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Sue Welfare
One Night Only

Dedication

To my family and

friends – you know

who you are.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in…

One

‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may…

Two

Natalia, Roots resident researcher and the person assigned to liaise…

Three

‘You’ll be fine, Helen,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘For God’s sake just…

Four

‘Helen? You’re awake, aren’t you?’ Bon said, rolling over onto…

Five

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Carlton Rooms this…

Six

‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how…

Seven

‘Come on, come on, can you get yourself up here,…

Eight

A little knot of people had gathered on the pavement…

Nine

Backstage at the Carlton Rooms Helen tucked the business card…

Ten

In the storeroom at the back of the toy shop…

Eleven

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll agree that we’ve had…

Twelve

In the storeroom behind Finton’s Finest Toys, Natalia, Harry and…

Thirteen

Leon Downey was far looser with his money than with…

Fourteen

Harry and Helen were waiting in the storeroom for Natalia…

Fifteen

On the short drive back from the Billingsfield Arms Hotel…

Sixteen

Helen wished more than anything that they were heading back…

Seventeen

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Harry as Helen lifted…

Eighteen

At number thirty-six Victoria Street, Helen, Natalia, Felix and the…

Nineteen

‘Is that you, Charlotte?’ Helen could hear breathing at the…

Twenty

Helen perched on the edge of the queen-sized bed in…

Twenty-One

Helen sat down at the dressing table and poured herself…

Twenty-Two

Natalia, just out of camera shot, glanced down at her…

Extra scenes and commentary from Sue

Extract from Sue Welfare’s The Surprise Party

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books By Sue Welfare

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Now

Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in the theatre began to dim. Tucked out of sight in the wings Helen could sense the growing anticipation and expectation in the audience. The seconds ticked by. Part of the magic of good showmanship is to make an audience wait, to hold them there a few seconds longer than feels quite comfortable, so that every eye is focused on stage. That growing sense of what is about to happen pushes aside all the thoughts about the drive there, the queue to get in, the day they had had before the show began and so Helen waited.

In the auditorium someone coughed; there were the sounds of people settling back in their seats, their conversation changing from a noisy cheerful babble to an altogether lower, denser hum. There was a crackle of excitement in the air, an electric charge as tangible as a coming storm. It made Helen’s skin prickle.

‘Okay, Miss Redford?’ mouthed the assistant stage manager, giving Helen the thumbs up. She smiled and nodded, all the while aware of every breath, every movement, every sound around her.

As the music began to play Helen closed her eyes, making an effort to control the panic that bubbled up inside. There was a peculiar fluttering fear that started somewhere down low in the pit of her stomach and rose up into her throat, closing it down, stealing her breath away and making her heart race. She knew that once she was out on stage it would be fine, but for now the panic crowded in on her, making her tremble, making the sound of her pulse ricochet around inside her skull like a drumroll. Deep breaths, calm thoughts; any second now the curtains would open and everything would be all right.

In the auditorium beyond the curtains the audience was still and quiet now. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

‘Miss Redford?’ someone whispered. Helen opened her eyes and looked up. One of the crew adjusted the radio mike onto the front of her dress and leaning closer flicked it on before tucking the wire down in amongst the embroidery. One of the spotlights reflected in the facets of the jewellery she was wearing, projecting a great arc of rainbows into the wings. It felt like an omen.

Helen smiled her thanks and she pressed her lips together, blotting her lipstick, and then ran a hand back over her hair checking it was all in place, her heart still racing, anxiety edging out all sensible thoughts.

The technician grinned. ‘You look fabulous,’ he whispered. Her smile held. On the far side of the stage, behind a cameraman, Arthur, her agent, raised a hand in salute, his fingers crossed. He winked at her.

A moment later and the music changed to the signature tune for Cannon Square and as the curtains slowly opened, the deep inviting voice of the theatre’s resident compere rolled out over the PA.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s show. Tonight, for one night only, we would like you put your hands together and give a great big Carlton Rooms welcome to star of stage, screen and television, our very own homespun diva, Miss Helen Redford!’ His voice rose to a crescendo in the darkness.

It was as if someone had thrown a switch. From the auditorium came a sound like heavy rain and then thunder as people clapped, cheered and stamped their feet, the sound filling the theatre, a sound so loud that Helen could feel it pressing on her chest as much as she could hear the noise. The assistant stage manager waved her on and as Helen stepped out into the glare of the spotlight the volume of the applause rose.

She waited for the noise to ebb and then smiled out into the expectant darkness.

‘Well, hello there,’ she said, pulling up the stool that was there waiting for her centre stage. ‘It’s been a long time coming but it’s great to be back here at the Carlton Rooms. I don’t want to think about how many years it’s been since I stood right here on this stage. I’ve been away too long.’ And as she spoke the audience roared its appreciation and Helen’s nerves melted away like snow in sunshine.

ONE
Last Year

‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may I call you Helen? – how absolutely delighted we are to have you on board for next season’s TV show. It’s a real honour – I mean really. Now, before we run through a few details, would you like a drink? Tea. We’ve got green if you prefer? Or coffee, mineral water? We’ve got still or sparkling, haven’t we, Jamie?’

Ruth Long, the executive producer of Roots, glanced across at her assistant, and then tried out a smile; an expression that didn’t sit at all well on her plump, rather earnest, face. She had a face made for documentary television, her plain meaty features framed by unnaturally black hair cut into an asymmetric bob so straight and so unmoving that Helen wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover that it sat on a dummy head beside Ruth’s bed at night. Certainly it didn’t so much as ripple while Ruth made a show of being hospitable.

Jamie, her assistant, stood to one side of the office, skittering in and out of Helen’s peripheral vision as he fiddled with his hair.

‘Actually it was Jamie who suggested you for our programme – wasn’t it, Jamie? He’s got such an eye for a story, it’s a real talent,’ Ruth said fondly. ‘And as he pointed out at our last planning meeting you truly are an icon.’

Helen smiled while her agent, Arthur, leant back in his bucket seat steepling his fingers, and with a sly smile said, ‘Time was when people broke out the champagne when they signed an icon; a nice bottle of chilled Krug to seal the deal. Lunch at the Ivy, or the Groucho –’

For the briefest of instants Ruth looked thrown. ‘Ah, yes, right,’ she said. ‘I’m most terribly sorry – we just thought – I mean –’ she glanced at Helen, and then more pointedly at Jamie.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Ruth,’ said Arthur. ‘Make mine still, will you? Slice of lime would be nice.’

Helen looked at up at Jamie and smiled. ‘Actually I’d love a cup of tea and what Arthur is trying to say is that I’m not a drunk and never have been, so the clause in the contract about needing a regular sobriety test –’

‘To be honest, Ruth,’ said Arthur, all shark’s teeth and diamond-hard bonhomie, ‘Helen and I were a teensy-weensy bit thrown by that. It could be interpreted in all kinds of ways – as an infringement on our civil liberties for a start – and just a little too American for our tastes.’

On the far side of the desk Ruth Long tried to wave the words away like a bad smell. ‘It’s standard in all our contracts these days, Miss Redford. Helen – you’re happy for me to call you Helen? It’s our insurers who insist on it. Let’s be candid, shall we?’ Ruth leant forward as if to imply she was sharing a confidence. ‘We occasionally have people on the show with, what shall we say – issues? It’s the nature of the beast. Stardom, fame – I don’t have to tell you the price those things exact on a person. And you’re right, it is a very American concept but so far we’ve sold every series of Roots into the States and we’ve got a really good co-production deal going this series, and our American cousins are very hot on that kind of thing.

‘You have to see it from our point of view, Helen. We just want to make sure that if we invest in all the research, the travel, the hoopla, that our guests will be able to string a sentence together when it comes to filming. Everything’s tight round here and everywhere else these days: tight budget, tighter schedule; last thing we want is a tight guest, if you follow me –’ She laughed at her own joke.

Arthur eyed up the tiny glass of water he had been given. ‘And so you’re telling me that you breath-tested Bishop what’s-his-name and that civil rights guy?’

Ruth’s smile held. ‘We just want the option, that’s all, Arthur. Of course we don’t always exercise it. But, for example, we took Lena Paige, series two, show six, all around the world looking for her mother and father – St Kitts to find her mother, New Zealand to track down her father. I don’t know whether you saw it, Helen, but it made the most sensational television – not a dry eye in the house. It was nominated for a TV Times Peoples’ Choice award, a Bafta – I’ll get James to get you the DVD – anyway, her dad was some sort of fighter pilot and then he emigrated and left them all behind. It was all very emotional, but I wouldn’t be letting any cats out of any bags telling you that Lena comes with a certain amount of history. Rehab, hospitalisation – lots and lots of counselling over the years. And of course the whole weight problem.

‘Anyway, while I don’t wish to be indiscreet, it was touch and go at some points, I can tell you. We had to have her sedated in Auckland. So, what I’m saying here, Helen, is once bitten twice shy. We need to know, come show time, that we’ll get something we can use. A lot of this stuff is highly charged and we understand that people always come with baggage. It’s what gives the show its appeal. Digging deep, shaking the dust off, getting down to the heart of our guest – however you like to express it.

‘So that’s why the clause is in there – we reserve the right to test all our guests because by its very nature our show focuses on a lot of –’ Ruth paused, as if searching around for the right word.

‘Icons,’ suggested Jamie, handing Helen a cup of tea.

‘Exactly,’ said Ruth, pushing her designer glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. ‘And you don’t get to be an icon by living the quiet life.’

‘When that bloody woman said icon she meant washed-up has-been, didn’t she?’ said Helen. She was pacing up and down in her kitchen. The sun was streaming in through the windows, picking out Arthur, who was sitting inscrutable as Buddha, at the long refectory table. He was cradling a mug of coffee. Helen was too agitated to sit down.

‘You could see it on her smug little face. Icon, my arse. And she more or less came right out and accused me of being an alcoholic.’

‘But you’re not and it’s still the most fabulous offer,’ said Arthur, rolling a cigar between his fingers like a plump carrot. Helen didn’t like him smoking in the house so he made do with sniffing it instead. ‘And it’s a real coup coming out of the blue like that. Roots is mainstream prime time. Right up there in the ratings and the public consciousness. I know people who would give their right arm for a shot at it. I mean this offer came in right out of left field –’ he mimed.

‘Okay, okay, I get it, Arthur. Right arm, left field, I should be grateful, eager and excited.’

Arthur nodded. ‘And then some. We could hang all sorts of things on the back of this. I’ve been working on an idea –’

‘He saw me, you know,’ said Helen. ‘That boy, Jamie, the one she keeps as a pet? He told me when he was showing me where the loo was. He saw me shopping in Waitrose in Swaffham when he came home to visit his mother at Easter. He said he thought I was dead. Dead!’

‘He’s a producer.’

Helen threw herself onto the sofa under the window. ‘He doesn’t look old enough to have produced anything that doesn’t involve glue and sticky-backed plastic.’

‘He’s won awards, apparently,’ said Arthur wistfully, staring at his cigar.

‘For what? The tidiest desk? Best guinea pig in show?’

‘Most promising newcomer, and some sort of arty short on Channel 4. He’s the next big thing apparently.’

Helen laughed. ‘And we all know how that works out, don’t we? I remember a time when I was the next big thing.’

‘And it could you be again, sweetie. Remember June Whitfield in AbFab? You know Lena Paige who Ruth was talking about got a part in the last Bruce Willis film on the back of her being in Roots.’

Helen raised her eyebrows.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Arthur, ‘So she got shot during the opening titles. But at least it was work. Second bite of the cherry. Look, Helen, speaking as your friend, you know that if you don’t want to do the show then it’s fine by me – it’s not too late to pull out, we’re not committed, nothing’s signed yet. But as your agent I’m telling you, you’d be bloody mad to turn it down. A whole hour on prime time TV? All about you? Jesus, what’s not to like?’

‘I know what you’re saying, Arthur, but I’m not the kind of person who washes their dirty linen in public. I never have been. You know that.’

Arthur sighed. ‘Yes, but when you look at what else is on offer, it’s a chance in a million.’

‘So what else is on offer?’

‘Pantomime somewhere out in the boondocks. I could probably get you a cameo on Holby City as a down-and-out.’

‘Is that chap Nettles still murdering people? Didn’t their producer say that I’d make a great corpse?’

‘There are always voice-overs,’ continued Arthur.

‘Funeral expenses insurance and female incontinence pads. I don’t think so,’ Helen said, taking a long pull on her fruit juice. ‘I’d like some real work.’

‘There’s not just those. I mean the yoghurt thing was fun, you said so yourself.’

‘I was a Friesian cow.’

‘I know, and they loved you, sweetie, you know they did. And they’re keen to use you again, so they’re always an option. We’ve already had this conversation, petal. Getting yourself onto Roots is a genuine opportunity, and it’s the first really exciting one that’s come along in a long while. We both know that. It could be the first step on the road back home, and let’s be honest: it’s either this or the bush tucker route.’

‘No!’ Helen said emphatically.

‘It can be the way into the nation’s heart. Look at Christopher Biggins. And you were right up there with the best of them, Helen, don’t ever forget that – remember they had an item on News at Ten when you retired?’

‘Retired? You make it sound like I had a choice, Arthur. If you remember, the writers blew me up in a gas explosion in a specially extended episode. That woman who comes on News at Ten did a segment about faulty boilers on the back of it.’

‘Jammed the phone lines,’ said Arthur, philosophically, sniffing his cigar. ‘People wrote in to the papers. And don’t forget the six weeks on life support. The whole nation was totally gripped. People cared, Helen. They really cared. When they finally turned your machine off the whole country mourned.’

‘Don’t tell me, Arthur. I was the one with a tube stuck up my nose and that bloody machine pinging all the time. You know it took wardrobe hours to do me up like that? So yes, Arthur. I understand. Once upon a time I used to be big.’ Helen looked heavenwards. ‘And no, before you ask again: no, no bush tucker. I couldn’t stand it. No moisturiser, surrounded by self-pitying whiners, has-beens and hyperactive third-raters, the self-obsessed and actors who should be in therapy. And I’m not eating anything that moves.’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Arthur. ‘Where exactly is the boy wonder today?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bon? He’s downstairs working out in the gym, I think. And if you’re going to be nasty about him then you can leave now, Arthur. I don’t have to justify my taste in men to you of all people.’

‘Just as well really, isn’t it,’ murmured Arthur.

It was an old battle; the lines were well drawn. Helen chose to ignore him. ‘He’s good for me.’

‘So is spinach, but you don’t have to have it on your plate twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, do you? In my opinion he’s not as good for you as you are for him. You’re not going to marry him, are you?’

‘We haven’t talked about it,’ said Helen.

‘Well, don’t. The idea of you saddling yourself with him makes my flesh creep. Your taste in men is appalling, sweetie.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you would know.’

‘He’s just a phase.’

‘You’re suggesting that I’ll grow out of him?’

‘You will if you have any sense. He’s going to break your heart.’

‘And you didn’t? You’re only jealous, Arthur – you’ve done nothing but sulk since what’s-her-name ran off with that footballer. Besides, I need a new project.’

‘Then do something to the house, remodel the garden, get a dog – anything.’

‘I was thinking of something a bit bigger. Bon was talking about us buying a bar together, somewhere warm and sunny. Somewhere with a little stage, where we could have live music. I’m thinking about going to have a look in the Canaries. See what’s on offer.’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘What’s on offer in the Canaries, sweetie, is total bloody oblivion. For God’s sake Helen, you’re so much better than that. What’s it going to take to get you to see sense?’

‘Bon loves me.’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘So did that Pekinese my mother used to have, but I didn’t feel obliged to change my life to accommodate it.’

‘You loved that dog.’

‘Well, you know what I mean. You need something new to get your teeth into. Something big –’

She sighed. ‘Something special.’

‘Exactly, something special, which is why Roots is just perfect for you. This will get you right back where you belong, back out there in the public eye – give you the exposure you need, and maybe shake something interesting out of the woodwork. I’ve got a plan – I’ve been thinking we should get you out on the road again. You should be thanking Jamie, never mind whisking golden boy off on another jolly. And Roots do it so well. Have you watched any of the programmes?’

Cautiously Helen nodded. ‘I think I have. I’m not sure. I saw the one about a ballet dancer. Some posh blonde girl with buck teeth whose family went back to Elizabeth I?’

‘They’re biking round a boxed set for you. Basic format – they whisk you back to your old home town in a limo, put you up in a luxury hotel, then you drive around and point out the sites, you go and see a few old friends and your family and then they whip out your family tree, along with a few black and white photos and the odd black sheep, you ooh and ahh in all the right places, cry a bit and tell them it’s been the most moving experience of your whole life.’

Helen laughed. ‘You are such a cynic, Arthur.’

‘And you’re not?’ Arthur asked, rolling the cigar for added dramatic emphasis.

‘I didn’t used to be. I was a nice girl when I first met you.’

He smiled gently. ‘And you still are, Helen. Appearing on Roots will be a walk in the park for someone with your talent. Now – about my other plan. I’ve been thinking, while we’re red hot and rolling, how about we reprise the one-woman show you used to do? I mean you don’t have to be a genius to see that there’s a tie-in here. You’ve got loads of material. Do a few songs, tell a few stories about the good old days, a behind-the-scenes look at Cannon Square, some jokes – and you’ve got those monologues you used to do. You know the kind of thing; An Evening With – what’s the name of the town where you grew up?’

‘Billingsfield.’

‘Okay, well there you go then, Billingsfield’s favourite daughter, Helen Redford, comes home to roost at long last. For one night only –’ He lifted his hands, fingers spread to create an imaginary billboard. ‘It shouldn’t be that hard to find a venue, somewhere intimate and not too big.’

‘You mean cheap.’

Arthur grinned. ‘That isn’t what I said, and that most certainly isn’t what I meant, but I’m just thinking that that way we can test the waters; see what the response is. If it bombs then we’ve lost next to nothing and if it doesn’t and we time it right then we could maybe take it on the road. I’ll see if I can sort out a few dates – it can’t hurt. Cash in on the TV show –’

‘On the road?’

Arthur nodded. ‘Yes, why not? It would be just like the good old days. You used to love it, remember? Take you right back to where you started from. Where was that place in Billingsfield?’

‘The Carlton Rooms.’

He laughed. ‘That’s it. There you go then, that’s where we should start the tour. You went down a storm there last time, remember?’

‘Do you know how many years ago that was?’ Helen laughed. ‘Those rose-tinted spectacles are going to be the death of you, Arthur.’

‘I thought I’d maybe have a chat with Ruth at Roots about it. See what we can organise. It would give their show a real focus too. And you never know, maybe we can work out a book deal on the back of the TV programme?’

Helen looked sceptical.

‘What?’ said Arthur.

‘It’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it? Maybe ten years ago, when I was strapped to a gurney fighting for life, I might have swung it, but now? Memoirs of a has-been? The public have got a horribly short memory, Arthur.’

He pulled a face. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t be so bloody hard on yourself, Helen; not if you’re up there all over again, babe – and you could be. And let’s face it, you’ve had an interesting life. Kids who’re still wet behind the ears are writing bloody autobiographies these days – that little fat bird who got married to that footballer, and the one with the –’ he mimed a pair of pantomime breasts. ‘Kiss and tell, reality TV, it’s all the go now, sweetie – and you’d be a natural. Everybody’s doing it.’

‘Doing what?’ said a voice from the stairs. Helen looked up as Bon jogged into view. She could hear by the rhythm that he was taking the steps two at a time, which for some reason made her smile. Arthur rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.

Bon was tall and blond with broad shoulders and a body that reflected all the hours of work he put in at the gym and in the studio. They’d met while she was doing pantomime in Croydon. She was playing the fairy godmother. He was in the chorus. Well, that’s what they told people. Actually he had been doing the choreography for the show and had been standing in one night when one of the dancers was off sick, but it made a good story for the tabloids. He was somewhere in his late thirties but looked younger, while Helen was in her early fifties and looked well preserved.

She had never imagined ending up with a younger man.

When they were alone together those things didn’t matter; he made Helen laugh and she adored what they had, but in company the cliché sometimes made her defensive. It was obvious that Bon was younger than she was. She didn’t dwell on exactly how many years but it was enough to be notable in the gossip columns. On the plus side, Bon was beautiful and kind, warm and funny, and he made up for all those men along the way who hadn’t been, and – Helen kept telling herself – if it didn’t turn out to be forever then as far as she was concerned what they had had was still worth it.

He smiled at her.

Sometimes, Helen knew, it was better to have a little drop of something wonderful than a whole lifetime of something ordinary. Two years on they were still together, although she often wondered if he saw her as a stopgap, a place marker to hold the page until the right woman came along, someone young whom he could have a family with – although she kept those thoughts to herself.

Even as the idea rolled through her head, Bon’s smile broadened, and leaning closer he kissed her.

‘Hiya honey,’ he purred, his body language freezing Arthur out. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look lovely, and you smell divine? I really love that perfume.’

Helen looked up at him. ‘Birthday present from my lover,’ she said.

From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur mime retching, and laughed, breaking the intimate connection between her and Bon. Bon glanced round and grinned. ‘A bit too much for you at your age, Arthur?’

‘Bit too much for anyone at any age,’ huffed Arthur miserably.

‘You’re only jealous,’ said Bon. ‘So, what is it that you’re up to?’

‘Arthur was talking about people, more specifically me, writing their memoirs,’ said Helen, as she pulled away.

‘I think that you should do it,’ Bon said. ‘I’ve told you that before – you’re a natural and I’m sure Arthur could get you a bit of help if you needed it, couldn’t you Arthur? A ghost – I’m not saying you couldn’t do it yourself –’

Helen laughed, ‘Which I couldn’t. But I know what you mean.’

‘And how did the rest of the day go?’

‘Arthur wants me to take my old show on the road.’

The words caught Bon’s attention. ‘Really? The one-woman show? But I thought you were talking to a television production company today, weren’t you? I mean going on the road, that’s great too – but it’s not TV.’

‘That’s true,’ said Helen. ‘Arthur was saying we should think about touring again if the TV thing comes off – cash in on the exposure.’

Bon nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Okay, well if there is anything I can do to help – you know that I’d be really happy to help you rehearse.’

‘Thank you.’ Helen smiled. ‘But never mind me. How did your meeting go?’

Bon opened his mouth to protest.

‘No,’ said Helen, stopping him with a gesture. ‘Come on, ‘fess up. I got in first. So?’

He groaned. ‘So, nothing. Libby’s thinking I should maybe take the Dubai gig. She’s really keen to get me out there; apparently she’s got loads of really good contacts.’

Libby, the new agent that his old agency had assigned him, five feet two in her tiny stockinged feet and blonde and gorgeous and not a day over thirty. Helen slammed the door shut on the place her thoughts were heading and tried to ignore the giggling from behind it.

‘Well, that’s great,’ Helen said. ‘And it’s well paid – I’d go for it.’

‘It’s a long way to go,’ said Bon. ‘And if you’re serious about going on tour, you’re going to need some backup. You know that I hate to leave you here on your own.’

‘I can almost hear the violins from here. New highlights?’ said Arthur, conversationally, elbowing his way back into the conversation.

Helen sighed; at least Arthur had managed not to say that they had been touring while Bon was still in short trousers.

‘Sun-kissed,’ said Bon with a lazy grin, running long fingers back through his artfully tousled hair. ‘It goes like that in the sunshine.’

Helen shook her head. ‘Don’t bait him, Bon, you know he hates it.’

Bon’s grin broadened. ‘You should try it some time, Arthur – get outside, get yourself a little bit of gold in the old toupee.’

‘It’s real,’ Arthur growled.

‘Real stoat?’

‘Play nicely you two,’ Helen said sharply.

‘So how did your meeting go?’ asked Bon.

‘Not bad. Arthur has got me a job, haven’t you, Arthur? Roots? The TV show – apparently I’m an icon.’

‘Wow,’ said Bon, interest piqued. ‘God, now that is just fantastic. It’s got a real following and you’ll be great on there. When do you start shooting?’

‘I haven’t even signed the contract yet. I might not do it …’

Bon grinned. ‘Why ever not? You’d be mad not to. You want anything?’ he asked, heading towards the fridge.

‘No, not for me, thanks. I’ve already got one.’

‘Arthur?’

Arthur lifted his coffee mug instead of replying.

Bon dropped a handful of ice into the tumbler and topped it up with fruit juice. ‘So when do you think you’re going to start?’

‘We’re not sure yet. We’ll be discussing dates next week,’ said Arthur.

Helen couldn’t take her eyes off Bon. He moved with a fluid grace that still made her mouth water. ‘You are going to take it, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

Bon pulled a face. ‘Oh come on, Helen, you’d be absolutely mad not to. You’d be brilliant. They syndicate the show all over the world and then it ends up on the satellite channels.’

Arthur sighed. ‘I’ve been trying to tell her that.’

‘Don’t tell me we’ve finally found something we’re agreed on,’ laughed Bon. ‘By the way, are you staying for supper, Arthur? You’re more than welcome. I thought I’d cook Thai tonight?’

Arthur sighed ‘I really hate it when you’re nice to me,’ he said.

Helen smiled, ignoring the banter, her mind elsewhere. She’d come a long way since the Carlton Rooms in Billingsfield. Did she really want to go back?

TWO

Natalia, Roots resident researcher and the person assigned to liaise – whatever that meant – with Helen for the duration of the filming, perched on the edge of one of the big red shabby-chic sofas in Helen’s sitting room, looking for all the world as if given half a chance she would be up on her toes and away. Natalia had her laptop bag balanced on her lap but so far hadn’t unpacked it.

‘Are you sure I can’t get you a drink? A cup of tea? Herbal, green? Coffee?’ asked Helen, settling herself down in the armchair opposite. ‘We’ve got juice?’

The young woman blinked and stared at her, caught, anxious as a rabbit in the headlights. She retrieved a small plastic bottle from her handbag and waggled it to and fro, in a gesture Helen guessed was supposed to amuse.

‘No, you’re fine, really. I’ve got water, but really, thank you,’ she said in her breathy little-girl voice. ‘Now how we do it at Roots is that I’ll be working with you all the way through, right through the filming and everything, so we can build up a relationship and you’ll know the score. And you’ll know that I know what I’m talking about because I’ll have been here right from day one. So, I thought we’d just start with a few basics – get those out of the way first – and then maybe if you’ve got any photos? Did Ruth ask you about photos? Don’t worry if she didn’t, we can always get them later and we don’t take them away or anything. I’ve brought a scanner with me.’ She tapped her bag. ‘And I’ve brought some cuttings and things for you to take a look at, you know, from the good old days.’ She tipped her head down towards the bag again. ‘Usually I’ve got this guy who comes with me and does all the technical stuff while we’re talking, but he’s got this bug. Jamie, you might have met him?’

Helen nodded. ‘He thought I was an icon.’

The young woman smiled. ‘Right, well he rang in to say he’s got flu, well he thinks it’s flu, but then again he is a man: probably just a sniffle. He usually does the driving too – you know if it’s like somewhere off the beaten track, or the country or something –’ Natalia carried on smiling; it was clear she meant a trip like this one.

Natalia, all turned out in her leather jacket, hand-knitted beanie hat, and a floral mini-dress worn over black leggings and twenty-eye black patent DMs had arrived two hours late, not so much fashionably late as horribly lost late, and from her colourful account of finally having tracked down Helen’s house, she seemed to view rural Norfolk as if it was just a step away from the Amazon basin or the African veldt.

‘How on earth do you manage out here?’ she asked conversationally, taking a swig from her water bottle as she made an effort to slough off her oversized biker jacket. ‘I mean it’s so isolated; so far from anywhere.’

Helen raised an eyebrow. She lived in a handsome Victorian house in the middle of Denham Market, five minutes’ walk from the town centre and two major supermarkets. It was hardly the Serengeti.

‘It’s an hour and a half from Kings Cross,’ Helen said, pouring herself a mug of tea.

‘Really?’ The girl looked genuinely surprised. ‘You mean like the trains come right out here?’ she said.

Helen suppressed the desire to sigh and shake her head. ‘Every hour.’

‘Really?’ repeated Natalia, unable to conceal her amazement, as she finally shrugged the jacket off. ‘Well, wow – I mean that is really impressive. Anyway, as I said, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m so looking forward to working with you on your story,’ she gushed. ‘Jamie was really gutted that he’s not here today. When I told my mum I was coming to talk to you today she was just so envious. My mum said that you were a legend. She used to watch you every week on Cannon Square. Right from the first episode. And Jamie’s got them all on DVD right from episode one.’ Natalia grinned. ‘I think that the two of them were more excited than I was about me coming to meet you. Anyway, let’s get down to business.’

Helen smiled at her; Natalia, twenty-six, had been best in show on her degree course, according to Ruth’s latest email, which made Helen wonder whether there was anyone on the Roots production team who had just wandered in on the off chance of a job and got in on the strength of being nice, making good tea and being shit-hot with the filing.

‘We always like to come out and see people in their own homes if we possibly can,’ Natalia was saying earnestly. ‘It’s always nicer and makes it more intimate. I’m sure you read in the contract that we’ll probably want to come and do some of the filming here too, you know, like background; give people an idea of how you live now. People are always fascinated by other people’s houses, aren’t they?’ And then Natalia paused and looked anxiously over her shoulder. ‘Do you think my car will be all right out there?’

‘On my drive?’

Natalia nodded. ‘I mean like it’s locked and everything, but I was just wondering. You know.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘I was just wondering –’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Whereabouts do you live?’

‘Hackney,’ Natalia said. ‘We’ve got a flat, nowhere near as grand as this, obviously, but it’s nice and really handy for work. My boyfriend and I keep saying once we have children we might like to move out – you know, to the country. Like Epping or Chadwell Heath or somewhere. His mum and dad come from Cheshunt. I quite fancy Brighton myself.’ She paused. ‘It’s the dark out here that would worry me; that and the quiet. And then you get the animals.’ She shuddered. ‘Me and my boyfriend went camping once, to the proper country. I wouldn’t want to do it again; there were all these really weird snuffling noises in the night and then you had to go to the loo in a shed. With a torch. I still get flashbacks.

Anyway we really like to see how our guests live, see them in their own environment. And how they cope day to day, what they do, cooking and that kind of thing.’ It made it sound as if Natalia was doing a home visit for social services. ‘I mean this is really nice,’ she said, peering around. ‘Why do you live upstairs, is it like a flat or something?’

‘No, I own the whole house. It’s just that the main sitting room is on the first floor.’

‘Right,’ said Natalia, scribbling something down on her notepad. ‘So, what, is the downstairs for your servants?’

Helen laughed. ‘I wish. No, the kitchen is down there, and the utility room, and there’s a gym and –’

‘And so your staff live out, do they?’ asked Natalia, pen poised above the pad.

Natalia had obviously worked with far grander stars in the past; or maybe she came from a generation that thought everyone on TV had an entourage of hired help dealing with the daily grind on their behalf.

‘No, I don’t really have any staff. We have Audrey who comes in to clean every day, and Bert, he comes in to help me with the garden –’

On the sofa Natalia was writing feverishly. ‘And you live up here because?’ She left the question hanging. Helen stared at her wondering what lurid possibility Natalia was considering.

‘Because of the view,’ said Helen, standing up and directing the young woman’s attention towards the tall windows, with their plush window seats and piles of cushions. ‘I really love the view from up here.’

Natalia stepped up beside her to take a look. ‘The view,’ Natalia echoed.

Denham Market was built on the hill where Norfolk began to drag itself up out of the dark rich expanse of the fenland. Situated a few minutes’ walk from the church, Helen’s house was a Gothic gem, with a fairytale turret at one corner and huge rooms with vaulted ceilings and broad oak floors. At this time of the day the sun came flooding in through the mullioned windows, casting everything in a warm glow.

Up on the first floor, the open-plan double-aspect sitting room looked out over the gardens on one side and over the dark red pantiled rooftops of the houses in the streets below on the other, and beyond the town the glittering snake of the river Ouse, which wound its way across the flat lands of the fen. Beyond that as far as the eye could see were acres and acres of farmed fenland, flat as a billiard table, rich and fertile, lush green or black or gold, depending on the season, stretching out to Ely in the southwest and Long Sutton in the north-west.

It had been the view and the unique appearance of the house that had attracted Helen to it in the first place; it looked for all the world like a fairytale castle up on its hill close by the church. On a clear day it really did seem as if you could see forever. Compared to the tiny terraced house she had grown up in, the view alone at High House lifted Helen’s spirits, the sense of space and freedom under the vast fenland sky finally letting her breathe.

‘So did you always live round here?’ asked Natalia, pen poised.

‘No, I was born and grew up in Billingsfield. It was a factory town. It couldn’t have been more different to Norfolk and this place. Number thirty-six Victoria Street; I’m sure I’ve probably got some photos somewhere. I remember as a little girl looking out of the front-room window of this tiny terraced house and having a horrible sense that I could easily be in the wrong one. Opposite me across the street was a house that was identical to mine, in a row of houses all identical to mine. All the doors were painted the same flat brown, all the windows had the same thick nets in the windows. Even thinking about it now after all these years it makes me shiver; it felt as if you couldn’t breathe.’

Natalia nodded and made another note.

Helen didn’t have that feeling living here. High House was unique, a one-off, with no twin staring back at it, no neighbours peering in, making judgements on her family, from windows that faced each other across a strip of tarmac. No one teased or tormented her here. There was no lying in bed at night hearing the frenzied scuttling and scurrying and raised angry voices from the family whose bedroom adjoined hers. No, up here in High House there was only Helen and the people she invited in, which today included Natalia, who was busy peering out of the window, probably trying to work out what all the fuss was about.

‘Over there on a clear day you can see Ely Cathedral,’ said Helen, pointing into the distance.

Alongside her Natalia stifled a yawn. ‘I’m not much of a one for views,’ she said.

‘So,’ said Helen, now that it was obvious her audience had moved on. ‘What else would you like to know?’

Natalia settled herself back on the sofa. ‘I’m not sure how much you know about the show but in the first segment we talk about you and what you do or did. There’s usually some film clips, some interviews with friends and colleagues, that sort of thing – and then we explore where you came from and we look around the places where you grew up and talk to people who knew you. And then we explore your roots.’

‘Which means what exactly?’ asked Helen.

The girl looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you?’

‘Well, which roots?’

‘Presumably you’ve seen the show. Your parents and any interesting ancestors we throw up when we do your family tree. We’ve got this great guy, Alan – well, when I say great; he’s a bit of an acquired taste – he doesn’t like real live people very much. He likes to stay in the office and he wears cotton gloves and a mask a lot of the time, and he’s got this whole thing about pens – but he’s brilliant when it comes to research. Anyway, you see that’s the thing with Roots; we don’t just tie ourselves to the historical, that’s the beauty of the format, we just follow our noses on the good stories. So, like with Terry Haslam – you know, the civil rights bloke? Well his dad, Jack, used to be a strongman in the circus, so we took a look at how Terry had grown up, and that whole nomadic circus culture. It was funny because most people talk about running away to join the circus, but in Terry’s case he ran away to join the Church. Terry’s heritage was amazing – his dad’s family came from Transylvania and his mum came from somewhere in Somerset.

‘Anyway, it was really weird; we took the crew out to this funny little village to film. I mean it was truly spooky. I’ve never been anywhere like that before – and the locals were just so peculiar, they kept pointing and laughing – and anyway Jeremy, the sound guy, bought us all these strings of garlic.’ Natalia paused to take a sip of water. ‘Transylvania was a complete doddle by comparison.’

‘I’m not sure that there is anything that interesting in my family,’ said Helen.

Natalia waved the words away. ‘Oh don’t worry. Everyone I work with always says that but we usually poke around till we find something, and to be perfectly honest, if Ruth’s signed you up to do the show, then there’s something we can get our teeth into or she wouldn’t be doing it.’

The remark caught Helen off guard. She stared at Natalia. ‘I’m sorry?’ she began. ‘What are we talking about here?’

The girl reddened. ‘Sorry, but I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know, Helen. We all know that there is an elephant in the room when it comes to your past. I don’t want to be tactless about it – but it’s not exactly rocket science, is it? We’ll start off with your parents –’Helen waited.

‘Your mum? The whole motherhood, abandoned children thing, I mean I’m assuming you’d have realised what we’d be going for here – a sort of cherchez la femme angle. Looking at the kind of woman who leaves her child behind and the reasons why. Why? What did you think we were going to do?’

Helen couldn’t think of anything to say, but it was fine because Natalia was firing up her laptop and had all the answers on hand. ‘You see what I’m saying here, Helen? There’s no point us dragging up some unknown Elizabethan sailor from God knows where, when we’ve got a story like that to unpick, really, is there? It’s just too good not to use –’

‘I’m sure you think I’m being naïve here, but I thought Ruth said that it would be mostly historical?’

‘Well, sometimes it is, but mostly –’ Natalia hesitated, ‘To be honest mostly it isn’t. The last series everything was pretty much about this generation and maybe the last one. You know, like their mums and dads – people like all that sort of stuff. And of course your mum vanished too, so realistically that is just too good a story not to go after.’

‘She didn’t vanish,’ said Helen, dry-mouthed. ‘It wasn’t like some sort of conjuring trick. Are you telling me that is going to be the main focus of the programme?’

‘We’ve got other angles too, obviously. I don’t have to tell you your own secrets, do I?’ She smiled. Helen stared at her; what did that mean?

‘So are you saying you’ve found my mother?’

Totally wrong-footed Natalia stared at her, trying to compose herself. ‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’

At which moment Bon came up from the gym, dressed in sweat pants and an indigo blue tee shirt. His tee shirt was soaked with sweat across the chest, underarms and back.

‘Hi,’ he said with a grin, wiping his hands on the white towel draped across his broad shoulders. He looked like a character from a wholesome-life advert. ‘I see your guest arrived then,’ he said to Helen, as he strode over and extended a hand towards Natalia. ‘I’m Bon Fisher. Great to meet you. You must be Natalia, from Roots, is that right?’

Natalia’s mouth had dropped open. ‘Bon?’ she managed, and for a few seconds Helen caught a glimpse of what it was others saw in him. His face, though classically handsome, was still masculine and rugged, manly rather than fey; and his eyes, bright blue and clear as high summer skies, were surrounded by a corona of laughter lines. But what made him infinitely more attractive was that he had this warm sunny aura that was hard to quantify or to miss.

‘That’s right, I’m Helen’s lover,’ he continued, without so much as a hint of hesitation, as he shook her hand. ‘But presumably if you’re working on Helen’s life story you already know all about that. Delighted to meet you. Helen is the most amazing woman.’ He turned to look at her affectionately. ‘Amazing. I’m really lucky to share my life with her.’ He moved across the room and brushed his lips across Helen’s, which made something inside her flutter; he was gorgeous. She glanced up at him, wondering not for the first time if this was some kind of cruel trick. ‘God only knows why she puts up with me.’

Natalia reddened and opened her mouth to say something, but Bon didn’t pause to let her catch up. ‘Anyway, I’m just going to go and grab a shower and then I’ll fix us some lunch. You are staying for lunch, aren’t you, Natalia? I realise it’s a bit late but we’ve both had a busy morning –’

The girl glanced at Helen who nodded. ‘Please,’ Helen said. ‘You’d be more than welcome, and Bon is a superb cook.’

‘Well, yes then, sure, if it’s okay with you.’

‘Got to be better than a supermarket sandwich,’ Bon said. ‘I’m thinking hot spicy shredded chicken with avocado on baby leaves drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette. Does that sound all right to you?’

‘Sounds fabulous,’ said Natalia.

Helen laughed in spite of herself. ‘Don’t encourage him,’ she said and then smiled up at Bon. ‘He thinks about food all the time he’s working out. I have no idea why he doesn’t weigh twenty stone. I keep thinking that one of these days we should open a restaurant.’

Bon bent down and kissed her. ‘And how boring would that be, cooking the same thing over and over? Lunch in say, half an hour?’

‘Fine by me; how about you, Natalia?’

The girl nodded.

‘Great,’ said Bon. ‘Oh and I’ve got a meeting at four. Libby and I are working on the costumes for the show we’re taking to Dubai –’ he continued, aiming his remarks at Helen. Libby. It felt like he was mentioning her a lot lately.

‘You’re a dancer, that’s right, isn’t it?’ Natalia was saying, pen poised over her pad.

Bon nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, although I’m actually more about the choreography these days, and I’ve helped produce some of the shows we take out on tour.’

‘We?’ said Natalia, all eagerness and enthusiasm, clutching her pen. ‘Is this something new for you, Helen?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Helen, holding up her hands. ‘I can’t dance and have no intention of taking it up now. No, this is definitely Bon’s baby.’

‘Mine and Libby’s,’ Bon said. ‘Libby Sherwood, she’s my agent.’

There she was again.

‘So how long have you and Helen been together?’ Natalia asked.

Bon smiled. ‘Not long enough. Now I really have to go. I’ll give you a shout when food’s ready. You okay for drinks?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Helen.

‘Me too,’ said Natalia brightly, doing her little trick with the water bottle. Helen watched Natalia watch Bon cross the room and head back down the stairs.

After a second or two Natalia turned back to Helen and realised Helen had been watching her watching him. She bit her bottom lip and looked horribly self-conscious.

‘He seems very nice,’ Natalia said with feigned casualness, turning her attention quickly back to her notepad.

Helen laughed. ‘Oh, he is. And he has got the cutest arse, hasn’t he?’

Natalia turned pillar-box red and was about to protest.

‘It’s fine,’ said Helen with a smile. ‘You’re welcome to admire the scenery – lots of people do.’

Natalia’s colour deepened. ‘Where were we?’ she said, faffing around with her notebook and laptop in what appeared to be a show of regaining her composure.

‘My mother,’ suggested Helen helpfully.

‘Oh yes,’ said Natalia, with equal discomfort.

‘I’m not the only little girl whose mother walked out on her family.’

‘I know,’ said Natalia. ‘But it is something that a lot of people will be curious about. It must have had a profound effect on you. On your relationships; on your own views on children and families.’

‘I didn’t have children,’ said Helen briskly. ‘So it didn’t arise.’

‘Was that because of your mum?’ pressed Natalia.

Helen shook her head. ‘No, it hadn’t got anything to do with her. I suppose it must have had an effect, but I was open to the idea of having a family. I was just never with the right person at the right time.’ She paused. Natalia was scribbling away furiously. When Helen stopped she looked up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Natalia said. ‘You were saying?’

‘I suppose looking back if I had wanted them enough I would have had them, but it didn’t happen.’

‘It didn’t happen,’ she repeated.

‘No,’ said Helen. ‘There was always another job, another part, always something else coming along, and then it was just too late.’

‘And so you don’t think that was because of your mum?’

Helen shook her head. ‘No, quite the reverse; in some ways her leaving made me make more of my life. I probably took more chances, more risks, enjoyed all of life while it was there. Her going made me realise that nothing is as safe as it first appears. But it wasn’t just me, it affected my dad too, his work – his friends. I was very small when it happened, but I was old enough to know something was going on; old enough to miss her, but not old enough for anyone to explain it to me. In those days I’m not sure how much notice people took of children’s emotions. I think because children hadn’t got the words to express what they were feeling people just assumed they didn’t feel anything – although to be fair, no-one really talked about my mum once she was gone. No-one at all. It was like a door had opened up somewhere and she just walked through it. Some days I wonder if I imagined her and that perhaps she had never existed at all.’

‘Did you think she was dead?’ asked Natalia.

Helen watched the younger woman’s face carefully, wondering what it was that Roots had managed to uncover. Natalia’s body language gave nothing away.

‘I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I still don’t have any idea what happened to her.’

‘It’s such an interesting thread. Weren’t you ever curious? I’m sure I would have been. Didn’t you try to find her?’

‘No,’ snapped Helen.

Natalia looked surprised. ‘What, never?’

‘Like I said, no one talked about her at home and back then I was powerless to look; looking or asking would have felt like I was betraying my dad. And what if me asking too many questions made him go away too? I remember reading in the Sunday papers about people losing their memories and wondered if that was what had happened to her and that maybe one day, some day she would remember us and just come home.

‘I had a lady to come in and sit with me if my dad was going to be late home from work. Mrs Eades. I didn’t like her very much and I was terrified that she might end up looking after me permanently if my dad didn’t come back – but no, I didn’t look, I didn’t ask.’

Helen glanced across; Natalia was busy making copious notes.

‘Please,’ she pressed, when Helen stopped speaking, ‘It’s really interesting.’

‘I did think when I was first on the TV that maybe my mum might show up then; you know: “Long-lost mother reunited with celebrity daughter”. It’s the kind of thing the tabloids have always loved. Real Max Clifford territory. But she didn’t.’

‘And you’ll be happy to talk about all this on the show?’ asked Natalia.

Helen nodded, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Natalia scribbled something else on her pad. ‘So you thought that she was probably dead?’

‘Or that she had run off with someone, remarried and not told her new family about me and Dad; or that she’d emigrated or just plain didn’t care,’ said Helen, conscious of the crackle of emotion in her voice.

‘Didn’t you think about hiring someone? A detective or something?’ Natalia pressed, with a hint of accusation in her tone. ‘I don’t think I could have lived with not knowing, and you had the money –’

‘There is a lot more to my life than what happened to my mother. Not everything I’ve done is about her.’ Helen took a deep breath. ‘And it might seem like a hard thing for you to understand, Natalia, but no, I didn’t go looking for her. She rejected me once; I didn’t want to give her the chance to reject me again.’

Natalia winced. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ she said, before setting off on another tack. ‘One of the things that struck me when I was looking through the press cuttings and what we’ve got on file for you, is how little there is. There is a lot about your awards and TV roles but not very much about the woman behind the actress.’

‘I’ve always been very private.’

Natalia nodded and made a note. ‘Until now,’ she said, watching Helen intently.

‘That’s right.’ Helen said. ‘Until now.’

‘Can you tell me why that is?’

Helen looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Because you asked me – and to be honest I miss working on interesting projects with interesting people. I’m an actress. I want to work. I can’t skate, I hate ballroom dancing and I’m not cut out for roughing it in the jungle. So it’s this or –’

‘Celebrity Come Dine With Me?’ Natalia suggested helpfully. She pulled out a file. ‘Okay, so we’ve got some newspaper clippings, reviews and things which we’ll be using that I’d like you to take a look through. Oh and this –’ she handed Helen the photocopy of a page from the Billingsfield Echo. ‘I can’t make out the date,’ said Natalia. ‘We’ll probably need to chase that up, unless of course you can remember when it was? National talent competition, Carlton Rooms?’ She leaned across, reading over Helen’s shoulder. ‘March the something – no, it’s no good, I can’t make out the year. But here we are, look –’ she said, pointing to a grainy black and white photo of the contestants. ‘Local songbirds, Helen Redford and – hang on I’ve got a magnifying glass in my bag.’

‘Kate Monroe,’ said Helen, tipping the photocopy towards the light. ‘It was a Saturday – the 15^th of March, and that was the first night we’d used our stage names; before that we used to be Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson.’