Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

arrived, as arranged, outside the shop on the corner, and she slipped inside. ‘ITV studios,’ she said to the driver.

‘Right you are … Hey, are you that rapper?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Me and the girls,’ said her driver, looking in the rear-view mirror and catching Clare’s eye, ‘we love your stuff. Amazing. And so glam!’

‘Oh! Thank you.’

Half an hour earlier when she’d sneaked into a toilet cubicle at the public loos to change, it hadn’t felt very glamorous. She’d changed as cleanly as she could and stuffed her office clothes into the backpack, all the while trying to avoid a suspicious wet patch on the floor. Transformation complete, she’d exited the loo like superman from a phone box and walked towards the newsagent to wait.

Almost instantly she’d been noticed. Whether people recognised her, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps they just thought she was weird. But she’d definitely begun to see people giving her second glances. One woman had lifted her mobile phone for a snap.

This, she’d thought doggedly, as she’d tried to avoid eye contact, is what it is to be very, very visible.

After they’d whipped through the traffic in record time, she paid the extortionate fare – hoping Toby wouldn’t question it when their joint bank statement came in later that month. ‘Well, good luck!’ said the driver, whose name was Gloria and who, she’d informed Clare in great detail, was having trouble with her boyfriend, Clive.

The taxi had pulled up outside the main entrance, but it was impossible to ignore the cluster of about twenty protesters standing with signs reading ‘Women for Woman’s World’ and ‘Bog off Bailey’ standing nearby. Their attention seemed to be focused on a window, whose half-opened blind revealed someone wearing an orange shirt.

‘Come down here and have it out!’ someone shouted.

‘Yeah, man up!’ another said, and the group dissolved into laughter.

Hoping not to be seen, she walked quickly towards the entrance with her head down, but just as she reached the revolving doors she heard a cry of ‘It’s Martha B.!’ and a thunder of footsteps. Luckily, she slid past the security guard on the front door in the nick of time, leaving protesters with their noses pressed to the glass like sperm around an already fertilised egg.

Sure, the protesters were on her side, but Clare didn’t know how they’d react if she told them she was here to be interviewed by the enemy.

This is the test, she told herself as she spoke to the girl on the front desk and a runner met her to take her to the right place. This was when she’d really know whether her disguise held up.

When she was shown into a small studio, with two chairs facing each other flagged by screens emblazoned with ‘Woman’s World’, she felt her stomach rumble in protest. How could Toby not recognise her if she was sitting so close to him? Her voice, her mannerisms, the small part of her face that was visible, albeit covered in make-up?

The cameraman strode over, his hand extended. ‘Neil Down,’ he said, shaking her hand profusely. ‘Great to meet you.’

‘Do you know where Tob … where Mr Bailey is?’

‘I think he’s on his way. Just setting up.’

‘Right.’

‘And this is George, he’ll be doing a piece to camera just before you have your … your chat with Toby,’ Neil added.

‘Hi, George.’ This time she remembered to use her slightly altered ‘Martha B.’ voice – a little lower, with what she hoped was a slight northern accent.

Neil looked at her for a moment, clearly clocking the change in pitch, then carried on adjusting his camera.

George, who looked to be about eighteen, shook her hand. ‘Big fan,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

Then the door opened and suddenly Toby – wearing an astonishing orange shirt – strode into the room, looking more confident than she’d ever seen him.

‘Good afternoon, all!’ he said, in a rather loud voice. Clare noticed he had a couple of red patches on his neck. Despite his manner, her husband was nervous.

Afterwards, on her way back to the public toilets in which the transformation from Clare to Martha had to be reversed, she reflected on how it had gone.

Was it good, she wondered, that Toby had seemed not to recognise her at all? In fact, still emphasised the fact that his wife was a ‘big fan’ and asked for her autograph. ‘Dear Clare,’ she’d written. ‘Hope to meet you one day, Martha B.’

‘So, what’s your message to women out there?’ Toby had asked, once the cameras had started rolling.

‘The message isn’t so much for women,’ Martha B. had replied. ‘The message is for all of us – how we need to see each other more; understand and recognise the part we all play in each other’s lives. And that includes women – many of whom feel overlooked even by the people who ought to champion them.’

‘Right.’

‘And we’re all guilty of that … We can all become preoccupied with our personal journey and forget to see others.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘yes, I see that. Can I ask you something, Martha?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’ll know that there have been protests about my … my role on this show. But having met me – seen how it all works – would you say that I’m suited to this position?’

It was quite an ask. On the one hand, she had wanted to say yes. But thinking of Hatty – more experienced, more suited to the job – had made it difficult.

‘Well,’ she’d replied carefully. ‘On the face of it there’s no reason why a man can’t perform this role, provided he is prepared to listen and come to understand the issues that women face, in the workplace, in the home and beyond.’

Toby had visibly relaxed at her words and she’d realised how much importance he must have placed on this weird interview.

‘But,’ she’d said, watching him pale, ‘I do wonder whether it would be better to have female input too.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, wouldn’t it be great to have both? A male presenter – like yourself. And maybe … maybe