Witter, witter, witter.
This was ridiculous. What was she doing acting all bright and chirpy when their entire viewing audience was no doubt quivering in anticipation for her to … what exactly? Fall to bits? Take a hit for her husband as she had so many times throughout the years? Smile, smile, smile?
Or was this the time to take a page out of Fola’s book? Pack her bags and try something new? He might not be rich. He might not be famous. But he could look at himself in the mirror every morning.
She squeezed her eyes tight even though she knew there’d be wrinkles and tried to summon a picture of her brother. He came to her, laughing. Lolloping about with her on his back. He used to love doing that once he’d grown taller than her. He’d hunch down, have her jump on, fingers woven together round his neck, choking him no doubt, then he’d race and race and race around the house, her mother screaming no you’ll be the death of her and her father saying put that girl down and Kath laughing and clinging to him but not having a care in the world because she’d known without a shadow of a doubt that when she was with him, there was no safer place in the world to be.
‘You know what?’ Kath opened her eyes, looked into the camera, and for the first time ever felt as though she was genuinely speaking directly to her viewers, ‘I was supposed to cut to a lovely little feature we did about a brilliant retiree from Codley Gate who lives his day-to-day life like one of Hadrian’s legionaries. He is a legend. Painstakingly restores a portion of the wall he inherited as part of his father’s sheep farm. Hats off to him for showing such fortitude, but if it’s alright with you, we’ll save that for later.’ She could feel the cyclists behind her lean in as her voice grew less morning show host and a bit more … Oprah. ‘The truth is, I’m finding it difficult to carry on as if absolutely nothing happened yesterday.’
Her producer took a step towards her, clipboard in hand, head shaking back and forth in that no, no, no this isn’t happening way of his, but she put on the blinkers and carried on talking. The real Kath. The one with everyday aches and pains, sorrows and joys. A lapsed Catholic with thirty years of confession to beg forgiveness for. ‘I you all an apology. Well, Kev owes you an apology more than I owe you an apology, because what he said yesterday was one of the most reprehensible, insensitive, and cruel things a man could say. The last thing a person going through a tunnel of darkness needs is to be mocked, so for that, I hope he gets down on his knees and begs for your forgiveness. The reason I owe you an apology – is because over the years, I enabled him to think saying those sorts of things was okay. I let myself be the butt end of his jokes, the recipient of his cream pies, the silly goose to his clever alpha male when in actual fact, I’ve come to realise my husband is a weak, weak man. No better than a schoolyard bully. Power and prestige and money and fame doesn’t make him a better person. Kindness does. And he doesn’t seem to understand that. As such, I wanted you, our viewers and supporters to know I will be filing divorce papers. I don’t know what this means for the show, his future, or my future. But what I do know, is that when I get on my bicycle today, I will be able to look each and every one of these courageous, incredible riders in the eye and say thank you. Thank you for showing me your hearts – raw and tarnished and beautiful – because they have given me strength at this, my darkest hour.’ She popped on a smile. ‘Don’t forget, after the commercial break our mystery celebrity chef will be giving us a foolproof way to keep our pavlovas crunchy on the outside and gooey on the inside … a bit like I used to think our Kev was. Join us tomorrow as we reach Tynemouth and celebrate, what we hope, is Brand New Day’s first record-breaking fundraiser. From all of us here in Gilsland … we wish you an epic one until the next one … which we hope will be even better. See you again at six. Bye for now!’
Kath smiled brightly at her producer, her body feeling tingly and light, as if all that honesty had filled her with helium. ‘Well!’ she said when she’d closed the space between them. ‘I guess I’d better be looking for a new job then.’
‘There’s no need to ride with me,’ Flo griped.
‘We’re not leaving.’
‘Well, I wish you would,’ she said, lacking the emotional elasticity to stop being so bloody unpleasant. Most of the group was well on their way (including Trevor who’d apologised but said he really did want to push on so he could spend some quality time at the fortelets up by Vindolanda which Flo had been crushed to learn wasn’t a wine-tasting stop). Unable to convince them to press on as well, Sue and Raven were riding too close for comfort. For Flo’s comfort anyway. She was achy and grumpy, and, courtesy of the rain hammering down on the roof all night, exhausted from a poor night’s sleep. Their B&B hostess had been absolutely brilliant, deftly ignoring the fact that a seventy-odd-year-old woman had sulked throughout her elaborate breakfast. Alongside the full
