Kath took in a deep breath and counted to ten. It was going to be a long week. And she wasn’t talking about the cycling.
Chapter Forty-Four
‘So it’s goodbye from us here at the studio …’ Kev waved at the camera.
‘… and hello from …’ Kath twirled her hands into a magician’s assistant position as, through the magic of television she and Kev were transported to:
‘Cape Town!’
‘And the Lake District!’
Kath waved again, her body catching unnaturally as if she were filled with shattered glass. Telling Kev she would be happier married to a pygmy hadn’t really been the best of farewells. Not to mention entirely politically incorrect. For all she knew, pygmies might have a reputation as fabulous spouses. Unlike Liverpudlian disco dancers desperately clinging to the embers of their morning television career.
‘You’re looking well rested, Kath!’
Oh, ha ha ha. Marinating in Kev’s parting shot had kept the bouncing sheep at bay. You’re making a spectacle of yourself, Kath. Humiliating yourself. No one cares about a dead drunk. You making a show of it is doing about as much good as your brother ever did. It had been a particularly low blow. Even for Kev, who tended to shoot from the hip, not below it.
Kev, who could clearly see his monitor, began whistling the opening measures to ‘Singin’ In the Rain’. ‘It looks as though the heavens have decided to smile down upon one of us.’
Kath wrestled her umbrella back into submission. ‘I’m feeling a bit more like Mary Poppins than Debbie Reynolds today!’
She grimaced. What percentage of their viewers would even know who Debbie Reynolds was? Should she throw in a Carrie Fisher reference or would that just confuse people further? Buggeration. Three hours sleep was taking its toll and she had fifty-three miles ahead of her today.
‘Good to see the bank holiday British weather can be relied upon to put us in our place. Some of us, anyway!’
Oh, he really was going for it today, her Kev.
She blinked away some raindrops and tried to pretend she was in The Notebook, but a little less sexy. Fuck Kevin and his bloody ratings. This was important. Her brother had been important. All she had to do was keep walking that tightrope between entertaining telly and heart on her sleeve and the advertisers would stay happy. ‘It’ll be like riding through a facial, Kev. That’s what I’m going to tell myself anyway.’ Urgh. Amping up her beauty regime. Way to relate to the punters. ‘I can’t see my monitor, but I’m guessing things are a bit sunnier where you are.’
Blah. What are you on about?
‘Quite literally, Kath!’
She sang through a few bars of ‘Singing in the Rain’. Most of their viewers would be about to head out into this, so best to make the most of the sympathy card.
‘Tell me, Kath,’ Kev cut in, ‘Will you be doing any riding yourself, or will you be getting your trainer to do it for you?’
Oh, ho ho ho ho.
Apparently, one of Kath’s many flaws (Kev had quite the list), was that she … let’s see … how did it go? … ah yes. She ‘delegated to deleterious effect.’
In case she hadn’t understood what he’d meant, Kev had clarified. (This, whilst tapping out a series of texts to his assistant about what she should pack for him.) Kath, apparently, ‘lacked the spine to see anything important through.’ Getting her brother into rehab? Fail. Keeping her appearance up to snuff? Fail. Championing Kev, the true star of Brand New Day? Epic fail – particularly when she kept insisting on throwing his sage advice back in his face and upon turning the spotlight on her bloody, useless, drunk, dead brother instead of focusing on something fun which is all viewers were after anyway, did he really, after all these years, and all he’d taught her, have to continue to do everything for her as if she were that same clueless Geordie he’d met at Butlins where she’d no doubt still be if he hadn’t taken pity on her.
A flame lit deep in the morass of darkness that verbal lashing had carved out inside of her. Kev was full of horse shit. She was talented. Relatable. A damn fine dancer, presenter and now, an inspiration to others to not hide their pain. She’d earned her spot in the limelight every bit as much as Kev had. More so, now that the advertisers seemed to have perked up since she’d announced her ride.
With that in mind, she decided it was time to start sticking the screw in.
‘As you well know, Kev, while you’re down there enjoying a bit of beach blanket bingo, I’m going to be riding every single mile along with our LifeTime riders. I think most of them will agree, the physical journey will be short compared to the emotional journey most of our riders have taken to get here. Looking out at them now, knowing the heartache some of them have endured, makes my heart want to burst. We’ve got one hundred and seventy-four long miles ahead of us.’
‘I’d say you’d need those miles to burn off calories from all of that sticky toffee pudding you lot got stuck into yesterday.’
He probably needed them too, if his road producer’s report on the number of G&Ts he drank on the plane to Cape Town was anything to go by.
‘It was certainly a fun way to start off the trip, Kev. What better way to bond than getting a tour of Cartmel’s very own sticky toffee pudding headquarters? We’ll show you that exclusive inside glimpse after we set off, but as you can see we’ve got quite a few riders keen to get on the road to earn some more money for LifeTime.’
