Out of the Blue

There are three things that people always ask you if you work for breakfast TV. What time do you have to get up? What time do you have to go to bed? And does it wreck your social life? Sometimes I just feel like holding up a banner at parties saying, ‘Three thirty, nine thirty, and YES!’ You simply never get used to it. Did I say that you do? Well, it’s not true – you never get used to the early start. It’s horrible. It’s horrible when the alarm goes off at half past three and your body’s still crying out for sleep. And it’s even worse if you’re feeling unhappy, as I was this morning, and are slightly hungover to boot. Graham grumbled as I lurched out of bed, but declined to stand guard by the bathroom door. I showered, squished on a little Escape – my favourite scent at the moment – put on my navy Principles suit, then went down to the waiting cab. As we pulled out of Elliot Road, I remembered Lily’s words again: I think you’re marvellous to trust him … trust him … I think you’re marvellous to trust … I stared out of the window as we drove through the slush-filled streets, turning her comment over and over in my mind; examining it from all angles, as I might study an interesting stone. But however much I thought about it, I still didn’t know what she meant. Nor was I at all sure that I really wanted to know. I mean, Lily does have a habit of saying things I don’t particularly like, but usually I just ignore them. That’s what I forced myself to do this morning as I wrenched my thoughts towards work. After all, I told myself firmly, I have an important job to do. People depend on me. I can make or break their day. When I’m about to go on air Terry, the ‘star’ presenter, looks into the camera and says, ‘Well folks, what’s the weather going to do today? Let’s h-a-v-e- FAITH!’ So on I come, and I tell them, and the viewers do have faith in me. They rely on me to tell them if they need to take a coat or a brolly, or if the humidity’s going to be high. I let them know if it’s going to be very windy, and if it’s safe to set sail, or drive. So I think the weather forecast’s really important, but I’m afraid my colleagues don’t feel the same. They just see it as this insignificant little slot that comes on three minutes before the news. To them it’s just a buffer, before the junction – they’re always trying to cut me down. I’m meant to have two and a half minutes, but often it’s less than one. But there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all controlled from the technical gallery. For example, I can be in the middle of some fascinating piece about warm fronts when I suddenly hear the director, in my earpiece, shouting at me to stop. They’re really rude about it sometimes – I hear them yelling, ‘Shut up, Faith! Shut up! SHUT UP!’ It’s terribly distracting. What they’re meant to do is to calmly count me down from ten, and I know that by the time I hear them say ‘zero’, I have to have signed off, with a nice smile. Equally, if they lose a news item, I’ll hear someone screaming, ‘Fill, Faith! Fill! Fill! Fill!’ But I’m not fazed, because I can cope; I once filled from thirty seconds right up to four minutes! And I pride myself on being able to stay calm in those situations and to come out exactly when required. Another thing, because I use open talkback, I can hear them all gossiping in the gallery during my slot. The weather’s their down time, you see. That’s when they put their feet up because they don’t have anything to do. This is because I change the graphics with my clicker, and I ad lib my script, so I don’t have an autocue. So while I’m doing my slot I can hear them sorting out what went wrong with the previous item, or telling make-up to fix Terry’s hair, or instructing the cameraman to close in on so and so, or boasting about some bird they pulled down at the pub. And they forget that I’m on air, broadcasting live, and that I can hear every word they say. So one way and another, being a weather presenter is a pretty stressful job. But I enjoy it. I really do, especially at this time of year. I love the winter, you see: not just because of my optimistic outlook on life, but because in winter the weather’s great. In the summer we only get three types: either it’s rainy, it’s cloudy, or it’s fine. But at this time of year we get the works. We get ice, and fog, and frost, and rain, and we get sleet and hail and snow. We get fine, clear weather too if there’s an anti-cyclone, and we can get hurricane force winds as well. So if you’re in the weather business, like I am, then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.

It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer – with its ‘rainbow’ screensaver – and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? Well, that’s just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.

‘What we like about you,’ said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, ‘is that you’re so nice and ordinary – you won’t threaten the housewives too much. They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, “Well, I could do better than that!”’

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to ‘twinkle’ too much. I just go to work and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just the job I want, thank you very much – unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.

‘Hello Tatiana,’ I said pleasantly as I passed her desk. Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.

‘Morning Tatty,’ I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the programme’s ‘co-presenter’, but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One – middle aged and male – to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two – young and blonde – sits there gazing at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.

‘Morning everyone!’ Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied my isobars. ‘I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defence secretary last night?’ she said as she took off her coat. ‘I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.’

‘Oh, do you really?’ said Terry.

‘As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,’ she added as she switched on her computer, ‘well, it’s an international scandal, don’t you think?’

‘Ra-ther.’

Terry is thirty-nine – or so he claims – and has a third from Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the job.

But it’s obvious that Sophie’s much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean – don’t think me disloyal – but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity disfigurement – failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.

‘I’m doing the Portillo interview,’ said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.

‘But I’m down to do that one,’ said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.

‘So I see,’ said Terry indolently, ‘but it’s clearly a mistake. I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,’ he added.

‘With respect, Terry,’ replied Sophie carefully, ‘I’ve interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.’

‘Sophie,’ said Terry wearily, ‘on this show we all pull together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no room for big egos, so I’ll be doing the Portillo interview – OK?’ And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, ‘Not sure that colour suits you,’ or, ‘Oh no! Your mascara’s run,’ or, ‘Did you know your hair’s sticking up?’ But Sophie just smiles at her and says, ‘Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.’ It’s impressive, but as I say Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an open-plan office – there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.

So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first one’s at six thirty, so at ten past six I went down to Make-Up on the second floor. The second floor is where all the exciting stuff goes on. That’s where the Studio is, and the Technical Gallery, and Wardrobe and the dressing rooms, and the Green Room, and the Duty Office, where all the complaints and comments are logged. And as I walked down the carpet-tiled corridor, doors were opened and banged shut, and researchers sprinted past me in both directions, clutching clipboards and looking tense. I glanced into the Green Room where various contributors were slumped, comatose, in leather chairs, while Jean, our friendly Guest Greeter, tried to rouse them with cups of Kenco.

‘Danish pastry?’ I heard her say. ‘Or how about a nice scone?’ Then someone came flying out of the gallery screaming, ‘Where the hell’s Phil? Where’s Phil? Are you Phil? Right – you’re on!’ In fact things were pretty noisy all in all.

‘– could someone page Tatiana?’

‘– would you prefer Earl Grey?’

‘– the psychic granny’s lost her crystal ball!’

‘– I’ve got some nice Assam.’

‘– Sophie’s jacket looks a bit creased.’

‘– the skateboarding cat’s just arrived!’

So to go into the Make-Up room is to enter a haven from all this chaos: inside, Iqbal and Marian quietly transform our sleep-deprived faces for the camera. I sat in a gently reclining chair, while Iqbal – we call him Iqqy – put a flowery nylon gown round my shoulders and clipped back my short brown hair. Laid out on the counter before me were serried ranks of foundation bottles, powder compacts, eye-shadows, lipsticks and combs. Canisters of hairspray gleamed in the theatrical lightbulbs round the mirror.

‘Ready with the Polyfilla?’ I asked wryly as I surveyed my exhausted-looking face.

‘You do look a bit tired,’ he said solicitously. ‘Were you out on the tiles last night?’

‘Yes. It was my wedding anniversary – we went out for supper, en famille.’

‘How lovely,’ he said soothingly.

‘It was,’ I replied. ‘In a way, or it would have been … ’ You see the thing about Iqqy and Marian is that you just want to talk to them. You naturally want to open up. They’re so calm and sympathetic and kind. It’s as though you’re in the psychiatrist’s chair, not the make-up chair, and you want to tell them all your troubles. And as they work miracles on your ravaged exterior, you fancy they can repair you on the inside, too. So it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that actually I hadn’t enjoyed myself that much last night because my best friend, Lily, had made this very odd remark about my husband, and I’d been trying ever since to work out what she might have meant, and this – and the fact that I’d drunk too much – had resulted in my getting no sleep.

‘How many years have you been married?’ asked Marian.

‘Fifteen,’ I replied.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must have married young.’

‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I did.’

‘Fifteen years,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘But then, I’ve already been married eight.’

‘And Will and I have been together for five,’ said Iqqy as he pulled mascara through my pale lashes. ‘Although,’ he went on ruefully, ‘we’ve had our ups and downs. But fifteen years, that’s wonderful. No wonder you felt like celebrating.’

‘Well, yes, except, actually, it was a bit strange … ’ I began. ‘Because, look, I don’t know what you two think about this … ’ Then I immediately stopped, because Terry had just come in. He needed more powder. And as he sat there, bitching about Sophie, I ignored him, in the way I usually do, by pretending to be engrossed in my script. Ten minutes later, primped and preened for the cameras, I slipped into the studio. It’s like the soft furnishings department of a provincial department store. There are two large, pink, chequered sofas with squashy cushions, and a smoked-glass coffee table. There are anaemic prints on the walls, a Habitat-style shelf unit with cheesy ornaments and arrangements of faded silk flowers. Behind is a trompe l’oeil backdrop of London, to one side is a small stage, and, next to that, my weather chart. I picked my way towards it, between the four cameras, stepping over the thick coils of electric cable and trying not to bash my head on the perilously low-slung rigging. It was hot. It’s always hot in the studio, because of all the lights. We’d just hit the first ad break, and Terry was taking the opportunity to throw one of his little fits.

‘Look, Sophie, I’ve told you before,’ he whined, ‘I sit on the lefthand side of the sofa.’

‘Oh, but, with respect, Terry,’ she said pleasantly, ‘why?’

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why? Because I’ve been sitting on the lefthand side of this sofa for ten years, so I don’t see why I should move for you.’

I knew why he wanted to sit on that side. He’s convinced the lighting is better there and that it makes him look younger.

‘Well, I really don’t see why it matters, Terry,’ said Sophie wearily as she got up, ‘but if it’s so important to you, well, of course.’

The sound engineer attached a microphone to my lapel, and I slipped in my earpiece as I took up my place by the weather chart. I heard the director count us all out of the break, there was a brief burst of signature tune, then Terry leaned into the camera and said, ‘Welcome back, everyone; you’re watching AM-UK! Now. Has a message from beyond the grave changed your life?’

The interview with the psychic granny went quite well, then there was a sports report; that was followed by a piece about Princess Anne and Save the Children, and then it was Sophie’s turn. She was doing the interview about ovarian cysts and had only got halfway through, and in fact it was rather interesting as the gynaecologist was very good, and Sophie had just paused for a second, between questions, when to my astonishment, Terry cut in.

‘Now, what’s the weather doing today?’ he asked, beaming at Camera One. I caught the cameraman’s surprised expression. ‘Let’s h-a-v-e FAITH!’ He’d done it deliberately, of course, to cut down Sophie’s time on air. He doesn’t just steal her limelight, he goes in for daylight robbery. Whenever he thinks she’s been talking long enough, he just butts right in. Especially if she’s doing something remotely ‘serious’, like a medical interview or current affairs. And when Darryl tries to tell him off at the meeting afterwards he just looks at Sophie, all wounded innocence, and says, ‘Oh! Sorry, Sophie, I thought you’d finished.’ I really hate it when Terry does that, not just because it’s nasty, but because it means I’m thrown on air with no warning. The red light suddenly flashes on top of Camera Two and there I am, live to the nation.

‘Good morning!’ I said, with a huge smile to cover my annoyance with Terry, and because I always smile more when the weather’s bad. ‘And I’m afraid the outlook’s not good,’ I began as I turned towards the chart. ‘The snow that fell across the country yesterday has now turned to sleet and slush, and as temperatures drop again this means a very high chance of black ice, so do be careful if you’re driving,’ I added as I pressed the clicker, aware, in my earpiece, of the furious babble in the gallery.

‘– Terry’s a bastard!’

‘Wind speeds are picking up in the south and south-east … ’

‘– he cut her interview by two minutes!’

‘Those beastly easterlies are at it again … ’

‘– and it was really interesting.’

‘Possibly bringing a little sunshine in the north … ’

‘– I had an ovarian cyst once.’

‘Elsewhere, an overcast and bitterly cold day … ’

‘– very painful, actually.’

‘With a seventy per cent chance of further snowfalls … ’

‘– it was the size of a lemon, apparently … ’

‘And with this frontal system in mid-Atlantic … ’

‘– and full of pus.’

‘We’re about to enter a prolonged period of low pleasure.’

‘– low pleasure?’

‘I mean, low pressure. So, to summarise … ’

‘– God, Faith looks tired.’

‘A cold, nasty day for most of us … ’

‘– Terry, sit up straight.’

‘But maybe a glimmer of sunshine in the north … ’

‘– and her hair’s a mess. Ready when you are, Faith? Ten, nine, eight … ’

‘But temperatures in the south and south-east dropping … ’

‘Seven, six, five … ’

‘To no higher than four degrees … ’

‘Three, two … ’

‘So do remember to wrap up warm … ’

‘One and … ’

‘See you in half an hour.’

‘Zero. Cut to the skateboarding cat!’

Once I’ve done my first forecast, the rest of the morning flashes by. In between ‘hits’ I check the charts, phone the met office and update my bulletins as required. The nine thirty forecast is my last one, and that’s when the programme comes off air. We have a quick meeting in the boardroom, then I take off my make-up, sit at my desk and go through my mail. I get lots of letters. Most of them are from children asking me to help them with their geography homework. They write asking me what clouds are made of, for example, or why frost is white, or what the difference is between snow and sleet, or how rainbows are formed. Then I get letters thanking me for cheering people up. What I like about you, wrote Mr Barnes from Tunbridge Wells, is that, even when you’re giving us bad news you do it with a nice smile. Then – and I hate these ones – there are the letters about my appearance. The slightest change in it – such as a hair trim – produces a sack-load of disapproving mail. Then there are the ‘requests’ from those viewers who seem to think I’m God. Dear Faith, wrote a Mrs McManus from Edinburgh, this morning, please, please, PLEASE could we have some better weather in Scotland. We’ve had not a ray of sunshine since Hogmanay! I write back to everyone, unless they’re obviously nuts. Then, when I’ve done that, I tidy my desk and go home. People often ask me how I spend the rest of the day. The answer is, I potter. I feed Graham, of course, and take him for a walk. I might meet a friend, or go to the shops. I do the housework – I hate it, but we can’t afford a cleaner – I fill in competition forms, and I read. In an ideal world I’d do an afternoon job, but I can’t because I’m too tired. In any case it would be very awkward, because people know my face from TV. But the first thing I do when I get home is to go to bed and sleep for a couple of hours, so that’s what I did today. Or at least I tried to. But I found myself thinking, yet again, about what Lily had said last night. As I’ve said, she does sometimes say things I don’t like – including the odd uncharitable comment about Peter. Usually I just forget them, but this time I found I couldn’t. Why on earth had she said what she said and whatever could it mean? She’s so shrewd and clever – was it just a casual remark? I tried counting sheep, but that didn’t work. I tried remembering all the stations on the shipping forecast, but that didn’t help either. I tried recalling the names of all Peter’s authors, but still sleep eluded me, chased away by Lily’s remark. So I turned on the bedside radio to distract myself but that made no difference either. I opened my book – Madame Bovary – but even that didn’t help. My mind returned to Lily’s comment again and again and again. It was nagging me. Annoying me. Needling me. Gnawing at me. It kept going round and round in my mind like a mosquito in a hotel room. ‘Neeeee … ’ it went. ‘Neee … neeee … neeeeeeeeee.’ I tried to swat it away but back it came, so I pulled the duvet over my head. I thought of the children, and Graham, and I thought of the programme and how it had gone. I thought of my parents on their latest trip, and of the man who came to fix the roof. I thought about my Tesco reward card and tried to remember how many points I’d accrued; but still Lily’s strange words continued to clang away, like tinnitus. What was that remark about? What on earth could it mean?