The Only Way Is Up
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Synopsis
WHEN LIFE HAS YOU DOWN ON LOVE, SURELY THE ONLY WAY IS UP . . . ?
__________________________
Twenty-five years in showbiz is a good run, right? Because after tonight, when her small (read: huge) wardrobe malfunction was broadcast to the nation's living rooms, Daisy's time in the spotlight might be over.
It's all about damage control now, and Daisy needs an escape route. Fast. Especially when her sporting hero boyfriend publicly announces their engagement - the one she hasn't actually agreed to tell the world about.
All she needs is space from prying eyes and time for the press to get bored and move on. But the only place she can run to at such short notice is the Cotswolds cottage she used to own with her ex-husband. Not ideal, but at least it's in the middle of nowhere and close to her teenage daughter.
Seems like a perfect plan, apart from the person selling stories to the tabloids about her and Tom, the local headmaster.
But that's just a rumour, right?
The perfect uplifting and feel-good romantic comedy that will have you snorting with laughter.
(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date: November 24, 2022
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 352
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The Only Way Is Up
Heidi Stephens
Daisy Crawford perched on the stool in her bedroom, trying to relax as Edith artfully dabbed and blended foundation into her forehead. A glass of champagne fizzed away on the dressing table, hidden among the mountain of pots and jars and tubes that had been decanted from Edith’s multitiered cosmetics case, but Daisy hadn’t touched it. There would be rivers of booze at the various after-parties later, and twenty years of the National Television Awards had taught her not to go too hard, or too early.
She thought about the evening ahead, mentally preparing herself for the red carpet she’d walked countless times before. Spotlight would pick up a talent show award or two – as it always did – and Daisy would miss out on the TV Presenter of the Year Award – as she always did. For the past eleven years, Joe McDonald had won and now it was considered an TV inevitability, like the Strictly Curse or a Christmas family meltdown on EastEnders. Daisy would smile and clap for the cameras, pretending she didn’t mind, yet all she really wanted was to win; to feel like twenty-five years of hard work had been recognised. Finally.
The format for the evening felt familiar and comforting, but the big difference this year was that Daisy would be walking the red carpet with Christian, the first time she’d taken a date in the best part of a decade. It was also their first public outing since their engagement, but of course nobody knew about that yet. They hadn’t even bought a ring, and she needed to tell Ruby first. That was a conversation she really wasn’t looking forward to – Ruby was nearly sixteen and guaranteed to be less than enthused about having Christian as a stepfather.
Daisy watched him out of the corner of her eye, lounging on her enormous bed and tapping frantically on his phone, his brow furrowed and his body taut with tension. Not that Christian’s body was ever NOT taut – a long career as a professional tennis player had given him a lean, athletic physique. He hadn’t even had a shower yet, but then these events were easy for men. A quick wash half an hour before the limo arrived, throw on a dinner jacket, splash of aftershave, done. Daisy had been getting ready since yesterday, when she’d had a spray tan, a manicure and pedicure. Today it had taken three hours to do her hair and makeup so far, notwithstanding the half day she’d spent last week trying on dresses and shoes. The stylist was due any minute – a young Spaniard called Victor who had been recommended by her manager as ‘up and coming’. She had a regular stylist, Paul, for her Spotlight outfits, but he always spent the autumn in LA, pretending he wasn’t originally from Huddersfield. So the NTAs were a good opportunity to try someone new, mix things up a bit.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Karim’s head appeared. He was primarily Daisy’s driver, but also the only person she trusted to deal with deliveries or arrivals while she was glued to a chair. And most importantly, Karim would guarantee she left on time.
‘Victor’s here,’ he said quietly, before being swept aside by a tall man in a cream suit that showcased his narrow hips. He was carrying a huge dress bag over one arm and wheeling a holdall of shoes and accessories.
‘Daisy,’ breathed Victor. ‘You look like heaven.’
‘Hi,’ said Daisy, catching Christian’s extravagant eyeroll before he slipped his phone into his pocket and left the room.
‘Do NOT come any closer,’ said Edith, glaring at him. ‘I’m still working.’
‘Fine,’ hissed Victor, vaguely kissing the air two metres from Daisy’s head before retreating to the other side of the room to wait in reverent silence.
‘How’s the dress?’ asked Daisy, trying not to move her face.
‘Fabulous,’ said Victor. ‘I have made all the adjustments and now it will fit you like a glove. But no panties.’
Daisy laughed nervously. ‘Not even a thong?’
‘You cannot wear a thong with this dress,’ said Victor firmly. ‘Commando only.’
Daisy said nothing, listening to the wind buffeting the sash window and wondering whether she’d make it to the end of the red carpet without getting goosebumps on her muff. She closed her eyes so Edith could do her smoky eyeshadow, listening to Christian singing John Legend’s Ordinary People in the shower next door. Considering the circus currently playing out in her bedroom, the irony was not lost on Daisy. She did some mindful breathing exercises and reassured herself that it was all going to be fine.
‘You’re done,’ said Edith fifteen minutes later. ‘I’ve left a few bits for your handbag in case you need to touch up.’
‘Thanks,’ said Daisy, knowing that she’d only need a slick of lipstick. Her makeup was trowelled on like a death mask and set with a mist of superglue – she’d probably need an orbital sander to shift it later. She walked around the room while Edith packed away all her pots and brushes, happy to be out of the chair and able to stretch.
‘Victor says I can’t wear knickers with this dress,’ said Daisy as Christian came back into the bedroom, now looking unfeasibly handsome in a white dress shirt and black trousers. He handed her a pair of gold cufflinks and held out his right sleeve.
‘No panties,’ said Victor, his face implacable as he gently extracted several acres of fabric from the bag. ‘Everything is a perfect fit.’
‘I’m always OK with you not wearing any knickers,’ whispered Christian, leaning forward so his lips brushed her ear. ‘I promise to keep you warm.’
Daisy blushed under her makeup, looking at his beautiful hands and imagining them disappearing up her skirt in the back of the limo. He’d definitely have to wait until the drive home. Ignoring the anxiety and desire fluttering in her chest, she finished Christian’s cufflinks and took off her bathrobe in front of the full-length mirror, trying not to be embarrassed at her naked reflection. Victor politely looked away, but Christian unashamedly looked on with a lascivious smile. He had persuaded her to have a full Hollywood wax the previous week, and she was still getting used to being as smooth as a snooker ball down below.
Daisy leaned on Victor’s shoulder for support as she carefully stepped into the dress and slid it over her naked body. She turned to inspect the rear view; the dress was insanely tight. Sheer and sparkling, it was made from a black stretchy fabric that fitted her body like a pair of opaque spangly tights to the top of her thighs, before gently flaring into a long, heavy skirt. The top half had some built-in boob scaffolding and was surprisingly comfortable, hugging every one of her gym-honed curves and smoothing her out in all the right places. She was relieved to see that at nearly forty, her bum was still holding up. She silently gave thanks to her personal trainer for the thousands of squats she’d done over the years.
Her one stipulation had been that the dress didn’t flash any cleavage, and Victor hadn’t let her down. Instead his chosen outfit gave the impression of two completely different dresses depending on which side of Daisy you were looking at. From the left it had a shoulder strap and a skirt that pooled on the floor with a touch of old-school Hollywood glamour. But from the right her shoulder was bare, and the skirt had a dangerously daring thigh split on the side seam. Daisy liked the subtle hint of provocation but felt much more comfortable on the covered-up side. Uncertainty flickered for a second, and she wondered if she should have a drink after all.
‘See?’ said Victor triumphantly, helping her into vertiginous silver heels and handing her a matching clutch bag. ‘Better with no panties.’
Daisy examined every inch of her reflection and grudgingly agreed that the outfit looked and felt better without underwear. The stretch fabric still gave her plenty of room to walk, and she’d just have to remember to keep her legs firmly closed as she got out of the limo.
As she watched, Victor deftly tied Christian’s bow tie and helped him into his jacket, before stepping back so that Daisy and Christian could stand side by side in front of the mirror. Daisy’s hair was pinned around the back of her neck and hung in loose curls over her bare shoulder, the glow of her tanned skin reflected in the huge diamond drop earrings Victor had borrowed for the evening. Christian looked tall and lean and effortlessly sexy in his classic dinner jacket, his dark eyes drinking in every inch of Daisy’s body. Together they looked like the new 007 and his Bond Girl; the press were going to go mad for them.
As soon as she exited the limo – without mishap – Daisy was warmed by the familiar rush of adrenaline from the cameras, questions thrown at her and the cheering from the waiting crowd at the O2. Christian handled the press with his usual boyish charm, his hand resting gently on the small of Daisy’s back as he smiled and twinkled and answered questions from the waiting press. Yes, Daisy could play tennis, but no they hadn’t played together yet; yes, he was enjoying the switch to black tie after a career in sportswear, but no he didn’t have a couple of spare balls in his pocket. Everyone laughed and simpered as they moved on to the next entertainment reporter and repeated the whole circus again.
Inside the O2, Daisy and Christian hovered around the celebrity seating, which was laid out in cinema-style sections in front of the stage. The arena crowd rose in tiers around them, all flashing cameras and thunderous noise. Daisy doled out air kisses and posed for selfies with celebrity friends and colleagues, including a few of the new wave of reality TV stars that she didn’t know at all, but who approached her like they were best friends. She tried to be generous with her time, promising to catch up with everyone for drinks later and making arrangements for brunches and dinners that would almost certainly never happen.
Daisy had been a familiar face on TV since she was fifteen, when she’d presented a mid-nineties teen pop show on Saturday mornings. She’d missed the pinnacle of the Ladette movement by a few years, instead providing a more wholesome girl-next-door alternative as she progressed from weekend mayhem TV to shows about budget home makeovers for twenty-somethings cashing in on the early noughties boom. Later she’d married heartthrob breakfast TV presenter Simon Burton, then had Ruby. Winning the job of presenting Spotlight, the biggest talent show on TV, had been the icing on the cake of a long and impressive career.
The simple fact was that people liked Daisy. She was kind to production staff, worked hard and never took her success for granted. She was never late and remembered people’s birthdays. Her most outrageous diva demand was to ask if someone could find her a peppermint teabag during a live broadcast from a lighthouse in Aberystwyth. There were plenty of other TV stars who did a great job of being edgy, unpredictable or outrageous, but Daisy had no problem with being famously nice.
Being easy to work with had paid off and, after nearly twenty-five years, Daisy’s star was still burning bright. Spotlight continued to top the ratings as the biggest family entertainment show on TV, and she had advertising deals with fashion, beauty and skincare brands, as well as two bestselling cookbooks. She had a cabinet full of awards, just not the trophy she really wanted. Yet, despite the inevitable outcome of tonight’s proceedings, there was something comforting about being in the company of so many people who wished Daisy nothing but success.
Christian, meanwhile, did not look comforted in the least. She could tell that he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Yes, he was politely shaking hands with endless strangers, but he was forcing himself to hover in the reflected glow of Daisy’s fame. Every now and then his hand brushed over her backside in a way that felt both proprietary and provocative, and it was clear to Daisy that his only interest in her dress was how quickly he could get her out of it.
They took their seats in time for the live broadcast to begin, presented by TV legend Des Parker, who was Daisy’s longstanding friend and mentor, as well as Ruby’s godfather. He’d been a huge support when her four-year marriage to Simon had broken down – even though Daisy had given her full and public support to Simon’s announcement that he was gay, she’d been devastated. But there was nothing to be gained from airing her grief in public, and she cared about Simon too much to punish him for finally having the courage to be himself.
Everyone clapped and cheered politely as the awards were handed out – Factual Entertainment, New Drama, Daytime, Comedy, Quiz Show, Drama Performance . . . The nominations, speeches and thank yous all started to blur into one another. Christian was getting bored; drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and making little effort to hide his yawns. Daisy tried not to be annoyed with him; this was probably pretty tedious for someone who didn’t work in the industry or watch a lot of TV, but he could at least try to LOOK like he was having fun, especially with so many people watching.
Christian briefly rallied when Spotlight won the award for Best Talent Show, and the cameras swung to him clapping and smiling as Daisy went up onto the stage with the rest of the team. She said a few words of thanks alongside the executive producer and accepted the award for the sixth time. It was always an honour, but it still wasn’t the big one.
The atmosphere changed as Des introduced soap legend Susie Docherty, who was presenting the award for Best TV Presenter. After eleven years, the possibility that Joe McDonald might be knocked off his podium was tantalising, but the result would make the front page of the tabloids tomorrow either way. Susie read out the nominations and clips were played from each of their shows.
As Daisy smiled for the cameras and gave a humble wave, Christian leaned in and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t be too gutted, babe.’
It felt like a punch in the gut. She was still fighting back tears when Susie opened the envelope and the arena fell quiet.
‘And the winner is—’ Everyone held their breath. ‘—DAISY CRAWFORD!’
The crowd went bananas.
Daisy stumbled to her feet, her hands over her face as she struggled to breathe. Between her fingers, she could just see Joe giving her a standing ovation, and soon the rest of the celebrity audience joined him, a sea of faces clapping and cheering.
Christian gave her a lingering kiss as the cameras flashed frantically. Daisy tried not to cry, reminding herself that her face was going to be all over the papers tomorrow, and was live on TV right now.
Look happy. Don’t blub. For God’s sake . . . hold it together.
Daisy could barely feel her legs as she walked towards the stage. It felt like miles. She’d never done this walk alone before; the Spotlight team had always been with her. She could feel the anxiety rising. She hadn’t prepared a speech; she’d never expected to win. Who should she thank? It felt like one of those fever dreams where you had to sit an exam you hadn’t revised for. She tried not to panic as she teetered up the steps. As long as she acknowledged the Spotlight team and the public for their years of support, everything else would be fine. Nobody wanted a speech that rambled on. She wasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars.
She lifted her skirt delicately in both hands as she walked across the stage, her eyes fixed on the smiling faces of Susie and her darling friend, Des, and the silver award in his hands. Then everything seemed to slow as she stumbled, the heel of her left shoe catching on something. It snapped and crumpled beneath her. She toppled sideways, dropping the skirt to save herself, arms windmilling as she tried to right herself, her other foot going down to find purchase. But the heavy, voluminous fabric caught under her right heel, the thigh split giving way along the seam as Daisy’s legs slid in opposite directions. Susie shrieked and Des’s face turned from joy and pride to utter horror. They both reached out to catch her, but it was all too late.
The next thing Daisy knew she was flat on her back, winded and disoriented, the bright stage lights blinding her and an agonising throb in the back of her head. After a moment she struggled to sit upright, ignoring the untenable pain as she untangled herself slowly from what felt like acres of skirt fabric bunched around her head. Her left leg was bent backwards at an unnatural angle and there was a sharp pain coming from her knee, and her other foot was splayed outwards, the heel of her shoe wedged firmly under a cable leading to a light fixture at the edge of the stage.
Within seconds Des was squatting in front of her, his face full of horror and concern as he touched her shoulder and said some words. But her ears were full of a strange ringing and the pain in her head was blinding. A camera flashed nearby, then another. Des leapt up and pushed someone away, then struggled out of his jacket and laid it across her lap, which felt cold, for some reason. He squatted back down and held her hand as shadows appeared, people gently moving her legs and touching her arms. Beyond Des, Daisy could see hundreds of tiny lights, flashing, exploding, like a sky full of fireflies. How beautiful, she thought, and then she passed out.
‘So, Daisy. How are you feeling?’
The assembled team all looked at her with sympathetic head-tilts and caring smiles. She’d shed a bucket of tears in the past few days and was not in the mood for being handled with kid gloves, like she wasn’t entirely stable and might go into meltdown at any second. She gave Clara, the executive producer of Spotlight, a look that she hoped was respectful, but also clearly communicated that she was not to be messed with.
‘I’m fine,’ Daisy murmured. ‘Remind me why we’re here?’
Clara cleared her throat and tossed her glossy curtain of jet-black hair. They all knew why. The meeting was ostensibly to talk about what was now being referred to as The Incident, but Daisy wasn’t going to apologise or beg. It wasn’t her fault.
They were assembled in the offices of Cloud Productions, the company which made Spotlight, on the first floor of an ugly concrete block in Covent Garden that overlooked the back of a theatre and a row of huge wheelie bins. Daisy idly wondered if they were planning to toss her straight out of the window and save time.
Daisy sat on one side of the glossy meeting table, flanked by her manager, Katie, and her agent, Roger, who had copies of Daisy’s contract in his briefcase and was prepared to waft them around, if required. Clara sat on the other side, alongside three members of the Spotlight public relations team who looked like twenty-something hostages who hadn’t been fed in weeks and seemed to be there for no other purpose than to ensure Clara had more people in the room than Daisy.
‘We need to make a plan,’ said Clara. ‘It’s been four days since . . . well, The Incident, and we haven’t yet put out a statement, as you know. The press is demanding to know what our position is.’
‘And what is your position?’ Daisy stared Clara down, as one of the Hostages gave an involuntary shudder.
Clara smiled and sat back in her chair, her voice softening. ‘Daisy, darling, we’re not the enemy here. We’ve all worked together a long time, and I hope you think of us as your friends.’ She turned the palms of her hands upwards. ‘Of course, I’m here to represent Spotlight, but I’m also here to help. I thought that between us we could come up with a plan to deal with all the noise, then get back to what we’re all best at.’
Daisy slumped in her chair, momentarily defeated. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch. The whole thing is so awful, and I’ve got no idea who’s on my side any more.’
Clara leaned across the table, covering Daisy’s hand with her own. Her nails were a glossy red, filed to a perfect oval, in contrast to the remnants of Daisy’s red-carpet manicure, which had been chewed and picked to a raggedy mess.
‘We’re definitely on your side, and it’s our intention to give you our full support. We plan for Spotlight to kick off next July with you at the helm, as usual.’
Daisy breathed out for what felt like the first time in days. ‘And was that a unanimous decision?’
‘Of course not!’ laughed Clara. ‘Several people here AND at the Beeb demanded your head on a spike. Family show, terrible press, blah-blah-blah. I reminded them how many dubious characters have been given top jobs on British television over the years and asked if they were really intending to fire you over an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. I also reminded them that it would NEVER happen to a man, because men aren’t expected to wear that kind of nonsense on the red carpet.’
‘It’s not just the NTAs though, is it?’ Daisy could feel a headache building.
‘Well, no.’ Clara’s tone was brisk, all business. ‘So that’s what we’re here to talk about.’ She nodded at Hostage One, whose pale, spindly hands reached into his man bag to extract a brown cardboard folder of press cuttings and website printouts. ‘To work out where all this other noise is coming from, and the best way to put a stop to it.’
Hostage One placed the folder in front of Daisy like it might explode at any minute, while Clara opened her laptop. The screen projected onto the huge TV on the wall, showing a headline from the Daily Mail that read ‘Whoops-A-Daisy! TV Treasure Takes a Tumble’. Underneath was a picture of her and Christian smiling on the red carpet, alongside a press photo taken from the edge of the stage, showing her bare legs spread at right angles and her dignity covered by a blushing face emoji.
‘Jesus,’ gasped Daisy, putting her head in her hands as Katie patted her arm. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the picture, but the feeling of sickness and humiliation was still raw. Clara kept scrolling through the other tabloid front pages – ‘From Red Carpet to Red Face – TV Darling Daisy Accidentally Bares All’ in the Daily Mirror, and ‘Wax The Way To Do It!’ in The Sun. Thankfully, the fifteen-second delay on the live broadcast meant ITV had been able to cut to a different shot of the arena after The Incident, so her naked lower half hadn’t been broadcast into the nation’s living rooms. But it seemed like half the audience in the O2 had taken a highly pixelated picture of her nether regions on their phones, so it was everywhere on social media anyway.
While the immediate coverage was horrific, it was at least vaguely factual. The following two days had unleashed two of Daisy’s least favourite things – speculation and opinion. The speculation, all attributed to conveniently unnamed ‘sources’, was that Daisy was drunk, or possibly on some kind of medication. While nobody actually used the word ‘drugs’, the source still managed to make it sound like Daisy habitually injected heroin into her eyeballs.
Meanwhile the opinion pieces offered various points of view on Daisy’s main misdemeanours – wearing ridiculous heels, not wearing any knickers, and waxing off all her pubes. All three had opened up a feminist debate that involved a great deal of outrage, a small but vocal seam of support – and not very much middle ground. After a columnist in the Telegraph wrote a piece comparing and contrasting Daisy’s waxing choices with Julia Roberts’ armpit hair at the Notting Hill premiere in 1999, she sat on the toilet and wept for twenty minutes, before asking her team to wade through the festering swamp of press and social media coverage on her behalf. That meant that some of the latest stories that Clara was scrolling through on the screen were news to Daisy. It was like a horror film, and did nothing to ease her headache.
Another ‘source’ said Daisy had been seen drunk in a nightclub a couple of weeks ago, implying there was some kind of behaviour pattern that suggested her ‘fall’ was possibly a ‘collapse’. Then there was a petition. A petition! That called for Daisy to be sacked, stating she was symptomatic of Britain’s ‘moral breakdown’. Yet another source claimed that Daisy was known to have a temper and had once ‘thrown a shoe at her dog’, with the headline ‘Dangerous Daisy throws a Jimmy Choo-huahua’. Daisy rarely lost her temper, but more to the point had never even owned a dog. In fact she’d never thrown so much as a sock at any animal, although right now she’d happily unleash every stiletto she owned on the flock of press – the Vultures, she called them – trailing her around London.
She and the team worked through the possible sources of the stories, analysing the details for clues, but came up with nothing. Chances were the tabloids had just made them up. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The one thing Daisy was grateful for was that Ruby was safely away at boarding school, and it seemed like the piss-taking about her mother’s wardrobe malfunction from her fellow students had mostly stopped. Daisy had never been more grateful for the capriciousness of teenagers. Ruby was due home for half-term in a couple of weeks so they could talk properly – aside from smoothing over Ruby’s mortification about The Incident, Daisy needed to get to the bottom of why her daughter wasn’t keen on her fiancé. Another headache to deal with another day.
As Clara used phrases like ‘deflection strategy’ and ‘revolving celebrity news cycle’, Daisy’s thoughts drifted to the aftermath of her fall. She couldn’t remember seeing Christian after The Incident, although apparently he’d been escorted backstage straight away and hovered around the paramedics until she regained consciousness, at which point she’d yelled at him to go away. He’d messaged a few times since to ask if she was OK, along with hundreds of other friends and colleagues and hangers-on, some of whom were probably revelling in her downfall from Darling Daisy to Sentient Vagina. From most loved, to most laughed at.
‘—so in essence what I’m saying is that our response strategy should be two-pronged . . .’ Clara continued.
Katie, Roger and Daisy’s phones buzzed simultaneously. Daisy ignored hers: it never stopped buzzing these days. Katie quietly slid her iPhone off the table and glanced at the message, her brow furrowing as her clicks and swipes became more frantic.
‘First, we need to—’
‘Sorry, can I stop you there?’ Katie looked worriedly at Daisy, who raised her eyebrows in question. ‘Er, Christian has just announced your engagement. On Twitter.’
‘He’s done WHAT?’ Daisy’s mouth fell open, her eyes bulging as she snatched Katie’s phone from her hand and stared at the tweet.
Guys its supposed to be a secret but I cant keep it in. Two weeks ago I asked Daisy to be Mrs Walker and she said YES. Best feeling ever. Better than winning on centre court! SO stoked!
567 1,983 12.8k
‘Oh God!’ Any remaining colour drained from Daisy’s face. ‘Jesus Fucking Christ. I need to call Ruby.’
Daisy took deep yogic breaths as she waited for Irene, the Milton Park School secretary, to track down Ruby – apparently she had a study period so could be in any number of places right now. Daisy calmly explained that it was urgent that Ruby call her back, ringing off after gaining assurance from Irene that she would find her daughter straight away. Daisy trusted Irene to do what she’d asked without any fuss; Milton Park had no shortage of famous parents, and Daisy’s downfall was by no means the biggest celebrity scandal it had weathered.
She was sitting in a tiny meeting room where Hostag. . .
She thought about the evening ahead, mentally preparing herself for the red carpet she’d walked countless times before. Spotlight would pick up a talent show award or two – as it always did – and Daisy would miss out on the TV Presenter of the Year Award – as she always did. For the past eleven years, Joe McDonald had won and now it was considered an TV inevitability, like the Strictly Curse or a Christmas family meltdown on EastEnders. Daisy would smile and clap for the cameras, pretending she didn’t mind, yet all she really wanted was to win; to feel like twenty-five years of hard work had been recognised. Finally.
The format for the evening felt familiar and comforting, but the big difference this year was that Daisy would be walking the red carpet with Christian, the first time she’d taken a date in the best part of a decade. It was also their first public outing since their engagement, but of course nobody knew about that yet. They hadn’t even bought a ring, and she needed to tell Ruby first. That was a conversation she really wasn’t looking forward to – Ruby was nearly sixteen and guaranteed to be less than enthused about having Christian as a stepfather.
Daisy watched him out of the corner of her eye, lounging on her enormous bed and tapping frantically on his phone, his brow furrowed and his body taut with tension. Not that Christian’s body was ever NOT taut – a long career as a professional tennis player had given him a lean, athletic physique. He hadn’t even had a shower yet, but then these events were easy for men. A quick wash half an hour before the limo arrived, throw on a dinner jacket, splash of aftershave, done. Daisy had been getting ready since yesterday, when she’d had a spray tan, a manicure and pedicure. Today it had taken three hours to do her hair and makeup so far, notwithstanding the half day she’d spent last week trying on dresses and shoes. The stylist was due any minute – a young Spaniard called Victor who had been recommended by her manager as ‘up and coming’. She had a regular stylist, Paul, for her Spotlight outfits, but he always spent the autumn in LA, pretending he wasn’t originally from Huddersfield. So the NTAs were a good opportunity to try someone new, mix things up a bit.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Karim’s head appeared. He was primarily Daisy’s driver, but also the only person she trusted to deal with deliveries or arrivals while she was glued to a chair. And most importantly, Karim would guarantee she left on time.
‘Victor’s here,’ he said quietly, before being swept aside by a tall man in a cream suit that showcased his narrow hips. He was carrying a huge dress bag over one arm and wheeling a holdall of shoes and accessories.
‘Daisy,’ breathed Victor. ‘You look like heaven.’
‘Hi,’ said Daisy, catching Christian’s extravagant eyeroll before he slipped his phone into his pocket and left the room.
‘Do NOT come any closer,’ said Edith, glaring at him. ‘I’m still working.’
‘Fine,’ hissed Victor, vaguely kissing the air two metres from Daisy’s head before retreating to the other side of the room to wait in reverent silence.
‘How’s the dress?’ asked Daisy, trying not to move her face.
‘Fabulous,’ said Victor. ‘I have made all the adjustments and now it will fit you like a glove. But no panties.’
Daisy laughed nervously. ‘Not even a thong?’
‘You cannot wear a thong with this dress,’ said Victor firmly. ‘Commando only.’
Daisy said nothing, listening to the wind buffeting the sash window and wondering whether she’d make it to the end of the red carpet without getting goosebumps on her muff. She closed her eyes so Edith could do her smoky eyeshadow, listening to Christian singing John Legend’s Ordinary People in the shower next door. Considering the circus currently playing out in her bedroom, the irony was not lost on Daisy. She did some mindful breathing exercises and reassured herself that it was all going to be fine.
‘You’re done,’ said Edith fifteen minutes later. ‘I’ve left a few bits for your handbag in case you need to touch up.’
‘Thanks,’ said Daisy, knowing that she’d only need a slick of lipstick. Her makeup was trowelled on like a death mask and set with a mist of superglue – she’d probably need an orbital sander to shift it later. She walked around the room while Edith packed away all her pots and brushes, happy to be out of the chair and able to stretch.
‘Victor says I can’t wear knickers with this dress,’ said Daisy as Christian came back into the bedroom, now looking unfeasibly handsome in a white dress shirt and black trousers. He handed her a pair of gold cufflinks and held out his right sleeve.
‘No panties,’ said Victor, his face implacable as he gently extracted several acres of fabric from the bag. ‘Everything is a perfect fit.’
‘I’m always OK with you not wearing any knickers,’ whispered Christian, leaning forward so his lips brushed her ear. ‘I promise to keep you warm.’
Daisy blushed under her makeup, looking at his beautiful hands and imagining them disappearing up her skirt in the back of the limo. He’d definitely have to wait until the drive home. Ignoring the anxiety and desire fluttering in her chest, she finished Christian’s cufflinks and took off her bathrobe in front of the full-length mirror, trying not to be embarrassed at her naked reflection. Victor politely looked away, but Christian unashamedly looked on with a lascivious smile. He had persuaded her to have a full Hollywood wax the previous week, and she was still getting used to being as smooth as a snooker ball down below.
Daisy leaned on Victor’s shoulder for support as she carefully stepped into the dress and slid it over her naked body. She turned to inspect the rear view; the dress was insanely tight. Sheer and sparkling, it was made from a black stretchy fabric that fitted her body like a pair of opaque spangly tights to the top of her thighs, before gently flaring into a long, heavy skirt. The top half had some built-in boob scaffolding and was surprisingly comfortable, hugging every one of her gym-honed curves and smoothing her out in all the right places. She was relieved to see that at nearly forty, her bum was still holding up. She silently gave thanks to her personal trainer for the thousands of squats she’d done over the years.
Her one stipulation had been that the dress didn’t flash any cleavage, and Victor hadn’t let her down. Instead his chosen outfit gave the impression of two completely different dresses depending on which side of Daisy you were looking at. From the left it had a shoulder strap and a skirt that pooled on the floor with a touch of old-school Hollywood glamour. But from the right her shoulder was bare, and the skirt had a dangerously daring thigh split on the side seam. Daisy liked the subtle hint of provocation but felt much more comfortable on the covered-up side. Uncertainty flickered for a second, and she wondered if she should have a drink after all.
‘See?’ said Victor triumphantly, helping her into vertiginous silver heels and handing her a matching clutch bag. ‘Better with no panties.’
Daisy examined every inch of her reflection and grudgingly agreed that the outfit looked and felt better without underwear. The stretch fabric still gave her plenty of room to walk, and she’d just have to remember to keep her legs firmly closed as she got out of the limo.
As she watched, Victor deftly tied Christian’s bow tie and helped him into his jacket, before stepping back so that Daisy and Christian could stand side by side in front of the mirror. Daisy’s hair was pinned around the back of her neck and hung in loose curls over her bare shoulder, the glow of her tanned skin reflected in the huge diamond drop earrings Victor had borrowed for the evening. Christian looked tall and lean and effortlessly sexy in his classic dinner jacket, his dark eyes drinking in every inch of Daisy’s body. Together they looked like the new 007 and his Bond Girl; the press were going to go mad for them.
As soon as she exited the limo – without mishap – Daisy was warmed by the familiar rush of adrenaline from the cameras, questions thrown at her and the cheering from the waiting crowd at the O2. Christian handled the press with his usual boyish charm, his hand resting gently on the small of Daisy’s back as he smiled and twinkled and answered questions from the waiting press. Yes, Daisy could play tennis, but no they hadn’t played together yet; yes, he was enjoying the switch to black tie after a career in sportswear, but no he didn’t have a couple of spare balls in his pocket. Everyone laughed and simpered as they moved on to the next entertainment reporter and repeated the whole circus again.
Inside the O2, Daisy and Christian hovered around the celebrity seating, which was laid out in cinema-style sections in front of the stage. The arena crowd rose in tiers around them, all flashing cameras and thunderous noise. Daisy doled out air kisses and posed for selfies with celebrity friends and colleagues, including a few of the new wave of reality TV stars that she didn’t know at all, but who approached her like they were best friends. She tried to be generous with her time, promising to catch up with everyone for drinks later and making arrangements for brunches and dinners that would almost certainly never happen.
Daisy had been a familiar face on TV since she was fifteen, when she’d presented a mid-nineties teen pop show on Saturday mornings. She’d missed the pinnacle of the Ladette movement by a few years, instead providing a more wholesome girl-next-door alternative as she progressed from weekend mayhem TV to shows about budget home makeovers for twenty-somethings cashing in on the early noughties boom. Later she’d married heartthrob breakfast TV presenter Simon Burton, then had Ruby. Winning the job of presenting Spotlight, the biggest talent show on TV, had been the icing on the cake of a long and impressive career.
The simple fact was that people liked Daisy. She was kind to production staff, worked hard and never took her success for granted. She was never late and remembered people’s birthdays. Her most outrageous diva demand was to ask if someone could find her a peppermint teabag during a live broadcast from a lighthouse in Aberystwyth. There were plenty of other TV stars who did a great job of being edgy, unpredictable or outrageous, but Daisy had no problem with being famously nice.
Being easy to work with had paid off and, after nearly twenty-five years, Daisy’s star was still burning bright. Spotlight continued to top the ratings as the biggest family entertainment show on TV, and she had advertising deals with fashion, beauty and skincare brands, as well as two bestselling cookbooks. She had a cabinet full of awards, just not the trophy she really wanted. Yet, despite the inevitable outcome of tonight’s proceedings, there was something comforting about being in the company of so many people who wished Daisy nothing but success.
Christian, meanwhile, did not look comforted in the least. She could tell that he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Yes, he was politely shaking hands with endless strangers, but he was forcing himself to hover in the reflected glow of Daisy’s fame. Every now and then his hand brushed over her backside in a way that felt both proprietary and provocative, and it was clear to Daisy that his only interest in her dress was how quickly he could get her out of it.
They took their seats in time for the live broadcast to begin, presented by TV legend Des Parker, who was Daisy’s longstanding friend and mentor, as well as Ruby’s godfather. He’d been a huge support when her four-year marriage to Simon had broken down – even though Daisy had given her full and public support to Simon’s announcement that he was gay, she’d been devastated. But there was nothing to be gained from airing her grief in public, and she cared about Simon too much to punish him for finally having the courage to be himself.
Everyone clapped and cheered politely as the awards were handed out – Factual Entertainment, New Drama, Daytime, Comedy, Quiz Show, Drama Performance . . . The nominations, speeches and thank yous all started to blur into one another. Christian was getting bored; drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and making little effort to hide his yawns. Daisy tried not to be annoyed with him; this was probably pretty tedious for someone who didn’t work in the industry or watch a lot of TV, but he could at least try to LOOK like he was having fun, especially with so many people watching.
Christian briefly rallied when Spotlight won the award for Best Talent Show, and the cameras swung to him clapping and smiling as Daisy went up onto the stage with the rest of the team. She said a few words of thanks alongside the executive producer and accepted the award for the sixth time. It was always an honour, but it still wasn’t the big one.
The atmosphere changed as Des introduced soap legend Susie Docherty, who was presenting the award for Best TV Presenter. After eleven years, the possibility that Joe McDonald might be knocked off his podium was tantalising, but the result would make the front page of the tabloids tomorrow either way. Susie read out the nominations and clips were played from each of their shows.
As Daisy smiled for the cameras and gave a humble wave, Christian leaned in and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t be too gutted, babe.’
It felt like a punch in the gut. She was still fighting back tears when Susie opened the envelope and the arena fell quiet.
‘And the winner is—’ Everyone held their breath. ‘—DAISY CRAWFORD!’
The crowd went bananas.
Daisy stumbled to her feet, her hands over her face as she struggled to breathe. Between her fingers, she could just see Joe giving her a standing ovation, and soon the rest of the celebrity audience joined him, a sea of faces clapping and cheering.
Christian gave her a lingering kiss as the cameras flashed frantically. Daisy tried not to cry, reminding herself that her face was going to be all over the papers tomorrow, and was live on TV right now.
Look happy. Don’t blub. For God’s sake . . . hold it together.
Daisy could barely feel her legs as she walked towards the stage. It felt like miles. She’d never done this walk alone before; the Spotlight team had always been with her. She could feel the anxiety rising. She hadn’t prepared a speech; she’d never expected to win. Who should she thank? It felt like one of those fever dreams where you had to sit an exam you hadn’t revised for. She tried not to panic as she teetered up the steps. As long as she acknowledged the Spotlight team and the public for their years of support, everything else would be fine. Nobody wanted a speech that rambled on. She wasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars.
She lifted her skirt delicately in both hands as she walked across the stage, her eyes fixed on the smiling faces of Susie and her darling friend, Des, and the silver award in his hands. Then everything seemed to slow as she stumbled, the heel of her left shoe catching on something. It snapped and crumpled beneath her. She toppled sideways, dropping the skirt to save herself, arms windmilling as she tried to right herself, her other foot going down to find purchase. But the heavy, voluminous fabric caught under her right heel, the thigh split giving way along the seam as Daisy’s legs slid in opposite directions. Susie shrieked and Des’s face turned from joy and pride to utter horror. They both reached out to catch her, but it was all too late.
The next thing Daisy knew she was flat on her back, winded and disoriented, the bright stage lights blinding her and an agonising throb in the back of her head. After a moment she struggled to sit upright, ignoring the untenable pain as she untangled herself slowly from what felt like acres of skirt fabric bunched around her head. Her left leg was bent backwards at an unnatural angle and there was a sharp pain coming from her knee, and her other foot was splayed outwards, the heel of her shoe wedged firmly under a cable leading to a light fixture at the edge of the stage.
Within seconds Des was squatting in front of her, his face full of horror and concern as he touched her shoulder and said some words. But her ears were full of a strange ringing and the pain in her head was blinding. A camera flashed nearby, then another. Des leapt up and pushed someone away, then struggled out of his jacket and laid it across her lap, which felt cold, for some reason. He squatted back down and held her hand as shadows appeared, people gently moving her legs and touching her arms. Beyond Des, Daisy could see hundreds of tiny lights, flashing, exploding, like a sky full of fireflies. How beautiful, she thought, and then she passed out.
‘So, Daisy. How are you feeling?’
The assembled team all looked at her with sympathetic head-tilts and caring smiles. She’d shed a bucket of tears in the past few days and was not in the mood for being handled with kid gloves, like she wasn’t entirely stable and might go into meltdown at any second. She gave Clara, the executive producer of Spotlight, a look that she hoped was respectful, but also clearly communicated that she was not to be messed with.
‘I’m fine,’ Daisy murmured. ‘Remind me why we’re here?’
Clara cleared her throat and tossed her glossy curtain of jet-black hair. They all knew why. The meeting was ostensibly to talk about what was now being referred to as The Incident, but Daisy wasn’t going to apologise or beg. It wasn’t her fault.
They were assembled in the offices of Cloud Productions, the company which made Spotlight, on the first floor of an ugly concrete block in Covent Garden that overlooked the back of a theatre and a row of huge wheelie bins. Daisy idly wondered if they were planning to toss her straight out of the window and save time.
Daisy sat on one side of the glossy meeting table, flanked by her manager, Katie, and her agent, Roger, who had copies of Daisy’s contract in his briefcase and was prepared to waft them around, if required. Clara sat on the other side, alongside three members of the Spotlight public relations team who looked like twenty-something hostages who hadn’t been fed in weeks and seemed to be there for no other purpose than to ensure Clara had more people in the room than Daisy.
‘We need to make a plan,’ said Clara. ‘It’s been four days since . . . well, The Incident, and we haven’t yet put out a statement, as you know. The press is demanding to know what our position is.’
‘And what is your position?’ Daisy stared Clara down, as one of the Hostages gave an involuntary shudder.
Clara smiled and sat back in her chair, her voice softening. ‘Daisy, darling, we’re not the enemy here. We’ve all worked together a long time, and I hope you think of us as your friends.’ She turned the palms of her hands upwards. ‘Of course, I’m here to represent Spotlight, but I’m also here to help. I thought that between us we could come up with a plan to deal with all the noise, then get back to what we’re all best at.’
Daisy slumped in her chair, momentarily defeated. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch. The whole thing is so awful, and I’ve got no idea who’s on my side any more.’
Clara leaned across the table, covering Daisy’s hand with her own. Her nails were a glossy red, filed to a perfect oval, in contrast to the remnants of Daisy’s red-carpet manicure, which had been chewed and picked to a raggedy mess.
‘We’re definitely on your side, and it’s our intention to give you our full support. We plan for Spotlight to kick off next July with you at the helm, as usual.’
Daisy breathed out for what felt like the first time in days. ‘And was that a unanimous decision?’
‘Of course not!’ laughed Clara. ‘Several people here AND at the Beeb demanded your head on a spike. Family show, terrible press, blah-blah-blah. I reminded them how many dubious characters have been given top jobs on British television over the years and asked if they were really intending to fire you over an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. I also reminded them that it would NEVER happen to a man, because men aren’t expected to wear that kind of nonsense on the red carpet.’
‘It’s not just the NTAs though, is it?’ Daisy could feel a headache building.
‘Well, no.’ Clara’s tone was brisk, all business. ‘So that’s what we’re here to talk about.’ She nodded at Hostage One, whose pale, spindly hands reached into his man bag to extract a brown cardboard folder of press cuttings and website printouts. ‘To work out where all this other noise is coming from, and the best way to put a stop to it.’
Hostage One placed the folder in front of Daisy like it might explode at any minute, while Clara opened her laptop. The screen projected onto the huge TV on the wall, showing a headline from the Daily Mail that read ‘Whoops-A-Daisy! TV Treasure Takes a Tumble’. Underneath was a picture of her and Christian smiling on the red carpet, alongside a press photo taken from the edge of the stage, showing her bare legs spread at right angles and her dignity covered by a blushing face emoji.
‘Jesus,’ gasped Daisy, putting her head in her hands as Katie patted her arm. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the picture, but the feeling of sickness and humiliation was still raw. Clara kept scrolling through the other tabloid front pages – ‘From Red Carpet to Red Face – TV Darling Daisy Accidentally Bares All’ in the Daily Mirror, and ‘Wax The Way To Do It!’ in The Sun. Thankfully, the fifteen-second delay on the live broadcast meant ITV had been able to cut to a different shot of the arena after The Incident, so her naked lower half hadn’t been broadcast into the nation’s living rooms. But it seemed like half the audience in the O2 had taken a highly pixelated picture of her nether regions on their phones, so it was everywhere on social media anyway.
While the immediate coverage was horrific, it was at least vaguely factual. The following two days had unleashed two of Daisy’s least favourite things – speculation and opinion. The speculation, all attributed to conveniently unnamed ‘sources’, was that Daisy was drunk, or possibly on some kind of medication. While nobody actually used the word ‘drugs’, the source still managed to make it sound like Daisy habitually injected heroin into her eyeballs.
Meanwhile the opinion pieces offered various points of view on Daisy’s main misdemeanours – wearing ridiculous heels, not wearing any knickers, and waxing off all her pubes. All three had opened up a feminist debate that involved a great deal of outrage, a small but vocal seam of support – and not very much middle ground. After a columnist in the Telegraph wrote a piece comparing and contrasting Daisy’s waxing choices with Julia Roberts’ armpit hair at the Notting Hill premiere in 1999, she sat on the toilet and wept for twenty minutes, before asking her team to wade through the festering swamp of press and social media coverage on her behalf. That meant that some of the latest stories that Clara was scrolling through on the screen were news to Daisy. It was like a horror film, and did nothing to ease her headache.
Another ‘source’ said Daisy had been seen drunk in a nightclub a couple of weeks ago, implying there was some kind of behaviour pattern that suggested her ‘fall’ was possibly a ‘collapse’. Then there was a petition. A petition! That called for Daisy to be sacked, stating she was symptomatic of Britain’s ‘moral breakdown’. Yet another source claimed that Daisy was known to have a temper and had once ‘thrown a shoe at her dog’, with the headline ‘Dangerous Daisy throws a Jimmy Choo-huahua’. Daisy rarely lost her temper, but more to the point had never even owned a dog. In fact she’d never thrown so much as a sock at any animal, although right now she’d happily unleash every stiletto she owned on the flock of press – the Vultures, she called them – trailing her around London.
She and the team worked through the possible sources of the stories, analysing the details for clues, but came up with nothing. Chances were the tabloids had just made them up. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The one thing Daisy was grateful for was that Ruby was safely away at boarding school, and it seemed like the piss-taking about her mother’s wardrobe malfunction from her fellow students had mostly stopped. Daisy had never been more grateful for the capriciousness of teenagers. Ruby was due home for half-term in a couple of weeks so they could talk properly – aside from smoothing over Ruby’s mortification about The Incident, Daisy needed to get to the bottom of why her daughter wasn’t keen on her fiancé. Another headache to deal with another day.
As Clara used phrases like ‘deflection strategy’ and ‘revolving celebrity news cycle’, Daisy’s thoughts drifted to the aftermath of her fall. She couldn’t remember seeing Christian after The Incident, although apparently he’d been escorted backstage straight away and hovered around the paramedics until she regained consciousness, at which point she’d yelled at him to go away. He’d messaged a few times since to ask if she was OK, along with hundreds of other friends and colleagues and hangers-on, some of whom were probably revelling in her downfall from Darling Daisy to Sentient Vagina. From most loved, to most laughed at.
‘—so in essence what I’m saying is that our response strategy should be two-pronged . . .’ Clara continued.
Katie, Roger and Daisy’s phones buzzed simultaneously. Daisy ignored hers: it never stopped buzzing these days. Katie quietly slid her iPhone off the table and glanced at the message, her brow furrowing as her clicks and swipes became more frantic.
‘First, we need to—’
‘Sorry, can I stop you there?’ Katie looked worriedly at Daisy, who raised her eyebrows in question. ‘Er, Christian has just announced your engagement. On Twitter.’
‘He’s done WHAT?’ Daisy’s mouth fell open, her eyes bulging as she snatched Katie’s phone from her hand and stared at the tweet.
Guys its supposed to be a secret but I cant keep it in. Two weeks ago I asked Daisy to be Mrs Walker and she said YES. Best feeling ever. Better than winning on centre court! SO stoked!
567 1,983 12.8k
‘Oh God!’ Any remaining colour drained from Daisy’s face. ‘Jesus Fucking Christ. I need to call Ruby.’
Daisy took deep yogic breaths as she waited for Irene, the Milton Park School secretary, to track down Ruby – apparently she had a study period so could be in any number of places right now. Daisy calmly explained that it was urgent that Ruby call her back, ringing off after gaining assurance from Irene that she would find her daughter straight away. Daisy trusted Irene to do what she’d asked without any fuss; Milton Park had no shortage of famous parents, and Daisy’s downfall was by no means the biggest celebrity scandal it had weathered.
She was sitting in a tiny meeting room where Hostag. . .
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The Only Way Is Up
Heidi Stephens
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