Woman of the Hour Read Free

with all these brilliant funny stories about his kids. And look at him.’
    Simon handed me a photo he’d printed of John seated on a sofa with his three children climbing over him, two boys and a girl. The sofa was worn, the room was shabby but the kids looked happy. He was a good-looking man with a friendly open face.
    ‘He is rather attractive,’ I said.
    I handed the photo to Molly, my other researcher.
    ‘I wonder why he hasn’t got himself a girlfriend then,’ she said.
    Molly and Simon get on but there is an inevitable rivalry between them for stories. She was pushing her idea for Fizzy to interview a footballer who had brought out his memoir; actually it was more of a misery memoir than a sporting one.
    ‘It’s not only about football, it’s also about his tough childhood and it’s surprisingly well written and revealing,’ she said.
    ‘Why does everyone think footballers are stupid?’ Simon said.
    I was reading the back of the book.
    ‘And he wrote it himself? Not a ghostwriter?’
    ‘All his own words...’
    ‘Maybe next week, Moll; I’m not keen to do two book stories back to back.’
    ‘I’ve got this feeling John from Sheffield will be great. I think Fizzy will love him. We get her to empathise with him and she can ask viewers to email or tweet us any suggestions about dealing with teenage girls,’ Simon said.
    ‘That’s Betty’s territory,’ I said.
    Betty is our formidable agony aunt and she covers these types of issues on her weekly slot, but she was away doing a lecture tour in Canada. It was high risk but in the end I decided we would invite John from Sheffield as our interview of the day. Some of our most successful items have involved ordinary people and Simon’s instincts are sound.
    Chalk Farm flat, 7.15 p.m.
    I was home by seven-fifteen tonight which wasn’t too bad. I pay Janis, a woman who lives locally, to be with my daughter Florence until I get back. Flo complains it’s stupid because at fourteen years of age she is fine to be left on her own, but she gets on well with Janis who has been her childminder for years. Janis cooks her supper and they talk. I learn all kinds of useful stuff about Flo from Janis, which I’m grateful for but which also makes me sad because Flo stopped confiding in me a while ago. When she was younger we were incredibly close and she was my best cuddly little girl.
    Janis left and I knocked gently and popped my head round Flo’s bedroom door. One of the great fights between us has been about how I barge into her room unannounced. Now I try to remember to knock first. Flo’s bedroom was in near darkness except for the glow of her tablet which lit up her face. I love that face more than any other face in the world. She did not smile when she saw me but she did not scowl either.
    ‘Had a good day, sweetheart?’
    ‘Yeah, OK. Dad called.’
    ‘How’s he doing?’
    ‘He said Granddad will pick me up if I get the train on Friday.’
    ‘Great.’
    Every two or three weeks Flo spends the weekend with her dad Ben and his parents in Portsmouth. We have to be flexible about it because Ben works as an aerial photographer and sometimes a big job will come up at the weekend and he can’t see her. Sometimes she will go down on a Friday night, which I prefer because it gives her longer with her dad.
    ‘I’m making chilli. Do you fancy some?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘No, ta. I’m stuffed.’
    She was keen to get back to her tablet so I closed her door. It was one of our better exchanges because recently we rarely talk without angry words passing between us.
    As I chopped the onions I reflected that I would have a free weekend. Ben and I set up the weekend arrangements after we divorced and I try hard not to let it slip. Before our split I couldn’t understand those women who try to stop contact and who bad-mouth their exes, especially when they do it in front of the children. But afterwards, when things got ugly, I would find myself biting back my