Page 3 of The Only Way Is Up

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 Hostage Two had ushered her so she could call Ruby in private. There was a montage of black-and-white photos of Spotlight winners on the walls; Daisy was in most of them, handing over the giant glass trophy and beaming with happiness. She studied all the versions of her smiling face, knowing that in those moments she’d been feeling both joy for the winner, but also relief that another series was over and she could take a break. It wasn’t the kind of thing you ever talked about: nobody wanted to hear from a wealthy, successful celebrity how tiring and stressful their job was. You just kept smiling, which was why everyone wanted to be Daisy Crawford – the glitter, the clothes, the face, the boyfriend, the lifestyle. Until the NTAs, anyway.

She checked her phone again, then leaned forward, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyeballs and trying to unscramble her thoughts.

Benny, Christian’s manager, had to be behind the engagement announcement; he was a Machiavellian puppet-master who knew exactly how to pull Christian’s strings. At thirty-three, Christian had just retired from the international tour and was coming to the end of his first tennis-free summer since he was six. Daisy knew that his new mission was to be a ‘TV personality’, and that had been moderately successful, largely thanks to Benny. Christian’s appearances on telethons and quiz shows had revealed a dry wit and a bucket of charisma that he’d clearly been hiding away in his racquet bag. It also didn’t hurt that he was tall, dark and extremely handsome.

So Benny would have told him to make the announcement, no doubt to make him look like the hero of the hour. A Disney Prince standing by his Fallen Woman. Benny would also know that Daisy couldn’t kick off publicly without looking mean-spirited in the face of Christian’s charming outpouring of emotion. She frowned as she put the pieces together. Maybe Damien, Christian’s agent, was involved too. She knew he was in negotiations for Christian to join the BBC Wimbledon commentating team, but the contract hadn’t been confirmed yet – and only a handful of people knew about it, including Daisy. Christian had never won a Grand Slam tournament, but the public loved him – and his relationship with Daisy marked him as a star in the ascendant. Christian was hot property right now, and they needed to get the Wimbledon deal signed as soon as possible.

Daisy picked up her iPhone, scrolled to Christian’s number and stabbed at the screen, only to throw it onto the table seconds later as it went straight to voicemail.

Again.

Daisy’s ears were ringing from Ruby’s tears and recriminations when she got back to the meeting room. She felt lightheaded and unsteady on her feet, like her world had been tilted on its axis for the second time in four days. What had Christian been thinking? How could he have done something so thoughtless? Poor Ruby. She felt so guilty, and just wanted to give her daughter a hug.