The toast sprang from the toaster, one slice as pale as it had gone in, the other a shade short of charcoal. Joanie said, ‘That was quick, wasn’t it?’ in her horny housewife’s voice. ‘Just enough time to make a pot of tea while you wait. My Derek can’t start the day without a cup of tea.’
Stevie lifted up the slices of toast, ebony and ivory, for the camera to zoom in on, almost dropping them as the heat seared her fingertips.
‘Whoops.’ Sometimes it amazed her how good she had got at not swearing on air. ‘That is most definitely toasted.’
Joanie produced some butter and a knife. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some breakfast.’
Sales were speeding up as people across the country, in Leicester, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff and beyond, got out of bed, turned on their TVs, reached for their credit cards, and dialled in their orders. Joanie let out a moan as she chewed her toast, overdoing it now.
Rachel, the producer of Shop TV, spoke into Stevie’s headpiece: ‘Try not to choke and then read out some of the tweets and emails.’
Stevie bit into her carbonated slice, aware of the camera zooming in on her mouth. They were a man down today and Hector the cameraman was pulling a double shift. The bags under his eyes were a purple shade of black which Stevie would have described as damson if she had been selling them. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Mmm, that’s perfect,’ sincere as a straying politician squeezing his wife at the garden gate. Hector shook his head and she tried not to laugh.
‘Emails and tweets,’ Rachel repeated in her ear and Stevie glanced at the autocue. ‘Shelley in Hastings has bought three Dual Action Toasters, one for each of her children. She’s gearing up for a day in the garden. Good idea, Shelley, I think it’s going to be another hot one. Maybe some Melba toast and a Pimm’s on the lawn this afternoon?’
Bed, she thought. Bed, bed, bed.
‘Nice link,’ Rachel said in her ear.
Stevie said, ‘Rowan in Southend-on-Sea has tweeted to say that the sun is shining and she can see the sea from her living-room window. And Hannah in Berwick thinks the Dual Action Toaster might just save her marriage.’
The words were coming easily now, she and Joanie part of a conversation with the unseen viewers.
‘Lesley in Edinburgh has bought a Dual Action Toaster,’ Joanie said. ‘Lesley’s emailed to say her hubby likes his toast cremated but she . . .’
Their sales were climbing on the LED display. Across the studio, out of camera range, two technicians were setting up the next line: beaded batwing sweaters, gaudy outsize numbers, ideal for the larger lady who didn’t mind drawing attention to herself.
‘I had an aunty who lived in Southend,’ Stevie said. ‘Starlings used to swarm off the pier and swoop across the bay. Sometimes they turned the sky black.’
‘Too creepy, Stevie. Keep away from swarms of black birds,’ Rachel whispered. There was a faint echo of laughter in the production booth, harsh, like static on the line, but she was on a roll now. ‘I don’t know if the camera’s picking this up, but the Dual Action Toaster has a lovely matt sheen, so it will fit with your decor whether you’re an up-to-date techno kind of person, or prefer the traditional, country kitchen look.’
‘I’m definitely a country kitchen kind of girl,’ Joanie said, looking as if she was about to let the washing machine repairman bend her over her stripped pine units.
Their chat always circled back to the toasters, as viewers knew it must. Sometimes Stevie wondered if the audience bought their wares just to keep the presenters in a job. She said, ‘Just a few of these really unique items left. Do you have one of those households where everyone likes their toast done a different way? If you do, then this is the ideal solution.’
Over on the other side of the studio, Aliah shimmered on to the fresh set, wearing a copper-and-green sweater patterned with banana leaves, like some jungle nightmare.
Joanie said, ‘I’ve reserved one of these for myself. Derek likes his toast golden brown . . .’ The gold-brown skin on her arms glistened, and across the studio Aliah bobbed and turned, practising her twirls, the sequins on her top glittering like a mirror ball beneath the lights.
Stevie felt the heat of the car park tarmac through the soles of her sneakers, the surface sticky and pliant beneath her feet. It was the seventh week of the hosepipe ban and the air was dry and gritty against her skin. She walked towards her Mini, rummaging in her bag for her sunglasses, remembering too late that she had left them on the hall table in her flat.
‘Shit.’
Stevie shaded her eyes with one hand and in the other she carried the jacket she had been wearing, when she had arrived at the studio in the cool of midnight. She hadn’t bothered to cleanse her face of the make-up she had worn for the broadcast. She imagined it melting from her face in one smooth mask: café au lait skin and red lips, a flutter of mascara trimming wide-set eye sockets, minus her brown eyes. The thought was grotesque. Stevie pressed her fingers to her forehead. Her headache was back, and the sun, surely too high in the sky for eight in the morning, felt strong enough to burn her eyeballs from her head.
The air inside the car made her cough. Stevie opened all of its doors, and sat in the driver’s seat with her feet on the ground, hoping she wasn’t coming down with something. She checked her phone for missed calls. In the two days since Simon’s no-show, irritation had given way to anger, which had in turn been replaced by a faint prickle of doubt. Stevie dialled Simon’s landline, feeling like a stalker. The answering machine kicked in and she hung up. There was no point in calling his mobile. She had left enough messages there already.
They had never talked much about their friends and family. Stevie remembered a brother who lived in Thailand, a father who had travelled a lot to America on business. Was Simon’s father still alive? She knew that his mother had died when he was a boy. He kept a photograph of her on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, a studio portrait of a smartly dressed woman hidden behind her make-up. Stevie couldn’t recall Simon mentioning any particular friends, but then neither had she. It had been part of the pleasure of their encounters, their disconnection with the rest of her life. She did know where he worked though. Simon had referred to St Thomas’s Hospital more often than Joanie mentioned Derek.
‘Are you all right?’
Stevie looked up, shading her eyes. She hadn’t noticed the security guard approaching the Mini and now the sun’s glare was conspiring with the shadows thrown by his uniform cap, so that she could barely make out his features.
‘I’m fine.’ She had been grinning for hours and it was an effort, but Stevie managed to raise a faint smile. ‘Just letting the car cool down before I drive off.’
‘It’s going to be another hot one.’
The guard spoke with an accent, Polish or Russian. It made him sound like a movie villain, the Mr Big of a human trafficking ring. He moved into the shadow thrown by the car and she saw his face, pale and thin, the kind of skin that needed to be careful of the sun.
‘I should get going. It’s been a long night.’ Stevie swung her legs into the car and closed the door, then, in case it had seemed like an unfriendly gesture, she rolled down the window and said, ‘You’re new here. Is Preston on holiday?’
‘No.’ Sweat was beading the man’s forehead. He took a hanky from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Preston’s sick. I’m Jirí, I usually work days. That’s how come we’ve never met before.’
‘Well, good to meet you now.’
Stevie turned on the ignition and the engine growled into life, but instead of stepping away from the car Jirí moved closer.