The Year I Went Pear-Shaped by Tamara Pitelen Read Free Book Online Page A

this time I had escaped up the corridor to check out something  “urgent”.
    This time I was saved from Death by Kat by my phone.
    "Hello, Darla speaking."
    "Hi Dora, it's Trina from Channel Five here, just getting back to you re availability re Gordon Worsley."
    I ignored the fact that she got my name wrong. She knew my name; it was just a standard TV publicist's method for making sure I understood who was the boss and who was the lackey in this relationship.
    "Oh, hiiiiiii Trina,” I tinkled, playing the game right back at her. “Thanks soooo much for getting back to me on this, I can’t tell you how excited we are around here about working with Gordon! He's so fab! Anyway, what did he, like, say?" I squeaked in my best non-threatening, ‘IQ of frog sperm’ voice.
    "Well, he wasn't keen to be honest Donna," she said in her best ‘I’m very important you know’ voice. He really is extremely busy with his production schedule right now...buuut...I talked him round a bit and I think he just might do it as long as we can have copy and photo approval before the story goes to press."
    Translated, this means he's desperate to do it as the exposure could be good for his TV Awards chances. And, being an actor, he's a publicity slut who can’t get enough of seeing himself in the media.
    "Oh Trina, you know I can’t give you copy and photo approval but I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll read out his quotes to him over the phone once the story’s written, just don't tell my bloody editor or she’ll have my guts for garters."
    Reading out quotes was standard practise; Trina knew that, we were both just moving the obligatory pieces in the game of media chess.
    She sighed heavily, pretending to consider the offer. "Well, I guess if that's ok with Gordon we can go for it. I'll tell him that you'll meet him in the Channel Five Cafe next Monday at 10.30am sharp to discuss just what you need from him. And don't be late Doris, Gordon's time is very precious."
    And with that she hung up. Which was the cue for panic to set in. Following closely by hysteria and hyperventilating.
    Oh. My. God. In just six days, I was going to meet Gordon Worsley. The man that I had lusted after, obsessed over, followed, fantasised about, written poems for, given star-billing in my dreams to, filled diaries with, and dedicated first born sons to -- ideally ones begat by him -- for the last 16 years. And I knew it was sad, pathetic and tragic and all that but still, there I was, a 34 year old, intelligent, career woman of sorts, reduced to a shaking, quivering mess at the thought of meeting some guy off a mediocre -- although admittedly incredibly popular and successful -- TV soap. A soap so cheap in fact that there were only three sets. There was the hospital cafeteria staffed by a kindly but bad-tempered elderly lady who delivered one-liners like machine gun fire at the expense of the dopey but good-natured orderly and, if you looked closely, you"d notice that the same extras were always sitting in the background, playing customers but sometimes they wore different wigs. Then there was the hospital ward which was a room with a bed in it, a vase of flowers on the side table, and a patient that never said anything more than "not too good to be honest Doc" and whose function was to provide a wrist for pulse taking so that the doctor could pretend to be working while he flirted with the nurse. The third set was the cocktail bar called Louie's where all the staff would meet after work to conduct the show's real drama away from distractions like pesky patients.
    But knowing all this didn't douse my ardour for Gordon Worsley. To me he embodied my lost youth. What could have been. Those precious years wasted inside a fat shell. Gordon Worsley was all the boys who had looked straight through me back in the time of obesity. He was a prize. And dammit, I deserved him.

Chapter 7: Psychic landlady
    "No, you don't understand Anita! This is a life-changing,