about . . . well, Downton .
I am racking my brains. I made a mental list on the weekend and I run through a couple of my ideas—they’re not brilliant: the rise in flash mobs (a rock choir in Berkshire is taking over a shopping mall in Basingstoke); a blind high-street coffee test (Starbucks, facing dire quarterly figures, has gone for double shots).
A silence descends. No one looks at me, apart from Terri and Stan, who has his feet up on the other end of the table.
“It’s just . . .” Terri begins. She pushes the bridge of her black thick-framed glasses—fashionably unfashionable—farther up her nose. “I was thinking . . . you know, the big story from this weekend is . . .”
“You.” Stan has taken his feet down off the table. “You, sweet pea, are the story.” He doesn’t sound as confident as he might. I wonder if he is working out what’s in it for him, whether he’s weighing up the pros and cons, whether his publicity consultant has suggested he get caught up in a police investigation.
“I was thinking,” Terri says again, “an item about what it felt like to have gone through your terrible experience. You talking directly to the camera, telling your side of the story. We could geta psychologist in, sit them next to you on the sofa, to explain what sort of aftershocks to expect. ‘My trauma,’ that sort of thing.”
Alice, the new researcher, looks up. “Adam Phillips says he can get here by ten a.m.”
“It’s not my trauma,” I say. “I just found the body. It’s not my tragedy. It’s not about me.”
“I don’t know much about the dead woman,” Terri continues. “What was she—some Polish cleaner turning tricks on the side?”
I wince. “I’m not sure . . .” I begin.
“Whatever. I just imagine that her life wasn’t that close to yours, that she moved in”—she shrugs, as if even she is aware of dangerous assumptions—“different circles.”
“Two worlds collide,” I say, “that sort of thing.”
“Exactly.” She rubs her fingers quickly back and forth at the top of her head, as if making pastry up there. She has short hair, bleached at the tips. She often does it. It’s not an itch, but an impatient gesture, conveying a desire to get things going, to hurry things along.
“The outrage you feel,” Dawn suggests. “You among many.”
“I’m not outraged,” I say.
“Maybe we don’t know enough, but it has definitely shaken up the middle-class enclaves of . . .” Terri, who is Hackney born and bred, tries to remember where I live, “New Malden or wherever.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, thinking protectively of Jude, Margot, and Suzanne.
“Come on,” she urges, like someone coaxing a child into a coat. “It’s good. We need you. It’s fascinating.”
“I don’t care,” I say, trying to stay calm and focused, trying to block out swathes of panic by visualizing Longman’s timeline of the Second World War. “I don’t feel comfortable with it. I’d rather not do the program at all rather than exploit her.”
“My horror.” Stan has put on a deep, gravel-scraping dramatic voice. “My heartbreak.”
I probably wouldn’t have reacted, except that I see him court a look from India. She’s curled up in her chair, twisting her hair, trying to keep out of it. He winks. And perhaps it’s priggish of me, perhaps in different circumstances I’d be finding it funny, too, but I feel something snap.
“I don’t feel horror,” I say. “I don’t feel heartbreak. A poor woman has died .”
I’ve raised my voice. Embarrassed, no one looks at me. Stan smirks.
Luckily Dawn, who has been tapping away on a laptop while this has been going on, saves me. With a satisfied click of her fingers, she says she’s checked and we can bring forward Britain’s fattest woman, on a video link from her home in Tyne and Wear. (She hasn’t left the house in four years.)
“The live feed, ” Stan interrupts, in another
I am racking my brains. I made a mental list on the weekend and I run through a couple of my ideas—they’re not brilliant: the rise in flash mobs (a rock choir in Berkshire is taking over a shopping mall in Basingstoke); a blind high-street coffee test (Starbucks, facing dire quarterly figures, has gone for double shots).
A silence descends. No one looks at me, apart from Terri and Stan, who has his feet up on the other end of the table.
“It’s just . . .” Terri begins. She pushes the bridge of her black thick-framed glasses—fashionably unfashionable—farther up her nose. “I was thinking . . . you know, the big story from this weekend is . . .”
“You.” Stan has taken his feet down off the table. “You, sweet pea, are the story.” He doesn’t sound as confident as he might. I wonder if he is working out what’s in it for him, whether he’s weighing up the pros and cons, whether his publicity consultant has suggested he get caught up in a police investigation.
“I was thinking,” Terri says again, “an item about what it felt like to have gone through your terrible experience. You talking directly to the camera, telling your side of the story. We could geta psychologist in, sit them next to you on the sofa, to explain what sort of aftershocks to expect. ‘My trauma,’ that sort of thing.”
Alice, the new researcher, looks up. “Adam Phillips says he can get here by ten a.m.”
“It’s not my trauma,” I say. “I just found the body. It’s not my tragedy. It’s not about me.”
“I don’t know much about the dead woman,” Terri continues. “What was she—some Polish cleaner turning tricks on the side?”
I wince. “I’m not sure . . .” I begin.
“Whatever. I just imagine that her life wasn’t that close to yours, that she moved in”—she shrugs, as if even she is aware of dangerous assumptions—“different circles.”
“Two worlds collide,” I say, “that sort of thing.”
“Exactly.” She rubs her fingers quickly back and forth at the top of her head, as if making pastry up there. She has short hair, bleached at the tips. She often does it. It’s not an itch, but an impatient gesture, conveying a desire to get things going, to hurry things along.
“The outrage you feel,” Dawn suggests. “You among many.”
“I’m not outraged,” I say.
“Maybe we don’t know enough, but it has definitely shaken up the middle-class enclaves of . . .” Terri, who is Hackney born and bred, tries to remember where I live, “New Malden or wherever.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, thinking protectively of Jude, Margot, and Suzanne.
“Come on,” she urges, like someone coaxing a child into a coat. “It’s good. We need you. It’s fascinating.”
“I don’t care,” I say, trying to stay calm and focused, trying to block out swathes of panic by visualizing Longman’s timeline of the Second World War. “I don’t feel comfortable with it. I’d rather not do the program at all rather than exploit her.”
“My horror.” Stan has put on a deep, gravel-scraping dramatic voice. “My heartbreak.”
I probably wouldn’t have reacted, except that I see him court a look from India. She’s curled up in her chair, twisting her hair, trying to keep out of it. He winks. And perhaps it’s priggish of me, perhaps in different circumstances I’d be finding it funny, too, but I feel something snap.
“I don’t feel horror,” I say. “I don’t feel heartbreak. A poor woman has died .”
I’ve raised my voice. Embarrassed, no one looks at me. Stan smirks.
Luckily Dawn, who has been tapping away on a laptop while this has been going on, saves me. With a satisfied click of her fingers, she says she’s checked and we can bring forward Britain’s fattest woman, on a video link from her home in Tyne and Wear. (She hasn’t left the house in four years.)
“The live feed, ” Stan interrupts, in another
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