My Great Ex-Scape Read online

  My Great Ex-Scape

  Portia MacIntosh

  For Joe –The future Mr MacIntosh

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

  More from Portia MacIntosh

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  ‘How would you like £50,000?’

  I never expected to hear those words this evening. Who am I kidding? I never expected to hear those words ever.

  I always try to look on the bright side of life, searching high and low for the positive in every negative situation. My mum calls this The Rosie Outlook – an obvious pun combining my name, Rosie, and my ability to always try and find the good, even when it seems impossible.

  For example, not beating around the bush, I hate my job. I realise that hate is a strong word and not the kind of chat you would usually expect to hear from someone who prides herself on being positive, but I do, I absolutely hate my job.

  When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be a detective. Not a police detective though, a private detective, the kind you see in film noir. You know the sort, the cigarette-toting, low-key sexist, wisecracking type in the long, plain coat with a fedora on top of their head – the only kind I saw on TV growing up. As I matured into my teens and this no longer seemed like a viable job (if it even seemed like a real job at all), I realised that a job did exist that involved exposing the truth. I wanted to be an investigative journalist, and this actually seemed like a goal I could achieve.

  Flash-forward to me, here today, thirty-one years old, and I am a journalist… just not the kind I wanted to be. I work for the Salford News, just outside central Manchester. It’s only a small, local paper though, so not only is there not much room for an investigative journalist, but every page of the weekly paper is pretty much an advert. I spend most of my days writing paid advertorials – which is basically an advert hiding inside a news article – and given that the clients are paying for exactly what they want these pieces to say, it’s not exactly a challenge.

  I don’t just hate my job, I resent it. I’m kind of trapped in it, until I can find something better – well, trapped by my finances at least, I’m technically a freelancer, so I’m not exactly bound by a contract. Unless I just want to stop paying my bills – but I’ve heard that doesn’t go down very well.

  I did say there was a plus side though, and that plus side is Sam, my boss. I hate my job, but I love my boss. Sam is my editor and I can tell that she tries her best to give me the good jobs and, of the very few perks you get being a local faux journalist, she’ll often toss a few my way. She’s great when I need time off, she lets me off the hook when I arrive late – she even buys the office pizza on Fridays. Sam really is a wonderful boss.

  Money isn’t great… I know, it’s not really great for anyone right now, is it? But I live within my means. My apartment is small (which means my rent is too), but at least it’s close enough to work for me to walk. I just keep doing what I’m doing and hoping things will get better.

  I was a little down in the dumps today because David, my boyfriend of four months, cancelled our plans this evening because he needs to work late. He’s a lecturer at the university, teaching Palaeobiology (I didn’t know what it was either). I wrote my dissertation on yellow journalism and the paparazzi. David gets more excited about things like mass extinction. We might not have much in common, but we still get on really well. Sometimes opposites just attract, don’t they?

  So David was going to be teaching young adults studying for their master’s degree all about macroevolution (I don’t know what it is either, I just remember seeing his lesson plan over his shoulder and feeling like a bit of a dummy) tonight and I was going home to my tiny apartment to watch Hollyoaks… or so I thought.

  I was just about to leave work, after a particularly gruelling day writing an ‘article’ about a local window cleaning company, when Sam called me into her office. She had two tickets for the live filming on a new TV quiz show, but it was her husband’s birthday, so she wasn’t going to go. She offered them to me and Gemma, the other girl who does the same job as I do, so with nothing better planned I made the short trip to MediaCityUK – the development in Salford where all the big TV studios are based.

  I didn’t think anything of it when they told us we had to download an app so we could play along, nor did I expect anything eventful to happen to me when I found out contestants would be plucked from the studio audience. But then I sat down and, as the filming started, I couldn’t believe it when my phone started ringing. Mine. I had been selected at random to play the game. Gemma was fuming, she’s not happy unless she’s the centre of attention. I was just a combination of embarrassed and terrified. I’ve never been on TV before – well, how many people have? – but I’m not really the kind of person who likes to be the centre of attention and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many eyes would be on me – and not just here in the studio.

  The show is called One Big Question. I’m guessing it’s aiming itself at millennials because the app seems to be at the heart of it. It can be used by people to play along at home, but here, in the studio, it’s what I can use to ask the public or the audience for help with answers.

  I can’t actually believe my luck, but I’m on the final question – the titular one big question – and if I answer it correctly, I’ll win the money I’ve banked so far. A whopping £50,000.

  ‘I said, how would you like £50,000?’ Mike King, the host, asks again.

  ‘I’d love £50,000,’ I admit, my voice wobbling almost as much as I am on this tall chair.

  If I’d known I was going to be chosen to take part today, I probably would have turned the opportunity down, even with the knowledge that I could win some serious money. I don’t think I would’ve thought I had it in me to get this far…

  I’m somehow too hot and too cold. I want to say the studio lights are hot, but there’s cool air con to offset the warmth. I am sitting opposite the host in the centre of a brightly lit circle, in an otherwise dimly lit room. I can’t see the audience – I can’t even see the camera, not really. I only know they’re there now because of the little red LED lights I keep spotting. Even without them, I don’t think I’d be able to forget I was on TV. On live TV, no less.

  ‘This is your final question,’ Mike explains. ‘Who said blondes were dumb, huh?’

  I smile politely. I have had to contend with the dumb blonde thing my entire life. First, when I was younger, when I had naturally blonde hair, and then more recently from all the highlights, because for some reason my hair gets darker as I get older.

  ‘Your only remaining lifeline is to make a call from your speed dial numbers,’ Mike reminds me.

  When we started, I was allowed to select three numbers from my phone
in the event of choosing the ‘make a call’ option. Without many friends or people who I even believed would answer, I chose my dad, Tim, Sam, and David. I don’t suppose any of them would know all that much about anything based in pop culture, but I think I have that covered myself. Anything on the life and works of Alan Titchmarsh, unscrupulous news practices, or bones, and one of them might be some use to me. I doubt my boss would appreciate me calling her on her husband’s birthday, so here’s hoping for the Chelsea Flower Show or cavemen. At least if it’s the latter, David’s lecture will be over and he’ll be able to take the call. My dad probably won’t even hear his phone ring.

  ‘Ready for it?’ Mike asks.

  I nod unconvincingly.

  ‘OK, here we go… Which dinosaur had fifteen horns?’

  An impossibly big grin stretches all the way across my face. This has to be a joke. I might be optimistic, but I am under no illusions – I am not a lucky person. I don’t get picked for TV shows, I don’t have many people to call for help, and I definitely don’t get questions that are going to be easy… and yet here we are.

  ‘You know this one?’ the host asks in disbelief.

  I know I might be blonde, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about dinosaurs. I mean, I don’t know anything about dinosaurs, but what gives him the right, huh?

  ‘I know a man who does,’ I say as my grin inches even wider. ‘I’d like to call my boyfriend please.’

  ‘Your boyfriend knows a lot about dinosaurs?’

  I nod, only semi-smugly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the host jokes. ‘What’s your boyfriend’s name? What does he do?’

  ‘His name is David and he’s a lecturer.’

  ‘What does he teach, dinosaurs?’

  ‘Palaeobiology,’ I reply.

  ‘Is that dinosaurs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The audience laugh wildly. Mike is a sort of cheeky-chappy host. A thirty-something former musician who has somehow made it as a TV presenter. I suppose it’s his charm – the audience clearly love him.

  ‘OK, let’s get Dinosaur Dave on the phone,’ Mike says.

  I wince as he says ‘Dave’ – David hates being called Dave.

  ‘So all you have to do is, when Dinosaur Dave answers, just tell him you have one big question to ask him. If he gets it right, you’ll be £50k richer!’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say.

  It doesn’t just sound good, it sounds great. David knows everything there is to know about dinosaurs, there’s no way he’s getting this one wrong. I just hope he answers – can you imagine if he didn’t?

  ‘Quiet in the studio,’ Mike says, hushing the audience as the phone rings.

  ‘Hello,’ David says when he answers the phone.

  ‘Hey David, it’s Rosie,’ I say, in a suspiciously formal manner. ‘I… erm… I have One Big Question I need to ask you…’ I try to hide the nerves in my voice, but it’s impossible. I’m on TV – calling up my boyfriend on live TV – to ask him a question about dinosaurs so that I can win £50,000! I cannot stress enough that this is not a typical day for me.

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ he says. ‘Because I think I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘David...’

  ‘No, let me speak,’ he insists, as though he’s talking to one of his students. ‘For a while now I have suspected you’re far more serious about this relationship than I am, and I was happy to let it slide because no one was getting hurt, but now I suspect you’re calling me to ask me to move in with you perhaps – maybe even marry you, you can be quite full-on… Anyway, I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself so, the time has come – we need to break up. I didn’t want to do this on the phone but… it’s not you, it’s absolutely not you. It’s me. I’m just not that into you and you’re getting way too serious too quickly…’

  I sit on my chair in stunned silence. The host is in silence. The audience is in silence. I imagine everyone watching at home is sitting in silence. If the cast of Gogglebox were watching this show, it would be one of the quietest episodes of Gogglebox ever. No one knows what to say or do.

  ‘Rosie, say something,’ David prompts.

  I look over at Mike who has his hand raised over his mouth. He looks shocked, he’s cringing, but I can also see something hidden deep in his eyes that makes me think he knows this is TV gold, and he’s just leaving things to see how they play out. So I do the only thing I can think of doing…

  ‘Which dinosaur had 15 horns?’ I ask.

  ‘The kosmoceratops…’

  I tap the button on the player dashboard in front of me.

  ‘Kosmoceratops, final answer,’ I say blankly.

  ‘I… erm…’ Mike blusters.

  ‘Kosmoceratops,’ I say again.

  I don’t know if you can use willpower to stop yourself from blushing, but I am trying my hardest not to show how absolutely mortified I am. It’s taking all my strength – and even more not to burst into tears.

  ‘Kosmoceratops,’ I insist for a third time.

  ‘Erm… OK…,’ Mike tries to push on. ‘Is that the right answer?’

  I have to endure one of those painfully long, uncomfortable pauses they do on quiz shows to build suspense while you wait to see if you’ve got the right answer. Every second is absolute agony as I try to keep a lid on my embarrassment. If this had happened under any other circumstances, I probably would have burst into tears.

  The screen flashes up that this is the right answer, as it has done with all the other questions, only this time, as this is the final question, it is accompanied by a rainstorm of gold glitter. As it cascades down over me, Mike hands me a comically large cheque for £50,000.

  This feels like one of those nightmares where everything seems fine before events take a horrible turn, like you’re giving your Oscars acceptance speech but then you look down and realise you’ve forgotten to put on your dress. It is somehow one of the best and one of the worst days of my life. I can’t even begin to figure out how I should be feeling right now.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispers into my ear, giving my shoulder a squeeze, before turning back to the camera to finish the show for the evening.

  As he wishes the audience and the viewers goodbye, instructing them to tune in tomorrow for another live show, I look at my cheque.

  Of all the things I expected to happen today, the events of the last few hours were certainly not on that list.

  2

  Last night I got dumped. Last night I got dumped in front of an audience. Last night I got dumped on live TV.

  However you look at it, it’s bad, but the more you think about it, the worse it gets.

  I’m trying to use my Rosie Outlook to remind myself that I am £50,000 better off than I was yesterday, but even that is proving challenging today.

  I may be £50,000 richer, but I’m also one boyfriend poorer – albeit one terrible boyfriend who I’m better off without. I mean, come on, seriously, he thought I was trying to take our relationship to the next level, so he dumps me over the phone? And, I have to stress, I have shown no signs of wanting to level-up our relationship – none at all. I’ve just been a good, normal girlfriend. I haven’t expected much, I haven’t stopped him going out with his friends. I’ve just given myself to him with blind optimism and he’s tossed me away like an old dinosaur bone. Well, I don’t suppose he’d throw an old bone away, would he? He’d salivate over it and write a book about it. I guess that one doesn’t really work… He’s thrown me away like [insert cool thing here] because David hates cool things. His mum bought him a snapback cap for his holidays and he threw that away. He hates avocados with a fiery passion (not because he doesn’t like the taste, but because they’re a hip thing to eat) and he always looks at my iPhone with all the disgust you’d give a dog turd, so I guess he’s thrown me away like any of those things instead.

  I sigh to myself. I really, really don’t want to get out of bed, but I need to leave for work in forty-fiv
e minutes. I know, I’ve just won £50k, but it’s not exactly quit-your-job money, is it? At least not overnight.

  I roll over in my small double bed and grab my phone from my bedside table. The stupid One Big Question app drained my battery last night and by the time I got home and plugged it in, I was asleep before it had turned back on. I just wanted the day to be over with and, to be honest, I didn’t want to make any more phone calls anyway.

  My screen looks like a whole mess of stuff that I can’t quite make sense of, so I grab my glasses. I don’t need them for reading so I don’t usually wear them in bed. I generally wear contact lenses through the day because I think my glasses make me look dorky, but my eyes feel all funny so I grab my glasses to wear for now.

  Does that say… No? It can’t. Apparently I have over 100 notifications. I don’t think I’ve ever had 100 notifications on my phone, not even when I downloaded Tinder – especially when I downloaded Tinder.

  Missed calls, iMessages, emails, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram – they’re all blowing up. I wonder if the One Big Question app has caused something to malfunction in my phone… until I notice a notification for a suggested YouTube video called ‘Woman dumped on live TV by dinosaur nerd’.

  I click it, as though there might be some small chance that this isn’t a video of me, but of course it is, and it’s had over three million views so far.

  Oh boy…

  I click Twitter and see that my mentions and DMs have erupted with messages from strangers. I keep my DMs open for work, which I seriously regret right now. Some people feel sorry for me, some find it all absolutely hilarious… and then there are the comments that are especially hard to take, the ones calling me a bunny boiler, laughing at me but in a mean-spirited way, saying David did right to dump me. No doubt from the idiotic incels of the internet who delight in seeing a young woman being made a fool of. As I get into the tweets where people start insulting the way I look, I realise there is only one thing for it. I need to deactivate my social media accounts. All of them. At least until all of this blows over.