It was definitely vanilla, with a subtle hint of something else, something that was achingly familiar and yet not quite identifiable. Sweet, there was definitely sweetness there, a fruit or a berry perhaps. The scent though amplified by the warm fresh on which it rested, was still so frustratingly subtle that he could not quite name it.
Maybe it was unknown to him, some exotic spice or fruit, that he had smelt once before without knowing its source. Or maybe it was her closeness that was confusing his senses, bewitching him with her smile, those cherry red lips…
“Cherries”, he spoke the word aloud before he had time to catch himself.
“What’s that love ?”, the young girl asked in a shrill north London accent, pausing what she was doing.
“Cherries”, he repeated, cursing himself for his lapse, his already quick mind racing to recover the situation. “I was just remembering that my wife asked me to get some Cherries on the way home tonight.”
“Really, I’d have thought you’d have people to do you shopping for you.”, the girl shrilled. “Still it’s nice that you still do things like that I guess. My Trevor gets me flowers some times when he comes home from work.”
He let the young makeup girl prattle on, attempting to zone out of her voice. Looking straight ahead at the mirror in front of him, watching her lithe form as she moved about him adding powders and creams constantly adjusting his hair until she was content with it.
Regarding almost guilty the outline of her bust underneath her t-shirt, then glancing almost as guiltily at the tablet computer laying closed and switched off on the counter top. The production team, following their procedures, had insisted that it was turned off and left in the secure safe in the dressing room during the interview. The nation did not want the now familiar musical buzz of a 3G receiver trying to obtain signal as they watched the show.
It was probably the stress of the day, or perhaps the closeness of the young makeup artist next to him that made him want to turn the tablet device on and surf a couple of his preferred sites, but it was too much of a risk here, too much chance that someone may enter the room unannounced. Not that any of the sites he viewed were illegal they were little more than the electronic equivalent of any of the many magazines that he could easily buy in any newsagent store. But just as he could not readily walk into a new agents and buy one of those magazines, equally it would be frowned upon if anyone knew that he visited such web sites.
“I said you’re ready now sir.”, the grating tone cut through into his thoughts bringing him back to the task at hand.
He sensed movement to his right and turned in his chair to see a member of the production team waiting for him. A young man probably early twenties wearing the de-facto skinny jeans, buttoned up shirt under a tight patterned sweater, clutching a clipboard and talking constantly into the headset he wore over his expensively tousled hair.
“We’re on in five sir so if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you on set and get your mic hooked up”, he said turning as he did towards the door, looking back at the older man in his best follow me pose.
Don Redmond stood from the chair, content that his charge would now be following him, the assistant walked out of the makeup room door and turned right. Redmond followed him down the short corridor with its plain white walls and dark grey linoleum floor.
The assistant had stopped at a large heavy door, waiting for him, then as he arrived he quickly said.
“Remember we’re on air, no talking”, and swung the door open and ushered Redmond through it into the studio.
Don Redmond had been in many studios and yet still found the experience strangely disturbing, it wasn’t stage fright. The thought of his image and voice being broadcast to untold thousands of people held no fear for him. Equally the interviewers, even those that touted themselves in the media as being the tough interrogators, searching out truth, did nothing to instil fear in him.
