Kevin, without so much as a glance in her direction, turned to address the camera on the opposite side of the studio. He was in a right royal huff. Not only was her ‘completely boring, depressing, uninteresting charity ride’ garnering press attention, she’d also told him point blank she wouldn’t get a facelift. People got through life perfectly fine without them. Even famous ones. Sharon Stone. Emma Thompson. Judi Dench. Proof, as if she needed any, that beauty ran so much deeper than any microdermabrasion treatment.
The part of her that marinated in insecurity rose to the surface.
Sharon, Emma and Dame Judi also had ‘character’ on their side. Talent. Kath had a bright smile, a sparky two-step and a willingness to be made a fool of publicly. That was about it. She forced herself to focus on what her cherished other ‘alf was saying.
‘… it’ll be a right laff seeing how the weatherman sees the bank holiday panning out. It’s not as if the UK exactly has a track record for sunny ones, does it? Helmet head. Rain. No access to a blow dryer.’ He shuddered. ‘I don’t fancy Kath’s chances. Ha! Anyhow – let’s get back on track with something we’re all interested in.’ He turned to the camera they both knew was on a one shot of him. ‘I hope you’ll all be tuning in tomorrow when the Prime Minister joins us to address the question on everyone’s mind: Will he be wearing a red nose at Question Time along with the rest of the Conservative party? Always nice to see a charity that truly gives back to the British public.’ Kev gave his invisible red nose a honk, smiled into the camera directly in front of him, his freshly whitened teeth sending incisor-sized flares of light up into the control booth, the dimple in his right cheek a bit deeper now that he’d gone back on the carbs.
Idiot. He may as well wee on the camera. Mark his turf the old-fashioned way.
This was his power move. Dominating the cameras no matter what the floor directors and, more importantly, their producer was trying to achieve. He adored talking eye to eye with ‘his audience’. They love it, Kath, he’d say whenever she, or their producer, suggested more coupley interaction. They lap it up, the one-on-one thing. Gives ’em an intimate feeling. A hint of what it’d be like to be you.
She always let that one slide with a ‘lucky me’ smile.
Today, of course, the move had an added bite.
Today, Kevin’s nettly behaviour wasn’t about outranking Good Morning Britain or BBC Breakfast. It was about sticking one to Kath.
Hell had no fury like Kevin scorned.
She’d not warned him that her JustGiving page had cracked forty-five grand. He’d held the record on fundraising with the ice bucket challenge he’d done out on the Birmingham City pitch, but … for heaven’s sake! This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about his ego, or his pride or the fact she’d finally pushed back and said no to his completely unreasonable request that she get plastic surgery. It was about her brother and the legacy she was trying to build for him. A man who’d devoted himself to a career in the military only to come back like a jigsaw puzzle missing a few crucial pieces, as if he’d literally lost bits of himself on each of his tours.
Why did everything with Kev have to be so damn competitive? When had they stopped being a team?
She watched as he truncated the autocue script teasing a feature on last-minute holiday insurance and bled it into what he liked to call ‘a splash of extemporaneous chat.’
‘Speaking of holiday insurance … I don’t know how many of you are lucky enough to have a wife willing to send you off on safari with the lads—’ Kev stopped, gave his head a little shake as if something brand new had just occurred to him and gave her a sidelong look. ‘Unless this is all some clever plan to get rid of me?’ He twisted round on the sofa and gave Kath one of those sly dog smiles of his. ‘Is that it, petal? Hoping the lions pounce at night? I’d like to see ’em make a meal out of this!’ He feigned a little Arnold Schwarzenegger muscle pose, squawked out his rendition of the opening notes of The Lion King then clapped his hands together between his knees and launched into ‘a surprise announcement.’ Kev, it appeared, had managed to bewitch Team GB’s women’s beach volleyball team to come along with him. All in a lead-up to the Commonwealth Games. Of course.
Sly bastard. She hadn’t seen that coming. Cute, though, that he thought he could make her jealous.
‘How ‘bout that then for a treat, eh viewers? A bit of ba-da-bing, ba-da-BOOM!’ He mimed hitting a volleyball. ‘A perfect anecdote to the winter blues. Seeing our girls representing England enjoying some off-site ‘spring training.’
He loved using air quotes, her Kev. Never in the right spot, mind, but inaccuracy had never been a huge deterrent to throwing them out there.
It’s coming up to ‘half term.’
There was no other name for it. The break in the academic year was actually called half term.
Do what you can to join me on the beach in Cape Town as I give the girls a run for their money during ‘training.’
That’s actually what it was, Kev. Training.
Our Kath’s turning ‘fifty-three’ this year!
She wasn’t, but that’s what they’d told everyone, so, perhaps in that case the air quotes had been merited, if not a bit of a giveaway.
He finally met her eyes, no doubt to see if his little surprise had had the desired effect.
‘I have no doubt you’ll give them a run for their money, love,’ she cooed. ‘Ladies, be warned: the legs on this man! Pure muscle.’ She leant in to give him a
