The Best Years of our Lives (Part I)
Can I remember my first day at school? No, not anymore I've slept since then. I've drank or should I say drunk, an awful lot since then too. Can I remember meeting my husband? Of course I can, everybody can remember when they met their partner, can't they? Do I regret getting married? I work in media, television to be precise. It's a place where nothing is off the record. At 36-ish, maybe I'm beginning to regret not having children. Did you notice that? It's called 'the swerve'. The only business in which that technique is used more frequently than in this one, politics. As for my first day here in production with ET2, that event is burned into my cerebral cortex for all eternity. It was that look he gave me. His tired eyes were dead and dark, a symptom of the loss of enthusiasm for life. I'd been through five years of University and three years as an editing junior. With one look of disparagement, 66-year-old Jamaican born Cedric Lucas impressed upon me that I was a fool. I, Carol Fox, was an idiot. I'd been nowhere and done nothing and I should be appreciative that he granted an audience to one as unworldly as I.
I had potential guests to interview, candidates, (I still call them contestants.) John Brooke's show was a slightly more conservative version of 'Jerry Springer' or 'Trisha Goddard', you know the format. Now that I was part of the production team, I felt like it was my show. I was awarded assistant executive status from Season 6 week 1. We kicked off with “The Best Years of Our Lives.” A show about those who felt they'd given their best years to their partners. The guest's common ground was they felt they were returned goods, long past their respective 'best before' dates.
Shirley was a large woman. My first thought was that my own husband would leave me if I ever expanded to her size. I quickly reconsidered. Whatever Shirley had, she made her best attempts to present it, all of it, well. Good packaging sells products, Shirley knew this. The short peroxide fed hair, the oversized earrings. The exposed sun-burned, freckled, slightly wrinkled cleavage. It was all for sale, or rent, I didn't know her well enough to judge. Put all these things together with the lavishings of jewellery and juvenile, sprightly make-up. Shirley cared about her appearance. So perhaps she'd always been a woman of size.
“Sandra,” she stated in a matter of fact way. Her earrings jangling as she moved her head.
“Sandra, sorry, what?” This woman had taken me completely off guard. I hadn't yet taken my seat. “Carol Fox.” I extended my hand and flatten the back of my skirt, before I sat down. “Give me one moment.” I flicked through my files looking for her name. There was a clattering of bangles and chains as she checked the time on her obviously fake gold watch. “You were saying?” I prompted her, after first organising myself.
“Sandra Patterson,” she repeated, wrapping her over-long, one-and-a-half-sizes-too-small cardigan a little tighter.
“Sandra Patterson?” I questioned.
“Yes, I knew that woman was going to be trouble the second I met her.”
“Okay,” I agreed my tone implying she should expand this revelation.
“How could they give my husband a PA like that? You know one of those bra-less, bottled-water-drinking, electric-car-driving types. Ron was 46 for Christ's sake, she was just 28. It was only a matter of time before she was personally assisting him.”
“So Mrs Harley,”
“Shirley, call me Shirley.”
“So, Shirley,” My mouth made one of those involuntary, insincere so-fast-it's-almost-undetectable smiles. (I'm actually having therapy to stop me doing it; apparently it makes me seem false). You blame the company for putting your husband in a position of temptation?”
“Not really,” she sighed “It was a case of six-of-one, half-a-dozen of the other and ten of the rest.”
“I see,” I did the damned smile thing again, and made a concious decision to look down at my clipboard if I ever felt that wince of a smile coming back.
“Ron should have resisted, kept Sergeant Marzipan in his pants. The company should review its policy with those bloody team building bonding things. And I should have worked harder, I suppose. You know, lean and keen doesn't work forever. Why would the donkey keep following the carrot, if he'd forgotten what it tasted like?” Her whole chest wobbled as she released a massive sigh. I realised, I'd never actually had a use for the word 'shimmy', not until now.
“Okay, let's break this up, go piece by piece” I started to scribble my notes but I had to ask her. Not knowing was playing havoc with my powers of concentration. “Sergeant Marzipan?” The question flew out of my mouth.”
“Oh, Ron was a wonderful cook; cakes, puddings, that sort of thing. He used to make this pudding mix with marzipan in it. When he'd finished I couldn't resist. I'd always wipe the the bowl. You know, wipe my finger round it, get as much as I could on the end, and then, bliss,” she let out a little moan. “The pleasure of lick...”
“Mrs Harley!” I snapped. She stopped mid-sentence, open mouthed. I felt uncomfortable. I adjusted my position on my seat. My main concern was as to why I felt so breathless all of a sudden. “Mrs Harley,” I felt the wine-smile coming so I quickly looked down. “If you do make it onto the show. Mr Marzipan is not be mentioned.” I cleared my throat.
“What's wrong with him?” she asked me. Shock! Horror! I wasn't actually prepared for this question. I was supposed to asking the questions, not her.
“I don't think Mr Marzipan fits comfortably into my particular type of slot,” I blurted out. My brain paused, rewound and played back to me what my mouth had just said. This woman had infected me with smutual innuendo. My whole future career flashed in front of me 'Welcome to Smut AM, with ET2's very own foxy queen of the den....' No, I wasn't having it. It would be fine until the first wrinkles began to appear, then I'd be shunted over to QVC, the presenters' graveyard.
“Yes,” she agreed reluctantly. “But it's Sergeant Marzipan not Mr.”
“Fine.”
“By why?.......”
“BECAUSE IT JUST DOESN'T!!” I screamed at the very top of my lungs. The scream eventually echoed to a deathly silence. And not for the first time during my career, the entire building and postcodes NW1 and W1 knew my period was due. Shirley passed me a knowing smile. “Right,” I continued, referring back to my notes. “Ron should have resisted, elaborate?”
“If he'd more backbone, yes. But I do understand his dilemma. I should resist chocolate, but I don't. If it's there, I have to indulge myself and then the indulgence becomes a binge, and I become the 16 stones that I am.”
“I can see your point,” I agreed.
“But that's where I hold her responsible.”
“You've lost me.”
“You see, I may have an indiscipline when it comes to chocolate but,” she cast her eye to the 'Walnut whip' in her open bag. “You see, I wouldn't resort to stealing chocolate, ever. I'll binge on my chocoate but you have my word, your chocolate is safe in my company. You can trust me with your chocolate.” She made one of those annoying gestures when people kind of twist their heads and wink. It annoyed me because she didn't or couldn't, wink. So the result was just a rather pathetic looking, stand-alone, head-rock.
“You're saying this Sandra Patterson woman stole your chocolate?”
“Yes,” she pulled the cardigan together again. “And she's not really a woman, she's just a wee slip of a girl. If she turned sideways she'd vanish. I think it's because she's a vegetarian. I hate to think what she feeds Ron. Ron and me both eat meat. Ron loves his meat.”
“Maybe they're living on the fruits of love?” I said it, I spoke with my mouth in gear. I felt the wince-smile coming so I held my breath and looked down at my notes.
“That's another thing,” she sneered, “That bloody organic crap they sell in the supermarket nowadays, fruits of love. I ask you.” I released the breath I'd been holding.
“Thank you God,” I mouthed before firing off another question. “How does Ron feel about all of this?”
“I don't care, the skinny bitch can keep him. I were once slim. You wait till she's had as many kids as I have, and eaten as much chocolate.” There it was again, shimmy.
“How many kid's do you have?”
“Six,” shimmy. “I think that's when things started to go wrong. When Ron were working away. You see, he'd pop home, we'd pop upstairs, nine months later another sprog would pop out. You know what they say. Once you pop you just can't stop.”
“Apparently so, Did you not use birth control?” The bloody smile came and went, I didn't realise until after the fact. Probably because the shimmying was distracting me.
“Raised Catholic, wasn't supposed to do it. Besides, I tried once but me blood pressure shot up and me ankles ballooned. Anyway, during my last pregnancy, I developed a taste for marzipan.....”
“Ahem.” I rolled my eyes at her, she shimmied back at me. I launched another question. “How did the company's team building strategy affect your relationship?”
“They went away on one of those stupid bonding weekend thingys.”
“Yes, they have them here, we went on an assault course last week.”
“Well,” she leaned forward, leaned back and waved her arm in some sort of dismissive gesture. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. She took so long to speak I felt like an idiot. I was stuck, eyebrows raised, probably looking like some sort of deranged lunatic. Protocol dictated I couldn't really change my expression until she said or did something. It was like playing facial twister. I couldn't change my expression until it was my move. I don't know why, that's just the way it is when you're having a conversation. For some reason, I felt peckish all of a sudden. Did supermarkets sell ready-made blancmange, or did you have to make it yourself?
“Paint-balling!” she eventually blurted out, my eyebrows felt relieved to be allowed home.
“Yes, we've done that here at ET2, it's fun.”
“Bloody waste of time if you ask me,” she spat. 'Well nobody did bloody ask you,' I replied but fortunately my mouth was disengaged at the time. My mouth took it upon itself to supply a more suitable answer. (Another trick of my industry. PVR – Programmed Verbal Reflex. It's really handy, it enables you to partake in pleasantries and pointless discussions without actually engaging your brain and thus wasting valuable brainpower.)
“Why's that?” my mouth asked her.
“They went, the place on the corner I think it was. They went on the Sunday. In the evening Ron brought her home with him. They'd only just finished, you could tell,”
“How?”
“You knew they were still at it five minutes ago, she were still damp and dripping.” Shirley spoke in a casual, uncaring way. I was going to explode. I reached over and poured myself a glass of water. While I took a moment to compose myself, I offered her the jug whilst I drank from my glass. “You could tell, he were on top too,” she added. The mouthful of water I'd taken found freedom. The droplets headed for every corner of the office. Thankfully, gravity came to my rescue! None of it got more than two or three feet. “He'd squirted her good and proper, it were all over her, it were all nasty and sticky.” That was it, I lost my motor skills all down my left side. The jug of water was still in my left hand, it crashed to the carpet. I should have been roaring with laughter but no sound would come out. To Shirley it must have looked like I was going to throw up. “And it were bright blue!” That was the final cruel shot. I felt dizzy, I reached back to trying to locate my chair but my entire left arm was still on a work to rule. My hand missed the chair, I ended up on the floor, laying on the soaked carpet. “Are you alright petal?” she asked. “You seem to have taken a turn. Have you just been out gallivanting too much lately or do you think you might be pregnant? Oh you can't pregnant can you, I forgot. It must be the other thingy. Our Glenda suffers badly with her monthlies.....
“I'm fine,” I sat up slowly recovering my faculties. “It's just been a long day.” I didn't want to get up so I just sat there in the puddle. “Mrs Harley, the production team will be in touch with you.” I said with suppressed laughter, gesturing in the direction of the door.
“Well if you have him on the show. Tell him I know that pearl necklace he gave her were meant for me.” With that she closed the door behind her. I just lay on the floor, rolling, squelching and banging the carpet with my open palm. I knew we couldn't have that woman on the show, we'd get sued. She didn't mean it, she just couldn't help it.
“That evil woman Sue. She stole my prime. She took the best part of my manhood, the best part of me. She sucked it all out of me. She wouldn't stop until it was dry, nothing left.” Was my next candidate's opening statement. I'm a professional. I pursed my lips and closed my eyes. Images tried to manifest themselves but I resisted. A rustling sound refocused me.
“Cherry?” he held open a bag of sweets.
“Damn! I think I left the iron on!” was the only thing I could think to say as I ran from the office.
In the privacy of a toilet cubicle, I laughed hysterically, cried a little. I was afflicted. But I was a professional and I would live to fight another day. Twenty-minutes with Mrs Harley could not do this to me! After minutes five of self-therapy, said therapy involved physically abusing a previously perfectly serviceable cubicle door whilst cackling like a demented witch. I hitched up my skirt and leaned against the hand dryer for a full ten minutes. Suffice to say, after the experience I realised chocolate is just so over rated.
As I returned to the office, shoes in hand. I had a new found confidence. It's amazing how a dry bottom, an aerated kazoo and the ability to walk squelch-free can give you such a boost.
“Sorry,” I apologised to Mr Williams. “That may have seemed a little odd, my behaviour I mean. My running out like that. Iron on, transfers, logos, sweatshirts, cameramen, production crew. I didn't want to burn down the entire building.”
“Not a problem my love.” He sucked on whatever was in his mouth. I really hate it when they call you 'love'. I'm not their 'love', I'm my husband's 'love' and my family's 'love'. Why do these people think they have some God-given right to familiarity? I realised I'd done the smile thing by way of a response but I didn't care, I welcomed it. It proved I was back to my old self and oozing with confidence. I blatantly attempted to see if I was cured.
“So, What were you saying about your wife and her cherry?” I concocted the question for maximum innuendo.
“No love, my wife weren't keen on cherries. She'd suck for hours, but the one time she swallowed, she said it was a nasty experience.”
“Really!” I enthused, I knew I was cured.
“Yes, a stone got stuck in her throat as a child.”
“Children, cherries and sucking, do not make for a healthy recipe.” I agreed. “So.” I relaxed, scanning his information from his file. “Tell me about your ex-wife.”
“She's not my ex-wife, we're still married, and these aren't real cherries, they're just boiled sweets.” There seemed to be a degree of pride in his statement. I didn't know if the pride related to the cherries or his marital status.
“Oh, sorry, my notes are incorrect,” I lied, I'd just assumed from the dates in the notes he'd be divorced by now.
“No we're separated, nearly ten years now.” It took a while for his words to register. I was pre-occupied with his hair. I decided he used one of those dyes that men use when they start go grey. I concluded that he'd obviously mistaken 'minutes' for 'hours' in the small print. Terrance Williams hair was black, as in black, black. The devil's heart was magnolia by comparison.
“Have you considered divorce?”
“No,” he replied flatly.
“Do you see her often?
“No,”
“Do you have any contact with your wife?”
“No,”
“Is she actually alive?” I asked, he nodded his head vigorously. Until this point, I'd been exploring the possibility that the super-black hair was really a polyester wig. The extreme vigour of his head movements caused me to sniff the air for traces of Araldite or similar epoxy resin. All I could detect was 'cherry odour', briefly I wondered as to its suitability as a fragrance for men. I concluded 'Cherry Spice' would be quite pleasant as deodorant, however the risks of wasps nesting in peoples may be detrimental to financial viability. “Did she move away? What happened to her?” He'd sort of clammed up, this was going to be hard work, it wouldn't do for the show.
“Her personal trainer advised me to leave, ten years ago a week next Thursday.” His quiet period was hopefully over.
“Leave where?”
“The house.”
“Which house?”
“My house.”
“Why?”
“He said the three of us living together was getting a bit awkward.”
“You lived with your personal trainer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wanted him to move in?”
“What on earth.....”
“She said she needed regular sessions.”
“I bet she did.”
“After six months I said I didn't think it was doing any good and she was perhaps over doing it. She was always tired. So I said we should call it a day.”
“Really,” I had cause for real celebration I felt a wince-smile coming on and I succeeded in stopping it. “What happened next?”
“He broke my nose. Look, you can see the bump.” He turned his head sideways to show me his profile.
“People get sued for that sort of thing.”
“I know,” he smiled at me. “But the wife talked him out of it.”
“Talked him out of what?” I spat.
“Suing me, she convinced him to settle for a £10,000 cash settlement.”
“I'm confused, you paid, him?”
“Yes, he sprained his finger. He's a personal trainer. It was loss of income.”
“I can't see how a finger would make any difference whatsoever.”
“Funny, that's what I said to the wife but she said I didn't know the routine, and his finger was used extensively in the warm-up sessions.”
“I bet it was.”
“Do you have a personal trainer?”
“No, I just know the routine. I can work-out on my own, thank you very much, I do it regularly.” My thoughts drifted to the time I'd gotten drunk at the office party. I glanced at the suede chaise lounge in the office where I'd slept that night, it was still stained. It was the night when in my drunken state I decided to test the theory. 'A finger of fudge is just enough to give a girl a treat.' Anyway, I used a flake and it was really really messy. I had to bribe the early morning cleaners and call my sister, get her to bring me over some of her clothes. My sister understood my situation, she told me in confidence. She was actually relieved when the doctor told her she didn't have a venereal disease. It turned out, a finger of fudge wasn't enough so she developed a passion for the Snickers bar. All the redness and swelling was due to a simple nut allergy.
“That's what I suggested, she could work out on her own,” he interrupted. His voice brought me back from my excursion.
“£10,000 for a sprained finger. That's ridiculous.” I advised him.
“No, it was £2,000 for the finger, £8,000 for the nail,” he explained.
“The nail?”
“Yes, the nail.”
“What nail?”
“His fingernail, it went black. He's a male model, loss of earnings. You see.”
“Mr Williams, has it ever occurred to you that you're being taken for a ride?”
“That's what I said, but the wife assured me she was on top of the situation and if there was any riding to be done she'd be doing it.”
Seeing as I've admitted the flake thing, I may well confess something else. If Terrance Williams hadn't been such a wanker. I probably would have cheated on my husband and agreed to a quickie right there and then. If I got caught, I'd have blamed the Mrs Harley, the hand-drier and the Cadbury's flake. You see, Mr Williams had a big thick bush of a moustache and as he spoke it wiggled around, almost taking on a life of its own. In my head, a random thought just snuck in. I wondered if it tickled. No, not tickled him. I wondered if the moustache would tickle me! As the thought became complex and unmanageable. It was joined by another, and the issue subsequently debated between the two. In conclusion, both my thoughts agreed. If his moustache actually tickled as much as the thought of his moustache tickling, tickled, It'd have been game on! Fortunately a third thought told me he was a pratt and fourth threw cold water over the whole idea by reminding of when my nephew got chewing gum in his hair and had to have it cut out. Five reminded me I hadn't waxed for weeks. And six wondered how sticky boiled cherry sweets actually were. Seven spoke.
“Mr Williams, would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks, he replied.
“Give me a second.”
I sent one of the receptionists across the road to get me a latte and proceeded to the wash-room to refresh up. Upon my return the receptionist looked up and asked me if I wanted her to call maintenance.
“What for?” I asked.
“A new element. I can't believe it's gone again, they only changed it last month.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The heating element in the hand dryer. Has it gone again?”
“No,” I assured her.
“Strange?” she pursed her lips. “I heard it running fully for a good ten minutes and your hands are still wet.” Busted, I thought.
“Whatever!” I snapped, the wince-smile resurfaced. I wiped my hands on my skirt and took a step towards my office.
“Carol,” she called me back “Your latte.”
“Thanks,” another wince-smile appeared before I removed the lid and inhaled the aroma. “This smells heavenly, what is it?” I asked her.
“I'm not sure,” she replied. “Flavour of the day, I think it's got almonds in it. There's women queuing up for it over there. The manager says some woman gave him the recipe earlier today, and ever since people have been going nuts. It's so yummy! While you were in the wash-room, I had a cup and gulped it down. It smells.” she sniffed the air. “Just like....”
“Marzipan!” I joined her in a one word chorus. “I'll be buggered.” I voiced singly, before taking a sip. I swirled the warm frothy liquid around my mouth for a few seconds before I eventually swallowed. “Hmm, it's delicious, there's something missing though. What is it?” I sucked my tongue for the last remnants of taste.
“Salt!” we both sang out in unison.
Back in my office with Terrence Williams I made my apologies for the second delay. It was obvious to me, his wife was taking the living piss.
“Terrance,” I said to him earnestly. “I think maybe you should cut your losses. Take it from me, a woman. She's milking you for all she can get.”
“I can't yet, too expensive,” he replied. “I'm on a good deal at the moment.”
“How so?” I was intrigued.
“At the moment, I only have to pay for the household bills and child maintenance,” he enthused. I rifled through his application trying to find the right section. I was so sure he'd said they had no children.
“How many children do you have?” I frowned as I asked the question. I quickly swapped the frown for a grin, rubbing my forehead. Bugger, hope that doesn't wrinkle in later years, I thought.”
“None,” he said. This man was determined to give me wrinkles on my forehead. How the hell does one express confusion without doing a forehead wrinkle thing? I needed this pratt to stop confusing me. How was I ever going to get a spot presenting breakfast TV if I had wrinkles!
“No children but you pay child maintenance?”
“Yup,” he replied. He was confusing me again. My breakfast spot... Spot! I rubbed my forehead. Wrinkle, spot, period, concealer; my chain of thought for anybody interested. I found one! It was probably only a little one but it was bang in the middle of my forehead. My inflammatory imagination immediately magnified the spot to an eyesore the size of one my husband's balls. Sorry for another tangent but on the subject of golf. I remember when we, my husband and I that is, had our first argument. The hand dryer is a mere toy when compared to the mother of all stimulations provided by the portable mini-bidet. God! Our honeymoon was a chore when compared to this ingenious device. I was indebted to whosoever bought it as a wedding present. I spent an entire weekend, completely zonked! I didn't care about my life, I left the housework. I couldn't even be bothered to answer the phone. I'm no saint, I've done a few lines of coke here and there but it all stopped. When it comes to getting high, this thing was the new black, the dogs bollocks. My husband was furious! Apparently there's no such thing as a portable mini-bidet. He shouted at me because I'd worn out the batteries in his solar rechargeable electric golf ball cleaner. Boys and their toys, how are us girls supposed to know? He didn't speak to me for a week because I'd invalidated the lifetime guarantee according to some small-print fair-usage clause.
I looked at Mr Williams and wondered about the polyester wig again. It was then that I noticed him shuffling his feet on the carpet. I was about to open my mouth to ask a question but I closed it again because I noticed the fly. It kind of hypnotised me. That's when the music started – that music from that shark film. What's it called again? Jaws, that's it. Anyway, it was almost in slow motion. The fly, flew, his feet shuffled. The music played, the procedure repeated itself continually, the tempo ever increasing. The fly flew, his feet shuffled, the music played. Eventually the music stopped. The fly landed on his head and a miniature flash of lightning lit up the office. The fly lay on the carpet, dead. A lock of Mr Williams hair pointed skyward as if directing the fly's spirit to heaven. I realised how those blue light thingy's in take-aways worked. My brain pre-occupied, PVR kicked in again.
“Mr Williams,” my mouth said. “This isn't gonna work out, polyester, studio lights, pubic liability insurance. Upstairs will never sanction it.” I thanked him for his application and bid him farewell.
I told you. I work in television. I'm a presenter now, so I'll say that's all we've got time for. As for Cedric Lucas, maybe I'll tell you all about him next week. This has been Carol Fox on the best years of my life. Stay tuned to European Television 2 for our movie of the week, Nuclear Deterrent II.