Pretty Boy Tigh E-Book

Richard Blandford

• Herausgeber: Galley Beggar Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Tigh is the latest Pretty Boy on a popular children's TV show. The kids love him. The mums love him even more. So much that Tigh soon finds himself getting into a very sticky mess…

Leseprobe

CoverContentsTitleCopyrightPRETTY BOY TIGH

PRETTY BOY TIGH

RICHARD BLANDFORD

Ebook version published in 2014 by

Galley Beggar Press Ltd

Norwich

Typeset by Galley Beggar Press Ltd

All rights reserved

©Richard Blandford, 2014

The right of Richard Blandford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

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PRETTY BOY TIGH

‘So you’re the new pretty boy, then?’

Tigh smiled at the fat man who was standing in the rain, clad in a long black coat and trilby, smoking a wet cigarette. The fat man did not smile back.

‘I… don’t think so,’ said Tigh, waiting for a sign, a smile, indicating it was a joke. The fat man smiled a lot whenever Tigh had seen on him on telly, on the odd morning when he babysat his nieces. Even though he was always falling over or getting a pie in the face, the fat man never stopped smiling for long.

‘Oh, you are. There’s always one. It’s part of the formula. Sporty girl. Sparkly girl. Nancy boy. Pretty boy. Fat clown. Been that way since the channel started. I’ve seen them come and go. But they’re always the same. Though I’ve been the only clown, of course.’

Tigh waited still for some giveaway of emotion on the clown’s face. His eyes were slightly bulbous, somewhat dead. The jowls that hung from the corners of a broad grin on the screen sunk down into limp folds. He looked old. On telly he didn’t look old at all.

Tigh couldn’t think of anything else to say. He shuffled awkwardly.

‘What’s your name?’ said the clown, breaking the silence.

‘Tigh,’ he said.

‘Why is your name “Tie”? That’s a stupid name.’

‘It’s spelt T-I-G-H.’ Tigh rolled his eyes. ‘My mum was a fan of some science fiction programme when she was growing up. Not Star Trek, another one. Anyway, one of the characters was called Captain Tigh or something, so that’s what she called me. So I guess it’s not such a surprise I ended up in television.’

‘Better hope you stay in it. Your name would be ridiculous in any other profession.’

‘I… guess so. I know who you are.’

‘Yes,’ said the clown. ‘Everyone does. Anyway, you’d better go in. You’re getting wet out here and you’re dressed for a school sports day.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tigh. His tracksuit top was damp, and his hair was starting to flatten. He could taste gel running down his face and onto his lip. It hadn’t been raining when he’d left for the train and now he felt stupid for not checking. He also felt stupid for standing in the rain now. But then it wasn’t every day you got to talk to Toby Pegg. Except now he would, many days, he thought. They were going to work together.

Tigh opened the glass door. Toby didn’t move.

‘You coming or-’

Toby shook his head. ‘I’ll be in later. They can start without me. Can’t stand those meetings. Having to pretend to like those fuckers. Not that I bother.’

‘Oh, ok. I’ll see you in there, then.’

Tigh climbed the steps, went to the reception desk and gave his name to a young woman who, after a quick glance, Tigh thought he might want to sleep with. In return he was given a pass to be worn around the neck and a set of directions to a numbered room. A security guard nodded him along the way, and after one wrong turn and a retracing of his footsteps, plus a visit to a bathroom to fix his hair and get the damp off his clothes the best he could with the hand dryer, he came to a door. He pushed it softly, and stepped inside. There was a round of applause. People were standing. Someone shouted his name.

He recognised Angela, the Station Controller, and the producer, Martin. They had interviewed him, several months ago, after he had impressed at the audition. ‘The camera loves you,’ Angela had said. There were others he recognised too, he thought, from the telly. But nearly everyone in the room looked young, fit and happy - in bright colours, like kids’ TV presenters - so it was difficult to be sure who was someone he might have seen, and who wasn’t.

Martin shook his hand. Angela leaned in for a double-kiss on the cheek.

‘Glad to have you,’ she said.

He was handed an orange juice in a wine glass. Martin put his hand on his shoulder and guided him to a central point.

‘Tigh, I’d like you to meet your teammates. Wait a minute, where’s Toby?’

‘Oh, he’s outside,’ said Tigh. ‘I’ve talked to him already.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Yes, well, as you’ve probably gathered, Toby is a law unto himself. This is Craig.’

‘Hello,’ said Tigh, as his hand was shaken softly by a man several years older than himself, a blonde side-fringe blocking eye-contact until swished away by a shake of the head.

‘Hello there, Tigh, nice to meet you. Saw your audition tape, by the way. Great stuff. Really looking forward to working with you.’

Martin’s hand on his back requested he turn to his right.

‘And this is Natalie. We call her Nats.’

Bleary eyes looked out from dark make-up and glitter. Her lips were purple and so were parts of her hair. Mixed race, Asian. Tigh liked that. She wore a heavy metal t-shirt and a dress that was almost a tutu, ripped tights, high boots. He went in for an air kiss. She only just noticed in time.

‘Sorry, not really with it today,’ she said.

‘And this is Bronte.’

A hand was held out firmly, its grip almost too hard. French bob, running top. Her eyes twinkled, while her smile somehow felt both like a hug and a wall.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it here. It’s great fun.’

‘I’m sure I will.’

Tigh found himself thinking about naked gymnasts.

‘Just don’t step on Toby’s punch-lines and you’ll be fine,’ said Martin, bringing him back to the room.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t. He’s a legend, isn’t he? I mean, I don’t watch the channel much, obviously, but I know all about him.’

‘Don’t watch the channel?’ said Craig. ‘Get out!’ He pointed to the door.

Everyone laughed. Except for Nats, who was running a necklace through her teeth and looking into a corner.

Martin gestured to one of the youths keeping a respectful distance from the talent.

‘Sam, can you go and find Toby? He should be outside somewhere. Probably having a fag in the car park.’

Angela muttered something in Martin’s ear and disappeared out the door, followed by an assistant with a clipboard.

‘Ok,’ said Martin, ‘we had better get started. Can’t wait all day for his Peggness.’

Tigh was directed to a seat at a square arrangement of tables, opposite Martin and Karen, the links director. Bronte sat to his left, Craig to his right. Nats sat nearest the corner, her fingers drumming. In between her and Craig, an empty chair waited, a black hole in the room. Tigh thought about who he would rather sleep with, Nats or Bronte. He already knew he would sleep with Angela. The idea of an older woman excited him. He did not think he wanted to sleep with Karen. She was plain and dumpy. But it was only the plainness that bothered him.

A thick folder of scripts was put in front of each of them.

Karen skimmed through her folder. ‘Toby… Toby… Toby…’

The door swung open. Toby walked in, still wearing his dripping hat. He peeled off his coat, and handed it and the hat to Sam, following in his wake. He sat down in the empty seat.

‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said, flicking through the script. ‘I fall down. I pull a face. I say something in a stupid camp voice. Same old shit. Do it in my sleep. Do we even need to read through this?’

‘Toby,’ said Karen, ‘Tigh is new here. This is his first day. And it would be good if we took things slowly for his sake, so he can get a feel for things.’

Toby leaned forward and looked at Tigh, as if for the first time. He frowned.

‘Oh, all right then. But no hanging about. I’m turning on Christmas lights this evening.’

‘We won’t keep you,’ said Martin.

‘Ok,’ said Karen. ‘1A. That’s… Toby and Tigh.’

Toby read, muttering. ‘There’s a knock on the door, I go to answer it, I fall over, stand up, open the door… Why, hello!’

Toby came to televisual life. The smile. The glow.