled with his mobile phone. Trudi thought the new arrival looked better in the flesh – younger and cleaner. The clothes were nothing she would wear herself but there was an individual taste at work. Lynn looked about the same age as Trudi’s Mum, Pam, but lacked her out of town shopping centre glow (so necessary for full survival in suburban culture). Trudi found herself targeted by the warm welcome and sat up in her seat. “Hi.” “Hi.” What do you say to famous feminists, she wondered?’ Hi’ suddenly didn’t seem adequate. Should she apologise now for her part in the global fashion industry and save herself embarrassment later? Should she be brazen and confident and not give a damn what some old witch thought? Thanks to her hormones Trudi felt more awkward than sometimes despite the perfect presentation. She stuck at ‘hi’ and then a smile and then a good look at the floor. Ray was less lost for technique. “Lynn,” he said not fearing the war with Ms but avoiding it, “just in time for the revolution.” “Oh, good,” said the most well-known of the four celebrity panelists, “I wouldn’t want to miss that.” Ray beamed – an ally against the forces of conservatism. He could sit on his impatience with feminists when it suited him. Patricia coughed and rustled. James rolled his eyes. “Some of us have places to be and want to get this over with.” Every woman in the room looked at Muldoon and thought the same thing – yugh. Some of them felt it rationally in their heads, others felt it more physically – felt bits of their insides tense up and scream ‘He’s a pig! Kill him! Kill him!’ Sophie was the exception. She didn’t even need to look at James to see it – she knew deep down just how revolting he was. Lynn Patrick sat down next to Trudi and smiled at the young woman. “No doubt we can expect the usual well thought-out lines of reasoning from you today, James?” The presenter of shoddy late night TV couldn’t bear women who tried to be clever with him. Women and clever weren’t words that went together, not in his book of life. “Surprised you know what reason is, you and your lot?” “And my lot being exactly who?” “You know.” “Women? Feminists? People born in Sweden?” James humphed and looked slightly sick. He hated lesbians, well, old ones anyway. He didn’t mind young nubile ones in videos wearing leather basque affairs but he drew the line at middle aged clever ones who probably hadn’t ever worn a push-up bra in their lives. Yuck, the dangly old horrors she’d have. Lynn Patrick never talked about being a lesbian (thank God) but he was sure she was one. Look at her sat with lovely young girl. It just wasn’t right. “Were you really born in Sweden? That’s probably where you got your sense of fairness and equal rights?” Ray loved to lecture on the strengths of mainland Europe versus old England. He was a big supporter of foreign films, foreign food and foreign education systems. “Well, I only lived there for a few months.” “Still…” Ray was about to continue the continental approach when James Muldoon jumped on the pause. “Abba and some decent porn films, that’s all Sweden ever gave anyone.” Everyone ignored Muldoon but he didn’t notice and smirked at his own observation. He thought it was quite a good line and he’d used it before, more than once. Sophie fought the urge to throw a plate of slimy broccoli quiche at his greasy head. Lynn turned to Trudi again. “So are you on the show?” Here we go, thought Trudi, now she’ll have a dig at me. “No, I’m just here with Ray. He’s the one for talk shows.” “You seem to be able to talk OK.” Oh, bug someone else, please. “Well, I get enough exposure. I don’t need to do things like this.” That sounded wrong. It sounded like Ray did need sad chat shows on regional TV to keep his career on the rails. And this woman, she was really well-respected and clever. She didn’t exactly need ‘Opinions Matter’, did she? “You’re a model, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “Do you enjoy it?” “Yes.” Trudi couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound weird. It was like meeting some older relative and having to justify your life to date. I’m sorry I didn’t do better, Auntie. I just took the easy option a couple of times. And no I’m not anorexic, I’m just thin. “Well, that’s good. Women should enjoy their work. No point fighting the good fight to end up doing something you hate!” Lynn smiled over at Sophie and questioned what a nice young woman like that was doing with a great prat like James. Sophie smiled back- she had nothing against feminists even if it was getting increasingly hard to find any who would come and stand up to her delightful employer on his degrading TV show. Still who could blame them? She wouldn’t be seen dead on there herself. Professional contact with Patrick had always been, despite this, friendly, human and engagingly humorous. Trudi was thinking about her next line. Lynn Patrick was smiling and she looked genuine enough but what a strange thing to ask – did she enjoy her work? No one enjoyed modelling, didn’t she know that? Models all complained from dawn till dusk about being tired, bored, unfairly treated and under appreciated. Oh, and people always gave them the wrong brand of mineral water too. What they enjoyed was the money, the adulation, the feeling of being successful and the sense of belonging to the clique of all cliques. Trudi particularly treasured the knowledge that girls she’d gone to school with were sat at desks for hours on end typing marketing reports and other useless crap for something negligible per hour. No one actually enjoyed the walking up and down in heels or having their pictures taken for hours at a time. What was this - a subtle way of showing her up? Asking a daft question like ‘do you enjoy it?’ “Why shouldn’t she enjoy showing off her beauty?” Ray didn’t like being left out of any conversation. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” “There is no shame in beauty, that is true,” said Lynn Patrick carefully as she clasped her hands together and squeezed them ever so gently. Their skin was worn and weathered – it had never been the recipient of overpriced treatments or been massaged lovingly in a high profile health spa. Trudi watched Ray pause again. It wasn’t like him to waste so much time on hesitation but she knew he was probably thinking strategy and long-term goals. He didn’t want to fall out with Patrick just yet – the others were the real enemies and he needed to keep the feminist on side for a while. If not he might end up getting attacked from all sides once on air and finish up looking like a right prat. That would never do. Waiting for the studio signal, Juliet was fretting what kind of a show this lot would throw up. It looked a good mix on paper and Rupert had praised her for her preparations. “Lynn Patrick and James Muldoon,” he had said, “great idea to get them in the ring together again. That late-night C4 show where he dropped his trousers at her went down in TV history. Let’s hope they wind each other up again.” Now though Juliet was worrying about Ray Frederick. Would he ever let anyone else speak? Was he too trendy for the local audience? Would they just yell ‘knobhead’ at him when he went on too long? They could be very uncouth round these parts. The door was knocked and Juliet jumped up and clutched her clipboard tighter. “OK, everyone, down we go.” “You’ll be joining the audience then?” Lynn Patrick smiled as she stood up. “I don’t think so”, said Trudi, “I thought we’d just watch from here.” There was a TV monitor up on the wall in the far corner. In the past she’d always watched Ray from a safe distance. “No, for this show guests always sit in, Rupert likes it that way,” Juliet motioned to the door, “we have seats saved for you.” “But I don’t want anyone to see me.” Trudi didn’t mean to say this out loud but her mouth gave her away. In truth she couldn’t think of anything sadder than being seen in the crowd on a show like this. She had an image to keep up - she didn’t want people to think she had nothing better to do, nowhere more exotic to go. She was beautiful, fashionable, in demand. She did not sit around listening to moral debates in the back of beyond when there were manicures to have and parties to get ready for. Also she really didn’t feel one hundred percent. Her body was tense and her mood odd, dangerously odd. “Come on, babe, give them all a treat,” cooed Ray, eager to get to the cameras. He laid his hands on Trudi’s shoulders and half picked her up. Sophie watched the strange scene of persuasion from the other side of the room. She was quite looking forward to sitting with the model. Trudi seemed normal enough, not as aloof and freaky as some. “Who’ll notice you when you’re sat next to a gorgeous thing like me?” she called over, her tone encouraging, her eyes friendly. “And John won’t bite. He’s a doll, aren’t you Johnny boy?” John Welland did look friendly. He gave Trudi a shy nod and hoped he didn’t look too young and geeky. Trudi realised she was making a scene worthy of any foolish, insecure, lightweight model and today she really didn’t want to do that or have to fight with anyone. It was Ray’s day – she was just here because in truth she really didn’t have anything much else to do. There were no parties today, no invites, no First Class tickets to Caribbean photo shoots. Her Mum had asked her to pay a visit but that was about it and she’d chosen a night in a chain hotel with Ray instead of the guilt trip and the ‘why don’t you visit more, I’m all on my own here?’ She felt that for once it might have been easier to go to Mum’s. “OK,” she tried to keep her face blank. “OK, no big deal. I just didn’t realise we’d be in the studio, that’s all.” As she stood up straighter and moved with the crowd towards the door Lynn Patrick whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, no one watches this show anyway. I’m only here for the hotel Jacuzzis.” Trudi was confused enough without this feminist being so friendly. Why was she being like that – it just didn’t fit. Trudi looked beyond Lynn to that dark girl more her own age who’d been so nice just then. What was her name again? And what was she doing with that old creep? She wasn’t sleeping with him was she? The group followed Juliet down wide corridors, past doors and framed photos and fire extinguishers. Like a school party they fell into sub-groups as they walked along: Patricia and James found themselves abandoned by their younger companions and forced to march together, Sophie and John encircled Trudi and meanwhile Lynn tried to shake off Ray and walk at her own independent pace. Rounding a corner they found themselves suddenly on the edge of a busy studio. The audience was mostly in place and muttering amongst themselves. The host (recognizable by his ring of confidence and designer suit) was deep in conversation with a young woman in the centre of the set. The young woman was trying to look calm and collected but not managing it at all well She twitched in her designer seconds and her feet shuffled as though she’d forgotten how to stand on them properly. Juliet led the guests over to meet Rupert. For individual reasons they were all quite keen to get over there and get on with the job. Sophie, John and Trudi were left standing on the edge of the lively scene. Everyone else had something to do and somewhere to sit. “Don’t you get sick of these things John?” Sophie had met the sweet young man a couple of times before. He was dreamy and unthreatening and whatever harshness Patricia Welland sometimes showed, she was obviously a lovely Mum because John always looked calm and content, especially in her presence. “I don’t mind them. Mum thinks they might help me decide what to do with my life.” “She wants you to work in TV?” “She doesn’t care as long as I go out of the house in the morning, do something and then come back at a ‘reasonable hour’.” John gave Trudi a shy smile. She looked so much taller standing up. “I think I’d like to work in fashion but I don’t really know much about it.” Trudi liked John without knowing much about him. “There’s not much to know,” she said softly, ”and what there is is bollocks.” The three young ones laughed. Trudi felt surprisingly comfortable with the two strangers – usually she liked to be surrounded by people she knew. John couldn’t resist complimenting Trudi in some way and hoped he didn’t sound too crass. “I love your outfit.” Outfit, he panicked, is that the right thing to say? Do fashionable London people say ‘outfit? “Thanks,” Trudi was gentle with him and avoided the cold tone she used with some admirers, “though I’m not sure I’ll blend in with this crowd.” The three of them cast an eye over the waiting audience who were not exactly dressed in catwalk fashions it had to be said. Some were evidently visitors from other decades. Some had just come from long visits to sadistic and poorly qualified hairdressers. Sophie looked at Trudi to see if she was being cruel with the bitchy remark. No, she decided, she’s just a bit nervous and trying to be friendly. Breaking the awkwardness with humour – that’s fair enough. “You should have seen them before they went in to wardrobe!” Trudi laughed at Sophie’s addition to her icebreaker. She was an attractive person this creep’s assistant despite her somewhat basic approach to make-up and clothes. She was a world away from the kind of gloomy women Trudi met through work – less lipstick, less bossiness, more generosity in her voice. “Your guy looks a bit fed up.” James Muldoon was checking his watch and quite clearly not listening to the pre-show punchy pep talk from Rupert. Sophie glanced over quickly and thought that up there with a group of smart people James looked more embarrassing than ever. Away from his cronies he looked so lost that she often ended up feeling more sorry for him than anything else - even if he did owe her promotions and wage rises, she couldn’t help herself. He was so out of step, like some ridiculous character in a comedy sketch show. He was the guy everyone laughed at – the punch-line to the joke. “He doesn’t like the sound of anyone else’s voice but his own, I’m afraid.” John made conversation. “So what’s he like to work for?” “He’s a complete and utter wanker.” Sophie answered so quickly and defiantly that the other two were first surprised and then invaded by giggles. Trudi realised she didn’t really recognise the sensation. Had it really been that long since she’d laughed at anything spontaneously? “But he seems such a lovely bloke…” Sophie giggled too. James Muldoon looked over and saw the three of them enjoying a joke. He wished he was with them, between the two sweet young female bodies, but instead he had miserable old Welland on one side and that bloody annoying model’s boyfriend on the other. Know-it-alls, know-it-alls, he muttered internally, surrounded by bleeding know-it-alls. James hated doing other people’s shows but he loved being on TV. Sadly until hologram technology improves, he liked to quip to himself, you’ve just got to knuckle down and get on with it. Juliet came back for the tittering trio and led them to their allotted seats. She felt a bit strange – like one of their mothers telling them to sit down and behave. I’m not even much older than them, she told herself (in fact she knew Sophie was her senior by at least two years). So why did they make her feel bulky and serious and more than a little left out? They’re just shallow - she tried to reassure herself - not my kind of people, not career-orientated like me. One of them has no job, one wears scraps of clothes for a living and the other works for James Muldoon. She rested her case and felt a little better about things. Trudi sat in between her two new friends and felt relaxed and relieved. It was like joining a new class at school and being accepted instead of peered at, insulted and, on bad days she remembered, being threatened with unpleasant physical punishments. Sophie made her feel safe and welcome and John made her feel curiously maternal. Maybe she would make somebody a half decent mother one day after all. Thinking of mating she looked at Ray. He was still talking – trying to keep Lynn Patrick’s attention but not doing very well. “That feminist is quite attractive, isn’t she?” Trudi didn’t know why she said it. It was quite out of character but that was the thing about PMT – it didn’t care much for character. Month after month it seemed to delight into turning her into someone else – bad-tempered instead of chilled-out, daft instead of cool, unpredictable instead of dull. She generally tried to keep herself to herself on days like these. “Certainly the best of the bad bunch on offer,” laughed Sophie until she remembered that Trudi’s boyfriend was also one of said bunch. Her throat went tight. She knew she had to apologise but wasn’t sure what to say. “I mean…I didn’t mean…Oh God, I’m sorry…” What an idiot she was, why had she said such a terrible thing? Trudi found herself totally unconcerned. “It’s OK,” she looked at Sophie and thought how naturally good-looking she was, “I know what a pain he can be. You get so you can ignore the bullshit.” Trudi paused and replayed in her mind what she had just said out loud. Had she said ‘bullshit’? About her own special, man-to-be-seen-with boyfriend Ray? God, she thought, it must be reality check day. So do I really ignore the bullshit or is it starting to get on my nerves? Now she thought about it her nerves did feel heavy. She remembered how her Mum had been when her Dad had run off with a younger woman from work about seven years ago. Mum had said she was glad really – he’d been weighing her down since the day they’d met. It had made Trudi sad when she’d heard that – disappointed to hear that her home had been the centre of so little love and affection. Sophie and John both looked around nervously. What do you say when a famous fashionable person slates their other half? Join in? Defend him? Laugh because she’s only joking and thinks he’s great really? Sophie was scared to say anything in case she dropped herself in further trouble. John never liked talking much at the best of times but ever since Ray and Trudi had walked into the green room he’d been asking himself what the adorable model saw in such a dirty-looking bore. Women were so blind when it came to boyfriends – John knew that much. Surely she could have her pick of men. So why on earth had she picked that? Luckily for Trudi’s new friends they didn’t need to speak because things started happening at the centre of the huge room. The panellists were all in place and the crew were poised and ready to go. It was not a live show but it was quite a cheap one. There would not be a thousand takes to get anybody’s best angle. “Here we go then,” laughed Trudi, enjoying her unusual role as outspoken rebel with opinions, “let’s see what pearls of wisdom are on offer.” The others concentrated on the filming and pretended not to be thinking about what had just occurred. They watched Rupert Devereux deliver his corny introduction and listened almost too avidly to the first two opening speeches. As Trudi had guessed, Patricia went for beauty is innocence whilst James took beauty is dirty sex kittens. John watched his mother with a quietly proud expression whilst Sophie spent James’ segment looking anywhere but at the set. Sometimes she liked to daydream about how she’d throw him out of her office when she was really important and influential and he was even more down on his luck and begging her for a job. Today was one of those days. She called her all woman security team and had him physically ejected from her West London office. Back in the studio the audience jeered at Patricia and whooped at James’ smutty innuendoes. Juliet checked her watch on the sidelines for no apparent reason. She checked it so often that sometimes it made her quite dizzy. “So, we come to Lynn Patrick,” the practised silky voice of Devereux flattered the huge room, “feminism’s leading light and author of amongst other works ‘The Free World – Men Only?’ What is beauty to you, Lynn?” Lynn Patrick looked more confused and unsettled than she had in the green room. She’d managed to look cheery for her arrival but that had been quite hard work and she was quickly running out of energy for this rather futile exercise. It had been interesting to meet the young model and she could have talked to her all day. There were a thousand questions she’d like to ask about the job, the industry, what young women really wanted and as she ruminated she could feel an article for a national paper coming on. None of the lot on the panel interested her in the slightest and she was taking an instant dislike to Rupert Devereux and his line in platitudes. Lynn was very aware that she had a thousand things to do at work and at home and she was finding it hard to keep her mind on the job. Why did she say ‘yes’ to so many of these tiring and pointless public appearances? She’d already done two this week on top of all her usual teaching and she was working on a final draft of her next book. Was she just wasting her time coming here? Did anyone really care what people on TV said or did? “What is beauty to me is most likely irrelevant to everybody else here. It is my own taste and I have developed it over years of living and loving and growing and learning. I don’t expect anybody else to see the same beauties as I do. I hope they don’t – they might want to grab some of them.” Devereux had to conceal confusion and impatience behind the perfect sheen. Christ, feminists, he thought, they can never just spit out what it is they want to say. Couldn’t she keep going? Fill up a few more seconds? She was hardly justifying her fee with that rubbish. He tried again. “Well, let’s see,” Rupert aimed for the look he liked to call quizzical, “do you think there is more beauty in people, places or maybe…ideas?” Nice touch, he thought to himself, who says I’m just a pretty face? “All of them obviously. Beauty is just subjective and we spend far too much time worrying about it. There are plenty of other things we could spend our time worrying about instead.” James Muldoon thought it was time to have a go at Ms irritating clever clogs. “Maybe you think that because you’re over the hill yourself.” Whoops from part of the crowd. A short sigh from Sophie. “I may be crossing the brow of the hill James, but I believe you’re almost at the bottom of the other side. Could you find many people who’d place you on their list of most beautiful things?” Miaows from other parts of the crowd. A short chuckle from Sophie. Rupert changed his expression from quizzical to slightly concerned and Lynn Patrick got going again quickly before James Muldoon could respond. “You see, just discussion of the word beauty brings up such unpleasant emotions. It’s too much about comparison – you’re more beautiful than so and so, you’re less beautiful than everyone – it’s not healthy and it’s not helpful and it leads to so much unhappiness.” Lynn paused. She knew she wasn’t giving her best today. It wasn’t her strongest line of argument and it certainly wasn’t very entertaining or amusing. Still, she wasn’t in the mood to charm this room of unknown individuals. One of her best friends was seriously ill, her nineteen year-old daughter was having a crisis at college and she herself had had a bad night’s sleep and not enough to eat. Let Devereux work for his no doubt inflated salary. Let him make the show interesting without her help. Rupert decided to move on to young Ray Frederick - maybe he would come up with something meatier. Trudi watched Ray almost slavering with excitement as Rupert smoothly introduced the ‘hot young writer from London.’ Funny, she thought, he’s not from London at all. He’s from a boring suburb of a sprawling city somewhere well beyond Cricklewood. She looked at him intently and felt very little fondness. Am I starting to go off him, she pondered, knowing that she had before but that this time her thoughts were seeping out into conversation and the world at large. Trudi was unsure what had happened to make the relationship reach this point. Once it had been a love affair – exciting visits to new places, soul-searching confessions and late, late nights. He had seemed so thrilling compared to her school-boyfriend (boring Dave, now training to be a pharmacist), her left-school-boyfriend (bass guitarist Dave, now still trying to be a bass guitarist) and her series of fashion industry boyfriends (mainly one night stands and forgotten by lunchtime). But these days Ray seemed less thrilling by the sentence. Now they had a relationship instead of an affair and there were few visits, no confessions and too many late, late nights. They were used to each other and settled into routines but did she love him and what they did together? Did he love her? Could she bear him any more with his gloomy mid-weeks and his endless opinions? Trudi had met one or two of Ray’s ex-girlfriends in recent months and along the line somewhere she had realised that she was just one of a collection of trademark ‘gorgeous’ girlfriends. He prided himself on caring so much about intellect, personality and spirit but when you looked at his back catalogue of love it was hard to think he cared about much more than long legs, pert buttocks and making himself look good by association. She was more than aware that he treated her less and less like an equal and that he listened to what she said with less and less interest – if he listened at all. Their sex life (which had been great for about a fortnight) was dying too. Neither of their hearts was in it and Trudi often found her mind wandering to bass guitarist Dave and the great touch he’d had with those musician’s hands. As Trudi’s mind wandered about the remains of their coupledom, Ray had really got going on his subject. As he spoke Sophie shuffled in her seat and John struggled with a clumsy dry cough. The noises disturbed her and gradually Trudi began to take in what Ray was saying to the panellists, the studio audience and whoever might actually watch the show on TV (10.30pm, most regions, not London). It was bizarre. He was not on a usual public course. “We all try and be so PC,” he was saying (PC, thought Trudi, I hate that stupid phrase), ”we try to pretend that sexy young women aren’t the most beautiful things on this planet when they quite obviously are. Sex is what sells, sex is what we care about, sex is the key to everything.” This was a change of attack. Ray had replaced his favoured public waffle about inner and outer and virtual beauty and gone instead for a line of argument that usually only showed up for his inner lads circle at about 5 am on a Sunday morning. Was Ray having a reality check day too? Did he have PMT? Had he just gone mad? Trudi wondered if she’d missed some vital turning point in the discussion. Had someone upset Ray? Had someone drugged him? Didn’t he realise he was churning out more or less the same material as greeby old James Muldoon and did he really want to be associated with an idiot like that? Did he want to be roasted over a campfire by assorted feminists led by the masterly Lynn Patrick? She looked at Patrick but the feminist’s representative didn’t look particularly incensed. Her expression was bemused and no wonder, hadn’t Ray invited her to join him in a revolution? Trudi hadn’t done much history at school but she knew a few basics. Ray was proposing nothing more challenging than the launch of another posh wank mag and a National Day of Slobbering over Young Women. Hardly Red October. Sophie and John continued the fight against squirming and spluttering. John hated it when men talked like this, especially anyone near his own age. He believed men should have grown out of all this crap by now and it made him angry. Why couldn’t some guys see when they were well off and shut the hell up? Sophie wondered what Trudi could be making of all this? Did she like it – having a boyfriend who was basically up there saying that women were just pretty toys to keep men happy? Did she agree? She was a model after all. Who knew what models thought about anything other than shoes and brands of extra-conditioning mascara? Did their weedy diets affect their ability to make decisions, particularly where men were concerned? Sophie did consider the possibility that this speech could all be some elaborate prank of Ray’s and she wasn’t alone in this suspicion. Lynn Patrick, Juliet and the still smiling Rupert Devereux were all waiting for Ray to turn on anyone who attacked him and go off on a ‘you see, that’s what you expect all men to think but actually I think this…’ Rupert, in particular, was keeping quiet. He did not want to be exposed and caught in such a trap. He had not spent years getting his own show just to have over-blown young nothings like Ray Frederick make a fool out of him. The four of them waited for the big turn to materialise but no one interrupted Ray and he just kept going in the same direction. Maybe a trap wasn’t his plan after all. He touched on topless modelling and ‘Friends’ and the state of teenage fashions. He seemed to be lapping up the alternate cheers and boos from the crowd, the grins from James Muldoon, the grimaces from Patricia Welland, the baffled looks from everyone else. Finally Patricia could take no more talk of bikinis and lip gloss and soft young thighs - first that unbearable Muldoon creature and now this. Patricia had two young daughters and today’s talk was making her body convulse thinking about the world they were growing into. If that feminist was going to let him get away with this public drooling session, she sure as hell wasn’t. She took a deep breath and dived right in. “Mr Frederick,” she began like a bewildered barrister in a TV drama, “yours is such a sad and limited view of the world. You think other human beings exist merely for your enjoyment. You talk about young women as though they were commodities and it’s people like you, male and female, who fill the media with such depraved images of womanhood and society in general. Young girls don’t have a chance of growing up free from your base and vile influence.” There was a short pause and Patricia used it to pump her lungs full of much needed air. John felt proud of his Mum as he often did when she spoke out like this. She wasn’t the trendiest Mum on the block and there were some things they argued about endlessly (abortion, gay rights, gay sex, gay vicars) but sometimes he couldn’t help admiring her nerve. Today he even agreed with her and was glad someone had told this big head where to get off. Most of the women in the room either agreed or slightly agreed or knew deep down that Patricia had a point. Even Trudi, who often filled out depraved images of womanhood with her valuable body (low point – that shoot for ‘E - Zee’ where she’d worn ripped underwear), knew the artistic arguments for such pictures were slimmer than she was. She hung her head as low as it would go and focused on the shiny, patterned fabric of her glorious trousers. Funny, they didn’t look as glorious as they had done earlier on. She had a sudden longing to be wearing something really old-fashioned and average, something from a market stall. She wanted to blend in with the crowd and sneak out with them at the interval for a bad cup of Nescafe and a custard cream or two. Sophie had been nice to her, maybe she would come too. Ray Frederick was staring hard at Patricia Welland and asking himself how mean he should be to this wizened old hag. How dare she call him base and vile? He was brilliant, fantastic, bursting with brain power. Didn’t she know that, couldn’t she see? Didn’t she want men to be men and know their place in the world? Well, here he was being a good, old-fashioned man. What was she – a bloody lesbian or something? A bloody feminist? In truth Ray himself had no idea why he was in this strange mood and had chosen this line of rant. The day had started off normal enough but now he was well off the rails and deep into unchartered territory. He was aware that he had accessed a different compartment in his head to the one he usually used for public speaking. He knew he was in a danger zone – in a speak-the-unspeakable, tell-it-how-it-is freefall. He often liked to try these speeches out on friends and sparring partners but he rarely did this for the general public because most people were too stupid to understand his ironies, his deeper meanings, his precise perceptions of modern life. He looked around and wasn’t sure if he had gone too far to retreat from this position now. He didn’t really know where to go with this material and he was kind of hoping someone would cut in so he could switch camps or at least have a few seconds to rethink his predicament. Why am I doing this, he asked himself at the level he liked to think did not exist. Is it possible that somewhere inside I’ve got tired of saying the right thing? Was it Trudi, the cause of this flip-out, he asked himself? She had never been the most inspiring of his girlfriends but now she was becoming a total pain. Their sex life was dreary and she didn’t seem to care about what he wanted in that or any other area. It was just like her to get all the attention in the green room too. People thought she was sweet and shy but really she was a demanding little madam like every other model and pretty girl he’d ever met. He’d be better off with a less dazzling other half, he reckoned. That dark girl with Muldoon looked up for it and she had a good body under those horrible clothes. Maybe he’d chat to her later when the show was done and dusted and the bar tab up and running. Ray had intended to take sides with Lynn Patrick today until she’d talked such a lot of old drivel. What was she on, he’d wondered as she spoke, some old LSD left over from a ‘60s party? Didn’t she want to make a statement – cause a stir? What was wrong with the old has-been – had she lost her missionary zeal? (I could make a joke about that, he had thought, but I won’t). Bloody women, his impatience grunted now, they’re all the bloody same. Just can’t hack it. Just aren’t worth it. Deep in thought, Ray replied to Patricia Welland without listening to his words at all. “You, Mrs.Welland, are just jealous of the fact that base, vile young men like me are what society desires too. Old bags like you desire us, young women lust after us and, dear lady, lovely young men like that limp-wristed son of yours are desperate for us too.” The audience made that noise that only a large group of shocked people can make. Everyone breathed in so hard that for a few seconds the studio seemed to have been emptied of air by some immense vacuum cleaner. All eyes were on the panel – would Patricia cry (she looked shocked enough)? Would the feminist finally step in? Would Ray apologise or be thrown off the set by the reliably chivalrous Rupert? Even James had shock layered all over his leathery face. Juliet inhaled more than most. This was good TV alright, but it was bloody hard to watch. Trudi considered her next move. Should she say something? Should she run down the stairs and scream at Ray - tell him some home truths and make a show of herself in the process? It would probably make the front page of a newspaper or two but she couldn’t let him be so horrible. Jesus, if she thought she was going off him before she was sure about it now. What had happened to him? Had he always been a private prick but now he’d gone public? She didn’t want to speak out in front of all these people but maybe, she worried, she just didn’t have a choice. Before Trudi had reached a decision, someone else was moving to her left. John Welland was on his feet and shouting at the top of his sweet voice. “You pathetic apology for a human being.” It didn’t take long for the crew to swing the audience mike round to where John was creating. They were used to the routine - it wasn’t unusual for people in this crowd to get yelling sooner than they were meant to. Both Sophie and Trudi looked down at their knees to avoid as much contact with the camera as possible. “Who do you think you are with your insults and your presumptions? My mother is not an old bag and even your own girlfriend thinks you’re full of shit. As for limp-wristed young men…believe me we have far better taste than you imagine. We wouldn’t lower ourselves to your level. We like women – we don’t need to hate them to feel better about ourselves.” Rupert Devereux decided that, exciting as this was, things were getting a little personal and the language was getting out of hand. Also he preferred audience participation to come later on, after the break, so he made barely noticeable signals to the crew and to Juliet which screamed ‘Get the cameras and the attention back here now or you’re all fired’. “Well, Ray, you’ve made quite an impression already,” said Rupert, looking for a wind-up line and trying to draw the audience back to the set. As he continued, Sophie lifted her head slowly and saw Trudi’s still bowed as though the girl were deep in thought, praying almost. John realised his moment was over, sat back down and inhaled some new air. He didn’t dare look at Trudi in case he’d offended her. Sophie reached over and touched his knee lightly. He gave her a slight tight smile. Over on the set the panellists were longing for the break. Patricia had recovered from the personal attack (it wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last) and was keen to speak to John and thank him for his heartfelt, if unnecessarily vulgar, defence. James was ready for a drink and a word with Sophie about next week’s show (maybe they could get this Ray guy to come and wind his audience up too). Lynn Patrick wanted to have something nutritious to eat and come back in the second half ready to make more of a contribution. This really is the strangest show, she thought, at least it’s not just me having an off day. Ray meanwhile, the object of all the fuss, sat and thought and realised he was stranded. He was out of the danger zone but now and only now aware of the horrors he had released whilst he in there. He sat motionless, dislocated and drained. He knew he’d been the prat of the show so far but he wasn’t sure how or why he’d gone into the role so willingly. Usually he could blame outbursts on drink or drugs but this afternoon he’d had nothing more than that Pepsi after a pretty harmless light lunch. He hadn’t even consumed too much, by his standards, the night before. He considered whether he could salvage anything from the rest of the show. Could he make a complete turn around and pretend it was all a hoax? Could he win everyone round with a charming monologue re the arrogance of the male? And did his girlfriend really think he was full of shit? In all honesty he didn’t think she thought that much about anything. Rupert on camera was attempting to make light-hearted comments about the show so far. He liked to use his intro and outro sections to soften the mood and he found that a good sprinkling of clichés and toothy smiles usually did the trick. “Join us in part two,” he crooned, “to see if beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. Can beauty and the beast live side by side? Are we too obsessed with what we see? We’ll be back in a few minutes…so see you then.” Not bad, he thought, not the best link, not the best debate, but quite lively, might make the papers. He looked at the audience – at least they weren’t bored and gossiping or busy picking their fingernails. The panellists were a bit twitchy but they could walk it off in the break. He might take old Patricia to one side, give her a good session of sensitive listening. She might have been a bit shaken by young Ray’s attack. At the side of the studio Juliet checked her watch and tried to avoid Rupert’s eye. It was a strange thing she did for a living and sometimes she wasn’t sure she liked it much. She stretched her shoulders to try and shake off the unpleasant feeling that Ray’s words had left with her. Then she turned and surveyed the scene and caught sight of the row that contained Trudi, Sophie and John. They weren’t giggling anymore and the sense of camaraderie she’d envied seemed to have completely disappeared. Sophie sat still with a strange look on her thoughtful, surprisingly beautiful face. John, covered in beads of sweat, looked bigger than his small frame. Trudi’s head was bowed, she might even be crying and Juliet wondered if the girl had any idea what she was doing in this place, with this man, with these people she didn’t know. Did she have any pride or depth or understanding? Juliet decided she most definitely did feel sorry for Trudi despite the looks and the money and the fantastic clothes. Yes, pity, she said to herself as she checked her watch for no reason whatsoever. It’s pity that I feel when I look at that face.
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