Chill Factor E-Book

Linda Iris Willis

• Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 404

Beschreibung

Television studios are magical places, and I should know only too well with my family's history in film and television. Massive arc lights with perfect round faces hanging on to steadfast lighting grids, lined up above shining white-floored studios, scattered with sets, dotted with cameras, booms, and technicians. Each time I walked past a bright red 'on air' light stuck to the studio wall, I felt curiously alive. I had met Paul, my husband there, who was working as an assistant director at the time. Things could not have been more perfect; the lifestyle, the love and the passion for what we did. Life however has a way of throwing you a curve ball every now and then. My curveball hit me hard and lost me nearly everything that I had. Without the love of friends and family I would not begin to find myself again and reshape my life like a sculptor. Chill Factor is a mesmerising journey through the splendour and glamour of television transitioning into the harsh drama of Lesley's reality when she finds out about Paul's malicious side. Lesley loses everything and her story is about how through difficulty she finds her own strength after years of being worn down and looks forward to what her future could be.

Leseprobe

Chill Factor

Linda Iris Willis

Into the light…

And somewhere in this nightmare darkness

There must be light

Some way out of the tangled barbed wire manacles

Of confused corruption, grotesquely masquerading

Calling itself – ‘The Law’ Presuming, accusing –

Whose Law is it anyway?

Whose life?

Who will pay?

Who has the most?

Of course! – Not!

Who can afford it least?

Yes – my dear innocent you must… pay the price~

Trounced by trust

Floored by fools

Grounded by geriatric dwarfs

Mean-spirited, mind bending maniacs

And somewhere there is peace

And tranquillity

And happiness – a reason –

A reason to go on – living

A reason to go on – loving

A reason to go on – caring

And someone does – care

And so through bleak and dark

Despair and cruel deceptive discovery

I reach through bloody thorns

And place my bruised and bleeding fingers-

In safe hands –

Someone will kiss them better

And heal them, and me –

And one step at a time

One breath at a time

I will stand straight and strong –

And smiling yet –

So much I can’t forget –

But somewhere in this nightmare of darkness –

You take my hands –

And lead me safely back into the light.

Contents

Title PageChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineCopyright

Chapter One

A chill wind blew me to this lonely place to recover. Savagely eastern the windwhipped up the slate grey sea. An angry sea under the stern stone-coloured skies. Unremitting. I pulled my blue woollen scarf tighter around my head, sheltering my ears against the bitter, biting, cold. Sanctuary for my thoughts in the numbness that this hostile iciness was inflicting on my senses. I trudged along the shore in well-worn Wellingtons wondering how on earth did I get here? Perhaps the rugged red rocks once so familiar and friendly would help me to find the answers I craved. Perhaps if I thought long, enough – hard enough – the pain would go away.

The sheer joy this hidden cove in deepest Devon had showered me with since my dad had abandoned two wheels and moved on up from a motorbiketo the four-wheeled luxury of his first Ford – a real car! And, although the journey took us longer than it did to reach sunsoaked Mediterranean beaches - and still does -, it didn’t matter. Time meant nothing to me. I fell in love instantly with its unspoilt and natural beauty, safe in the knowledge that when I fall in love with anyone or anything that love lasts a lifetime.

Could this be the smuggler’s cave that once seemed so big when I was so small? Covered in black shiny mussel shells and grey, gloopy bits of fungus, smelling of sea salt and ozone, bright gleaming bronze seaweed dangling down the slippery rock surface. I stood still for a second, breathing deeply, inhaling like a reformed addict; scents once so familiar and gratifying. Brine, sweet sea salt on my lips and tongue. Urgent, sudden freshness uncoiling suffering from which the mind recoils.

Disentangling the man-made mess. I gazed out to the horizon, focusing through my foggy thoughts as I remembered the tales my dad told me long ago. Stories of the sea. Of smugglers and pirates lighting up the bay, using secret coded messages which glinted from black lanterns with tiny golden candles flickering inside. Skulking across the shingle in thigh-high leather waders as the inky blackness of the night engulfed them. Despatching cargoes of brown wooden kegs reeking of brandy, rum and whisky. Contraband. All the delicious and forbidden things we shouldn’t and couldn’t have, whichonly feeding the fickle flame of desire, making them appear to be more exciting than they actually were. Fleeing the excise men who chased them routinely along the cliff tops in their red livery coats and gold braid. Breaking the law every day of their lives, nonetheless, for some inexplicable reason, had always held a special place in my heart. An unexplained and rebellious affection for these rogues. The smugglers. The buccaneers – like Robin Hood and Dick Turpin, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. I never wanted these dubious fallen heroes to be caught! They needed no licence and heeded no man-made law. Yet liberty, freedom and independence were the badges of honour I graciously bestowed upon these fearless, reckless pirates!

No matter how turbulent the tales of terror were, I listened to them with awe. Wondered at them, and then put them safely away like jewels in my ‘imagination box’, happy, confident that these were the only secrets I had locked away! Digging up the rest of the beach with my bright yellow plastic bucket and spade in the gentle warmth of English summertime absorbed all my attention. But I did sometimes look out to the misty horizon, wondering if that pink brushed lemon haze was actuallyskilfully concealing a black and white skull and crossbones fluttering defiantly from the mizzenmast of a sturdy oak pirate ship! I had not a care in the world. No need to worry about thieves and pirates or anyone toharm me. Totally secure in the knowledge that I was loved. And can love ever spoil anyone? Can we ever have enough? I slumped down on the biggest rock I could find. Smooth from constant years of sunbathers sprawling across it during the summer months, worn and wearied by the wind that whipped across the pale grey, peach and cream pebbles in the wintertime. I picked up a flat stone, with no curves in it, holding it in my hand like a talisman. I let go of it, flinging it into the stormy breakers. My dad could skim stones, my husband used to be able to do it, and my son was skilled at sending a pebble halfway across the Channel if he felt like it. Why I could still only manage a sad ‘plop’ as it landed in the murky water sending out slow half-hearted grey circles like a broken wedding ring was a mystery to me still. But the ripples go on. My dad told me once long ago, “If you look at a lake or the sea, it can appear to be very tranquil and calm sometimes. Until someone comes along and throws a stone, or even a rock, right into the middle. Instantly it makes a deep hole. Right there. But the ripples! The ripples are endless. And life itself is no different. It only takes one person to throw that stone into the centre of your own little world. Maybe a momentous business decision, an act of betrayal, cowardice, or cruelty. Whatever the reason, the repercussions are as endless as the waves upon the shore. And they will continue affecting completely innocent people who had nothing whatsoever to do with the decision to toss that stone in the first place. Maybe for the rest of time. Yet, it is others who are left to pick up the pieces. You – who has to pick up the pieces and rebuild your own life. Make it better.”

My dad was not a University graduate. He went to school in London’s East End just before the War and had a hard life in many ways. But he never ever complained. His philosophy was simple, based on truth, instinct and old-fashioned common sense. Total honesty and integrity were some of the greatest gifts he willingly shared with me.

I stuffed my freezing hands into my jacket pockets. As usual, I’d left my gloves somewhere safe – so safe I couldn’t find them. My fingers were beginning to turn a vivid shade of blue. But, as I got up slowly from the sturdy rock and began to walk steadily, carefully back across the windswept beach, white crested rollers beginning to bang across the shingle, sending sprays of bleached foam skyward like sparkling fireworks, I knew I had reached the crossroads and was about to make the most momentous decision of my whole life. At last, it was time to dig down deep and find the courage to move on.

When I got back inside my cosy hotel room with its king size bed cosily covered with a thick comforting duvet, crisp white cotton sheets, complimentary wrap-around terry towelling bathrobe, and matching slip your feet in and snooze slippers, warmth engulfed me just like the blast you get when you step from a plane, landing somewhere exotic. I pulled off my scarf and sand-encrusted wellies and ran hot water into the bathtub, pouring generous dollops of Crabtree and Evelyn summer flower scents into the bubbles. I felt curiously reassured by doing something so very simple. One of those small but precious ‘be good to yourself moments’. I climbed in. Relief embraced me as I lay back and allowed myself to reflect properly on all that had happened to me. Why did it happen? Could I have reached out and stopped it –said, hey – not this time – it’s my life you’re playing about with here? When exactly did I lose control of something only I should have been in control of? My own life?

Getting slowly out of the bath I wrapped the towel carefully around me, pulling down my hair from the tight-bunched scrunchy held messy top knot. Running my fingers through it till it fell in floppy loose, damp curls around my face. I knew I had to relive it all again. Just one more time. I slowly poured myself a chunky tumbler full of chilled still mineral water. Took it with me to the small floral print-covered armchair by the large picture window. I don’t know how long I sat there. Completely still. Watching the deep peach glow of the setting sun across the bay. Till I became cognizant of a sense that before I could begin looking towards the future, I had to go back to the past, one more time.

And that began with my childhood. Which was truly carefree. When we are privileged by complete protection, sheltered from the harshness of the dark places, we take it for granted. Why would we not? We know nothing else. Just as a nine-year-old child has no idea how it feels to be starving living in Africa, consciousness fails to connect with the notion that some people are living a very different sort of life indeed. And not as far away as another continent. And not where you would expect to find it.

So, we try to protect our children with the love we generously shower upon them. We shield them from things we despise because we do not want them to suffer – or be hurt. But the deadly danger that creeps up like a cancerous weed is that it is our very protective instinct that makes us eventually vulnerable. Weak. It makes us gullible and trusting and naïve. Like men going into battle armed with wooden sticks when the enemy are armed with machine guns, the outcome cannot fail to be ugly and gruesome. For only the strongest survive. And that is a bitter lesson it’s taken me a lifetime to learn.

Chapter Two

Television studios are magical places. Massive arc lights with perfect round faces like full moons hanging on to steadfast lighting grids, lined up above shining white floored studios, scattered with sets, dotted with cameras, booms, and technicians. Each time I walked past a gleaming, bright red ‘on air’ light stuck to the studio wall, I felt curiously alive. Like a shot of adrenaline had just been injected into me. My dad had worked in TV since the early days and therefore I knew a lot about it already. And I loved it! When I was small, Christmas parties with Santa dressed in a big red fluffy red outfit with snow white fur, sitting inside a massive golden sleigh complete with bells and real reindeer was the stuff of fantastic fantasy and beautiful tinsel-covered dreams. I was the luckiest kid on the block. Now it was my turn to embark on the first firm step to a career I had always dreamed of. In the world of the mini silver screen. Still very much a male environment, fiercely protected by all the ‘men in suits in charge. They fully intended to keep it that way! Camerawomen simply did not exist, or female Lighting Directors, or even Heads of Department, unless it was a ‘safe area for the fairer sex – like Wardrobe or Make Up.

I had a burning desire to be a designer. “Forget all about that! It’s a man’s world!” I was unceremoniously informed by the Head of Personnel. A small wiry man with greying wispy hair and a very serious expression. Always carrying a clipboard. Containing what, I had no idea. Maybe he thought it made him look like David Frost. It didn’t. Nondescript sweatshirt and grey flannel trousers. His uniform. Clothes as uninspired and insipid as he was. But if he said, ‘no’ then you simply did not get a second chance. So I didn’t give him the opportunity of saying, ‘no’ to me. I took the ‘female option’ instead. I wasn’t too unhappy. I had a career in television, surrounded every day by creativity and colour. “Just get your foot in the door, and work it out from there!” my dad said. That’s all I’d ever wanted to do. I had longed for the day when I could chuck out my dusty School books with battered covers, and revolting bottle green hockey shorts and head for a world of full-time fantasy in the entertainment industry. My school had been built next to MGM’s back lot. I had watched through the windows during countless boring Geography or Chemistry lessons while splendid film sets appeared. Oriental pagodas, red and gold pointy tips piercing the bright blue skies. Strangely surreal appeared above the boys’ cricket pitch. “Stop daydreaming out of the window, Lesley!” I was constantly reprimanded. But you have to follow your dreams sometimes. There were war films with night shooting, the best and noisiest special effects bombarding the neighbourhood during the filming of US blockbusters with mega superstar heroes. A torrent of complaints would fill the local paper the next day. But only from those who didn’t work there, and never would. Jealous of those who were fortunate and talented enough to do so. Envy is the root cause of so much pain and evil. And it never goes away.

“Lesley?” I looked up into the glare of the spotlight above me, as Dean Jones, one of the young whiz-kid Directors, temporarily blocked my vision. Like many little men, he had a tendency to overcompensate by behaving in a brusque manner, taking instant control, and establishing authority. Always trying to have the upper hand even in the banalest of conversations. Dean was wearing scruffy blue denim jeans with worn-out faded patches, and a checked shirt. He sported what he thought made him look, ‘intellectual and clever’ – a small beard. “Oh, Lesley, I thought you were the latest newscaster for a moment – as you were sitting in her chair!”

Derision was tempered with discretion as Dean was well aware that my boss was not somebody it was helpful to upset. I had no intention of losing ‘my cool’, so I swivelled off of the black leather chair with as much grace as I could muster in such a short skirt, and left the impressive chunky glass and chrome newscasters’ desk to its rightful occupant. “I wish!” I thought. But instead, I laughed and told him, “I was just waiting for some paperwork from Ainsley!” I looked over my shoulder at him, as I made my way across to the plastic gun metal grey seats with flip-up tops that constituted ‘audience seating’. I sat down on one of them. Waiting for Ainsley to arrive.

Ainsley Logan was a designer. And boy did I want to be like him! “You have a brilliant sense of colour!” he had told me the first time we met. I had fallen for him instantly. From the very first moment, we got on like a house on fire. Throughout my whole life, I had always enjoyed the company of men, very much indeed, but Ainsley Logan was somehow different from other men – set apart. I believed he was gay. So I felt very ‘safe’ whenever I was with him. I could be friends with him. I could flirt with him, and tease him. But I knew that he wasn’t about to make a pass all the time, and I knew that way our friendship would last. I think Ainsley felt safe with me too. He was wonderfully appealing. Seriously goodlooking with a mop of long black, straight shining hair. He had a glossy fringe that flopped across his deep brown liquid chocolate-coloured eyes. I could have written a whole book of poems about Ainsley! He was amazing company and fun. We shared the same stupid irreverent sense of humour. He treated me like an equal. A buddy. And that’s what we were.

And although he was content to wear jeans just like all the other guys, Ainsley’s Levi’s were 50ls and golden, never faded blue with threadbare bits on the knees! His shirt collar was always casually turned up just the right amount on his white Italian shirts and his hair curled tantalisingly over the back of his neck, in a perfect curve. Tempting you to stroke it tenderly like some kind of exotic Siamese cat’s fur. He was gorgeous, and I loved Ainsley to bits.

All at once, he came crashing through the studio doors looking like an Anglo-Arab long-legged stallion, all arms and legs. Making his gangling way towards me, sunglasses perched on top of his head, he stopped abruptly, and started pulling out sheaves of papers from a massive, well-worn, forest green leather binder. “Look at these for me, Les – I need your opinion!” White papers were partially concealed beneath the cover, suddenly becoming visible, shining like some kind of hidden treasure. I couldn’t wait to unearth it and see what multi-coloured wonder he’d created with his felt tips today! Ainsley’s sense of colour co-ordinated completely with his sense of humour. Exciting, unpredictable, extraordinary, and extreme. Like some kind of richly woven tapestry suddenly leaping into life. And for no explainable reason, you simply ended up feeling good. I gazed at the intricate patterns eagerly.

“Ainsley!” I gasped. “These are fantastic!” he smiled a little sheepishly, thanking me, pushing back his thick fringe with one hand. Hiding – could it be a blush?

“Thanks, Les,” he replied. “I needed to hear you say that! I know if you really like them that they’re OK. Because one thing you always do is tell me the truth. And if you think they’re OK…” Well, if that’s how he wanted to describe his miniature masterpieces. I would have chosen a much more colourful superlative. Ainsley, it appeared, was typical of the truly talented. He didn’t brag. He didn’t need to!

Television is a glamorous world. And during the ‘golden years’ the rewards were rich. Our Studios were like one big family. Sons and daughters followed in their father’s footsteps to become young cameramen, floor managers, stagehands, and even secretaries. Christmas parties lasted for the whole month of December. In a protected world, we were safe from the reality that existed outside of our little corner of creativity. It was also a free-spirited world. But I had no deep-seated desire to drift too far down that path. My dreams of a career in television were dashed before they had even had a chance to get into first gear? I had no wish to be dubbed a dipsy bar-fly, falling in and out of bed with a variety of sweet-talking technicians with a chat-up line mere mortals would kill for. So I made a pact with myself to go out with as many boys as possible, steering well clear of the dangerous waters too much intimacy can drag you into. I could always walk away when I felt things getting too hot to handle. No hiding place for what was considered, ‘politically correct’, we just got on with it, and if one or two wolf whistles came along, so much the better!

“Guess who’s coming in tomorrow?” said Ainsley, plonking himself lankily down beside me in the canteen with a full cup of steaming black coffee in his hands.

“Dunno,” I replied, my mouth half-filled with jam doughnut.

“Elton John!” I wasn’t quite so enthused as my pal as I had already seen Elton rehearsing at the film studios, when I worked there, but nevertheless, I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

“That’s great, Ainsley. I’ll keep my eye out for him!” When Elton came into Studio D as a guest on the Muppet Show he seemed to be smaller than he is now. He still had his own hair. And when he passed by in a tight-waisted green velvet suit, he looked pale and drawn. Enveloped by a cloak of sadness. Eyes staring into the distance. He took no notice of me at all. He seemed troubled. Ainsley was besotted.

“Isn’t he fantastic?!” he cried, as Elton pounded out ‘Crocodile Rock!’ on a dazzling white mini baby grand, wearing huge rainbow-coloured glasses and purple feathers. He looked more exotic than Kermit, Fozzie and the rest of the gang all put together.

Like living inside a huge box of chocolates with all your favourite centres in one cellophane wrap, that’s what it was like working in television in those days. Tom Jones, Paul McCartney, Andy Williams, Barbra Streisand, John Wayne. A never-ending stream of stars. “We’re doing the Royal Variety Performance at Drury Lane this year!” said the Head of Light Entertainment, as I walked down the corridor with him carrying a box of files. A very tall and distinguished extrovert, he favoured pastel-coloured cashmere sweaters. I thought he was very clever and talented.

“Can I come?” I asked cheekily. He stepped back in mock shock.

“Why?” he boomed, pulling a comical face.

“You know very well why! Cliff Richard is appearing isn’t he?” I replied.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake – you’re not a Cliff Richard fan are you?!” He attempted to look dismayed. “It’s only big wigs, Lesley. Directors and all that. You understand don’t you?” I nodded.

Two days later there was a loud banging sound on my office door. He put his head round the edge of it making sure I was there and then walked over slowly, clutching two lemon and white pieces of card with golden royal crests on top, and swirling writing which was embossed. “Here you are – you brazen hussy!” He smiled, as he tossed them onto my desk. Oh, wow! Long dress, designer glitz, fur coat – and Cliff – there is a heaven!

I stood in the wine velvet sumptuousness of the Stalls Bar at the Dominion Theatre, surrounded by celebrities and cigar smoke that circled the air in puffy pale grey wafts, acrid aroma blending seductively with the most expensive perfumes on the planet, thinking, “You have arrived – definitely!”

Film premieres, first nights, end of production parties. A string of glittering occasions, filled with high glamour, high spirits and high expectations. Living in the fast lane of a bubbling world of champagne and compliments made it seem as if anything were possible. Understandably, I loved every moment. I looked forward to getting ready for work, each morning sitting in front of the dressing table mirror adjusting my make-up, before leaving for the studios and reminding myself how lucky I was to be doing this job that I cared about so very much.

Ainsley was my constant source of comradeship. And although I went on lots of dates, with lots of good-looking guys, I was in no hurry to swap my happy-go-lucky lifestyle for anything heavy and serious. I had kept in touch with my girlfriends and we went to clubs, restaurants and the movies. We were young. Carefree, with money of our own to spend. The future was a distant blob on the grown-up horizon, that we didn’t need to talk about, focus on or even really give much thought to. On Saturday morning we would get up early, dashing off to Miss Selfridge or Kensington High Street Boutiques like Bus Stop and Biba. We had to be the very first to get the very latest look. Sometimes we ended up being thrown out of the shops when the ever-helpful shop assistants wearily replaced the ‘closed’ signs on the doors. We intrepidly trekked from one end of Oxford Street to the other and back again, like explorers in the jungle, seeking out and tracking down a rare species of designer suit with a swirly skirt, or a pretty pair of patent leather platforms, or white boots.

One day there was an abrupt and unexpected shift of gear from full speed ahead in the fast lane in top gear to slowing down and spluttering to a halt in first. A bright spring morning.

The crocuses had already started to bloom in blue and white clumps like tiny bouquets, and the first daffodils were sticking dazzling yellow heads out of murky brown mud, smiling up into the chilly pale blue vernal equinox skies. “Lesley! It’s Lucy!” she cried down the phone, almost hysterically. My best friend. Older, and supposedly wiser, than me. She had just turned thirty, and she had just decided to do something we’d all avoided like the proverbial plague, up until now. “I’m getting married!” she squealed down the phone like some kind of demented seagull. I heard the words that jangled and tangled themselves in my head, clattering down the line, thumping into the quiet orderliness of my neat and tidy office.

“What?” I echoed. Dumbstruck. My free-spirited loony friend Lucy, is always ready for a laugh and a joke. Always there, to see me through everything, from getting sloshed in West End wine bars to getting my wisdom teeth removed under general anaesthetic. Getting married? The ‘m’ word wasn’t part of our lives, was it? We were career girls. Independent. The young female voices of our age. And we didn’t need all that old-fashioned 1950s vacuum in one hand, husband in the other stuff did we? A man to make us complete?

“I’m thirty!” She was laughing now.

“So what?” I replied.

Lucy suddenly sounded all grown up and serious. “I’ve got to settle down some time!” I didn’t even know Lucy had been seeing anybody that special.

“Who to?” I heard myself begin to gabble, a bit like a deranged duck.

“Trey!” she replied.

“Trey?”

“Yes, Trey Williams. You remember. The American guy I used to work with. He’s come over for a short holiday. He’s divorced now. It’s been so frantic – like a sort of whirlwind! And we’ve talked about it a lot and we’ve decided to get married. In September! Will you be my bridesmaid? Oh, and do my flowers for me?” I gasped, trying to take it all in. Astonished. We were headed into completely unknown territory here, like Peter Pan whirling back at top speed from Never Never Land to North Watford.

“Of course,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh – and something else, Lesley – we’re going to be living in New York – America!”

There was a loud and defiantly audible ‘click’ as she put down the phone. I was losing my best friend. And all of a sudden I could feel the draught of time’s chill moving forward, creeping up my spine like quick growing clematis, wrapping itself around me, uninvited. Nature sure is female. A victim, yet at the same time an aggressive instigator of change. Every day that Mother Nature faces a new challenge, women do the same. Like the circle of the Moon linked to the tides, so our cycle drives us, like a restless spirit that refuses to be hushed. Pulling and pushing like the waves. Instinctively aware when it’s time to move on. We don’t always listen to her though. A sudden chill breeze blew through my open window, blowing my new net curtains aside and knocking my glass vase of fresh white freesias onto the floor.

I helped Lucy choose her wedding outfit. Not traditional white long and flowing. “I’m too old for it!” she insisted. “Also, because it’s Trey’s second marriage, I will wear a long pale grey dress with a tailored jacket. But with a flouncy hat!” To be fair, Lucy did let me choose whatever colour I wanted for the bridesmaid outfit. Which was nice of her considering the ‘theme’ was palest silvery grey. At least she didn’t inflict that cheerless non-colour on my jaded senses and drooping and doubting shoulders. I chose gold. Simple. Discreet. Classy. I felt like a candlestick.

Chapter Three

I helped Lucy to stuff endless amounts of carmine-coloured chrysanthemums into clear plastic bowls that were supposed to look like glass but wouldn’t break. They stood like guardsmen in the centre of each oval table at the reception. But by the end of the evening, the once pert petals were sagging as they flopped and dropped down despondently over the misty containers. When Lucy walked into the grey walled ivy covered church, she stood in the arch of the doorway, for just a brief second, silhouetted against the bright September sunshine playing outside on the grass behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder quickly. “Still time, Lucy!” I thought. “Still time to run away!” How irrational was that? This was Lucy’s wedding day for goodness’ sake!

A baby’s piercing cry suddenly, unexpectedly, echoed around the walls of the old church. Reverberating from the hushed congregation, like a herald. Lucy gave no impression of having heard. Looking straight ahead of her she determinedly picked up the front of her long silvery grey dress with one hand, and marched briskly down the aisle on her dad’s arm.

The reception in a local hotel with brown fading folding seats and crumpled table-cloths was tedious. I had a dull throbbing headache. Midsummer humidity hung in the air like damp fog and I just wanted to go home. “Look after her!” I begged Trey.

“Yep.” He had a faraway look as he absent-mindedly answered.

After Lucy left for the States, things were never quite the same. The chill of Autumn set in early. She wrote from New York, phoned a few times, and then the calls tailed off as she got on with her new life. The first frosts took a firm, relentless grip. And it snowed in October, leaving my car stranded in the car park.

“Ainsley?” I said, looking at him across the top of a big china mug of frothing hot chocolate smothered in whipped cream. I’d given up worrying about whether it would end up adding extra inches to my hips. “Do you fancy coming to the pictures?” A flicker of – could it be alarm? Traversed his mobile features momentarily. His usually smiling brown eyes, shifted direction and looked uneasy.

“Why?” he asked. As if startled by my request. Like a six-year-old boy suddenly being ordered to eat their greens. “Do you mean – like a date?” he was beginning to shuffle about a bit in the hard-edged canteen chairs, looking even more uncomfortable.

“No – it’s just that there’s this new blockbuster on at Leicester Square and I thought you might like to see it with me, that’s all – just as a friend…” I was beginning to wish I’d never started this dubious conversation in the first place. But I had started. So I carried on.

I began to scrape the cream off the top of the cup with an unused white paper sugar wrapper. “Just as a friend,” I continued, softly. It was a pretty lame attempt to salvage something that was sinking faster than a submarine in a hurricane, but I did it anyway. Ainsley stared down at his cup of weak lemon tea, for what seemed like an eternity. Saying nothing. I could hear the loud, ‘tick tock’ of the clock on the studio canteen wall above us. White-faced, with hard black numbers stuck to it like accusers. Very, very slowly he moved his head, and looked up at me, pushing his thick silky fringe back from his eyes with long, sensitive fingers.

“Lesley.” Hesitation and the tone of his voice told me everything – yet nothing. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say to me. But I knew he was going to say it anyway. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Lesley. I don’t know how to tell you this really. I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t know how you would react. I’ve been seeing someone. And at first, even I didn’t know what was going to happen. But it’s so special. We just seem to click and it just feels right – you know? We just want to be together forever, really. I’ve found the love of my life, Lesley!”

I gazed back at him submerged in disbelief. “Who is he?” I asked.

“No – Lesley! It’s not a bloke!” I am not sure if he squirmed. Maybe he did. But I’m still not sure. I had sat and listened to his emotional outpourings and now I felt a sickening wave which threatened to engulf me. Like I’d just been punched in the stomach. I did not want him to continue. All I really wanted to do was to drop my hot chocolate and head for the double-sided glass doorway, out of the stifling confines of the studio’s canteen, and into the fresh air. “Her name is Emma. She’s a film editor. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. She is gorgeous Lesley. I know you would like her!” No – I wouldn’t!

“But, I thought…” I began to speak, feeling very foolish suddenly. Like a little girl lost, trying so hard to be part of the sophisticated grown-up world – and missing the point – completely. Yet still, he was talking.

“Emma has made me realise just how happy I can be! I feel so alive! She is a real woman!” Oh, great – so what about me? Ainsley could obviously read my mind at that point. “Well – no hard feelings, eh, Lesley. After all, we have never ever had that kind of relationship, have we? We have always been, well – mates!” Mates. Like a bloke. Only I wasn’t a bloke! I took a gulp of the chocolate, which was now tepid, and tasted horrible. I started to get up, my chair made a scraping sound across the vinyl floor. “You don’t have to go…” his voice trailed off, because he knew as well as I did, that it was too late. A sudden chill between us after all the years. I heard the ‘clink’ of a broken window lock as it swung open abruptly behind me.

Or was it the fractured, splintering sound of yet another one of my carefully constructed safety chains?

I couldn’t sleep at all that night. Lying alone in the darkness listening to the incessant ticking of the tiny golden bedside alarm. But there is another clock that ticks even more loudly. The one inside. I was already in my mid-twenties. Did I want to be a career girl? Yes indeed! Did I want children? Yes indeed! But did I want marriage and all that? Not really. It wasn’t something I had even thought about seriously, or for very long. I wanted to be like Peter Pan and stay young forever. Frozen in time. Stop all these damned clocks ticking away and shove them down the throats of the alligators, just like Captain Hook. I tossed and turned all night long.

***

When you don’t have the luxury of brothers and sisters you take it for granted that the love of your parents is total and unequivocal. Freely given. Freely accepted. I thought everyone was so blessed, but, like many things, it is sometimes not until they are taken from us that we begin to realise quite how very precious they are.

I sat on the hard pebbles, watching benign waves gently lapping against the seashore. Bright, autumnal sunshine was illuminating the auburn-coloured rocks glued to my favourite bay with a dusky, amber glow. The last dying embers of what had been scorching summer sunshine. Still warm and golden. “I don’t know what to do, Dad,” I had told him as he sat beside me. Sturdy and safe. My dad was not a glamorous dad. And I was so thankful for that! He was a real dad, cushioned and cuddly with twinkling sincere blue eyes, and a smile that could light up a room, the moment he stepped inside it. Always able to make me laugh. With one bear-like hug from him, and whatever else was happening in my life, I would have been able to take on the Spanish Armada single-handed! My mentor and guide, it was to him I had always turned whenever I was troubled. My fortress.

When I was a little girl I felt that I lived in a castle, not a house! And my dad was the castle walls surrounding us, protecting us from the perils that lurked beyond the boundaries of the front gate. My Knight in shining armour, guardian and guide. “Everything happens for a reason,” heused to tell me. “You don’t always know at the time what that reason is. But eventually, it will become clear. Your life is planned. And although it is sometimes very difficult to understand or to see ahead – you must always go forward – never go back!”

My dad didn’t go to Church every Sunday, but his simple belief in the Almighty was deep and strong. “You’ll be alright,” he assured me. Putting a comforting arm around my shoulders, gently squeezing them. “Everything will work out. God will guide you. In the meantime, don’t worry about what might or what might not happen. Enjoy what you have!”

I looked across at the sparkling sea, as it splashed about around the strong, ruddy rugged rocks, just as I had splashed about when I was a little girl. I was content to believe what he said.

Not long after that, I met Paul.

Chapter Four

It’s a small world – television. Full of families. And Paul Pearson’s family was no exception. His father was one of the first Directors to be asked to work on the opulent, prestige, no-expenses spared American shows. His flair for all things technical impressed me. Well, I was not a technical person – what did I know? His only son, Paul, had left behind him a privileged private school, with no qualifications, heading off to be a hippy on the windswept salty surfers’ beaches of North Cornwall.

Riding the wild surf on Fistral Beach instantly appealed to one who craved self-indulgence, self-satisfaction, a hedonistic lifestyle, answering to no one. Doing exactly what he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. No questions asked. No replies given. If his parents, or indeed anybody else, said, don’t do it, he would go ahead and do it anyway. He was a rebel. He owned two cars. One, a custom-built banana yellow vintage sports car, the other a sleek silvery blue Lotus Elite Coupe. Blown back from the beach at the behest of his father, he was now working as an Assistant Director. A job his dad helped to secure for him. He was my new boyfriend.

Paul Pearson wasn’t at all like anyone I had ever been out with before. He was very tall, and that made me feel surprisingly safe. He had a dark beard, which made me focus my attention on his piercing steel blue eyes. He had a startling lack of dress sense: his wardrobe consisted of Playboy bunny grey and black T-shirts, woollen fleecy jackets and bright yellow sports shirts. He had memorised a staggering assortment of painfully excruciating jokes. He had a flat in Kingston-on-Thames, overlooking the river. His family owned an apartment on the quiet bit of Majorca near Formentor and a huge country house in Hertfordshire. My first impression of Paul Pearson was that he was blatantly posh! But that didn’t matter. I liked him for who he was. Did I know who he was? I thought so.

We didn’t have a ‘routine courtship’ if such a thing exists. If indeed, that is what it was. For weeks we would not even see each other and then get together and have a great time. Uncomplicated. Like I’d planned. “I don’t want to get too serious!” he told me. Fine. Usually my line, but whipped away from me by Paul, just like one of Fagin’s lads stealing leather wallets from an unsuspecting punter’s back pocket. There was something else that was different, too. On our first date, Paul did not rush to kiss me. Made no attempt. Just said, “Goodnight!” and whisked off into the darkness revving up the engine of the Lotus, as he sped off down the road. He’s a gentleman, I thought.

On the third date, I stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. “What are you doing?” He looked startled.

“Kissing you goodnight!” I replied.

“No, no – I don’t do that straight away! I don’t really like kissing!” was his extraordinary reply. But I kissed him lightly on the cheek anyway. And off he went.

Now, whenever I was invited to a film premiere or a party, I was able to take Paul along too. One day we left the Lotus precariously parked on a double yellow at Leicester Square, as we flew across the road to an opening night at the Odeon. “Don’t give me a ticket!” he turned and yelled to a passing policeman.

“You don’t have to worry – with a car like that – you can afford it!” the policeman retorted with a smile.

“You’re kidding – I can’t even afford the petrol!” joked Paul. Anyway, I thought he was joking.

And so really our relationship jogged along happily in a haphazard little way. With me not thinking too much about it. Getting on with building my career like a complicated piece of Lego. And Paul driving us around in his Lotus. We started to spend more and more time together without seeming to realise it. Long lunches on the banks of the Thames on bright Saturday mornings, in an assortment of trendy wine bars, and plush new pizza parlours. Fashionable American burger bars were sprouting up like summer flowers all over the place and we sat happily people-watching as we munched our way through homemade burgers and the latest line in relish. That part of south London was upwardly mobile. It suited our lifestyle. It suited me at the time. We bought flashy roller skates from a shop on the Kings Road and tried them out, whizzing up and down the hill and along the river banks. On lazy Sunday afternoons we would browse slowly round the antique shops in the High Street or we would take long, bracing walks in Richmond Park, chasing the golden-coloured reindeer with their massive, big, brimming shining brown eyes. So trusting. So vulnerable. I was falling in love with the place. I was slowly falling in love with Paul. My work was clicking away almost like clockwork.

Sometimes I would catch the tail end of a whispered conversation in the studio corridors, or in the canteen. Curious looks behind my back. “They are jealous of me – that’s all.” Paul would say, vaguely. And I had no reason to doubt what he said. I was concentrating on my own job. Wrapped up in my world. How often do we pull down the shutters firmly on what we refuse to hear or see? Wearing massive blinkers that blind us to the truth? Allowing us to make momentous decisions with our eyes wide shut. It would not be the first time I did so.

Cold winds of change were about to blow through my comfortable life, disrupting it forever. But on those balmy summer evenings when Paul and I would stroll up to the top of Richmond Hill, and share a bottle of bubbly while watching the setting sun over the Thames, I had no idea how much.

Strikes were something miners did or students. Or firemen even. But television crews? Never. So when the powerful ACTT Union voted for a walk-out plunging TV screens across the nation into darkness, pulling the plugs on all transmissions the result was catastrophic. My dad, and everyone else, was forced suddenly to find part-time work anywhere and everywhere they possibly could. It was very hard. The Studios were officially closed, except for a skeleton staff, including me. I was non-Union at that time. I had no choice. Anyone who has ever had to endure the harrowing experience of the ‘white knuckle ride’ that constitutes driving through the middle of an angry picket line will understand. Most of the men I had known since I was very young, and had watched me grow up. They smiled looking a little bit embarrassed. But others did not. Angrily thumping their fists on the roof of my little red car till it ended up dented, and I ended up shaking with fear inside.

In the middle of this anarchic turmoil, and the steamiest midsummer heatwave for years, Paul got down on one knee in the middle of Richmond Bridge – and proposed to me. And from that moment my world did not stop spinning. For Paul wanted us to be married as soon as possible. Once he had made up his mind it had to happen straight away. “We have somewhere to live. We both have good jobs,” he reasoned. “And – there is something else too – I love you, Lesley!” I was completely overwhelmed. This was so unexpected. Like a bolt out of the blue water in the river beneath us. Paul had discovered an intoxicating love potion like nothing I had experienced before. I was simply swept off my feet. For a girl who had spent a lifetime being oh, so very carefully in control, I suddenly wasn’t. And I felt happy.

I felt loved. And I felt uneasy. I had been thrown a curved ball and I didn’t know whether to catch it and hold on tight, run with it – or throw it straight back again!

All things considered, my parents took things very well. “Is it some kind of joke?” asked my bewildered mother.

“Congratulations! I knew this day would come!” smiled my dad warmly, finding a bottle of champagne from somewhere and handing us all a glass full.

My life was about to change forever. I was now engaged. I was getting married. I would be respectable and I would officially join the “I am grown up” brigade. OK. I could handle that. I laid down on my bed thinking about it. My feet suddenly felt very chilly. I pulled the duvet tighter around me.

Chapter Five