A Face For The Radio

We meet the man behind the voice in this sparkling short story by Glenda Young.

Once, Michael had been a vibrant young man. But those days were gone!

MICHAEL, can we have a word with you once your show ends this morning?” Michael looked up from the radio station mixing desk and met the gaze of station manager Sally Smithers.

Sally didn’t look happy and Michael’s heart sank.

“A word?” he said. “Is everything all right?”

Sally dismissed Michael’s words with a wave of her hand.

“Oh, everything’s fine.” She beamed. “It’s just that Bob’s here.”

“Bob?” Michael gulped. “The regional manager?”

“Bob thought he’d make the most of his visit, you know, take the opportunity to go over some figures with you, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about.” With that, Sally was gone. Michael took a deep breath. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d met the regional manager during the 20 years he’d worked at Foxglove FM.

Michael knew he hadn’t done anything to warrant a telling-off, and his gardening show on the station was as popular as ever, so why on earth did Bob Marshall need to speak to him?

Sally’s words left Michael feeling a little perturbed, but he knew he had to put it to the back of his mind.

In 10 minutes he’d be on air, presenting the station’s most popular weekly show.

Michael’s show was an hour-long slot called “The Glory Of Gardening”.

Listeners called in, asking for Michael’s advice on flowers, shrubs and vegetables they were having trouble with.

Michael sank into his swivel chair behind his desk.

He dropped the lever under the chair to make the seat descend a few inches to better suit his short legs.

Then he brought the microphone low, watched the countdown in front of him and was live on air.

“Good morning, everyone. It’s Michael

Green here, your gardening expert at Foxglove FM.”

During the course of the next hour, Michael took questions on all kinds of subjects, ranging from pruning roses and growing peas to the best way of making home compost.

Michael was a master of his subject and the hour flew by.

It was only when he said goodbye to his listeners that he remembered he had to meet Sally and Bob before he went home.

Michael heaved his hefty frame from his chair, pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie and walked down the hallway to Sally’s office.

Michael knocked three times and waited.

When the door swung open, Michael looked up into Sally’s face.

Sally towered above Michael. To be fair, most people did.

“Ah, Michael, come in,” Sally said.

Michael followed his boss into her office.

At a table by the window, he saw Bob Marshall.

Bob rose to shake Michael’s hand.

“Have a seat,” Bob told him. “Sally and I have been listening to your show.”

“It was another good one,” Sally added quickly. “The best,” Bob agreed. Michael sat at the table and looked from Sally to Bob.

“Were the listening figures good today?” Michael asked.

“Healthy.” Sally nodded. “Encouraging,” Bob added.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever the regional manager needed to speak to him about, it wasn’t his lack of listeners.

Michael ran a hand through his greying hair and straightened up in his seat.

His stomach growled with hunger and he laid a hand to his bulging waistline.

“Now,” Bob began. “Sally and I have been looking through your contract.”

Bob stiffened. Any mention of his contract always put the fear in him.

Was he about to be told his contract wasn’t being renewed?

There was a smile on

Bob’s face that put Michael at ease.

“We’ve found a clause in there that has been neglected for some time.”

“What kind of clause?” Michael asked, confused.

“A clause that your agent stipulated when you first signed with the station over twenty years ago.

“A clause that said if you were employed by Foxglove FM after twenty years, then a book deal would be arranged for you with a publisher, in conjunction with Foxglove FM.”

“A gardening book,” Sally added for clarification.

Michael’s head spun as he tried to take in the details.

There was going to be a book: a hard-back book full of gardening advice.

It would go on sale in all the bookshops and be promoted with an ad on TV.

“Of course, you don’t have to write it yourself,” Sally said.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up.

“I don’t? Then who will?” “We’ve got a ghost writer;

she’ll do it for you. In fact, she’s an expert in the field.”

Sally slid a sheet of paper across the table towards Michael.

“All you have do is sign this contract. Your name will go on the front of the book if you agree to our terms.

“We’ve already run it past your agent and she’s fine with the detail and the bonus you’ll be paid.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Michael replied, eyeing the contract.

“It doesn’t feel right, being the author of a book I haven’t written.

“It’ll have my name all over it and I won’t have written a single word.”

“Oh, everyone does it,” Bob said dismissively. “All those celebrities who bring books out: none of them write them themselves.

“Everyone has a ghost writer these days.”

Bob nudged the contract towards Michael and Sally handed him a pen.

Michael read the contract. His eye was caught by the rather large amount of money he was being offered.

He gulped. Without another thought, he signed his name and handed the contract to Sally.

A mischievous smile played around Sally’s lips.

“Just one thing, Michael,” she said. “There will be a publicity campaign for the book.”

Sally and Bob exchanged a look before Sally carried on.

“We thought we might use your picture for the promotion.”

“Will I need to have my photograph taken professionally?” Michael asked.

Sally gave a little cough. “Actually, we thought we’d use an old picture of you. You know, the one that’s on our website.”

“But that’s over twenty years old,” Michael pointed out. “Surely you need an up-to-date photo for the book?”

“The old picture shows you in a good light,” Sally replied, choosing her words carefully. “You were younger, more vibrant.”

“You mean I was a lot slimmer back then,” Michael said curtly.

“It was before your hair turned grey,” Bob added.

Michael felt an anger rise inside.

“You either use a picture of me as I am now, with my grey hair, flabby waist and short legs, or I pull out of this book nonsense right now.”

Bob ran his hand over the contract.

“It’s all signed and sealed now. I’m afraid we can use whatever image we like.”

Michael stormed out of Sally’s office and headed to the canteen for a comforting mug of hot chocolate and a slice of apple pie.

Six months later, Michael’s gardening book was published and shot straight to the top of the bestsellers chart.

Michael’s contract forbade him from revealing the book had been ghost written.

It also meant his lips were sealed as regards to the photograph that was used not just inside the book, but on adverts that appeared in newspapers, magazines, websites and on TV.

Despite the bonus he’d been paid and the royalties that were starting to arrive from sales of the book, Michael wasn’t happy.

“I feel such a fraud, Maisie,” he complained one night at home.

Maisie whined in reply, looked at Michael, then snuggled into his side, wagging her tail.

That weekend, Michael headed into town.

He needed a new lead for Maisie and he also wanted to buy a new pair of trousers to fit his expanding waistline.

He headed into the shopping centre and made a beeline for the pet shop.

As he walked along, the bookshop came into view and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

In the window was a small mountain of his gardening book, with his name on the front, the book he hadn’t written.

His heart sank. But worse was to come.

Right beside the books was a life-size cardboard cut-out of Michael, and he gasped in horror as he took it all in.

The cardboard cut-out was placed in the window to promote the gardening book, and although it was him, it wasn’t the Michael that he was now.

It was the Michael he had been over 20 years ago.

The truth had been stretched even further. There in front of him was a cardboard cut-out of a six-foot-three Adonis.

Michael’s four-foot-nine reflection peered back at him from the bookshop window.

The printer had taken more than a few liberties in reproducing his likeness in the cut-out. The more Michael stared at it, the more changes he saw.

Gone was his happy, full stomach, and in its place was a toned, muscled six-pack visible underneath a tight-fitting T-shirt.

Michael’s short, stumpy legs had been replaced by long, lean limbs.

At the top of it all was Michael’s smiling, slim face from over two decades ago, topped with the mop of dark hair he had back then.

He was struggling to take it all in when he felt something jostle at his side. A woman was there, staring into the window.

“I see he’s written his ‘Glory Of Gardening’ book at last,” she said to no-one in particular.

Michael turned towards her. She was the same height as he was, curvaceous, warm and attractive with a friendly face.

“Are you a fan?” Michael dared himself to ask.

“Oh, I listen to him all the time. I love gardening,” she replied.

“Me, too,” Michael said, then nodded towards his cardboard doppelganger.

“What do you reckon, then? Does he look like he sounds on Foxglove FM?”

Michael watched as the woman appraised the fake Michael.

“I thought he’d look a bit more friendly. Homely, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Michael replied ruefully.

“I thought he’d be older than that fella in the window. He doesn’t look like he wants to get his hands dirty in the soil.

“I expected him to look a

The truth had been stretched even further

little more ordinary and lovable,” the woman went on.

“Michael on the radio always comes across as endearing. He’s a proper gardener and he knows his onions.”

“And his dahlias.”

Michael smiled.

“I’m Sheila,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Michael,” he said.

“Oh! Another Michael. Fancy that!” Sheila cried, then she smiled.

“I was about to go upstairs to the bookshop café. Would you like to join me?”

“I’d love to,” Michael replied. “On one condition.” “Name it,” Sheila said.

“I’ll buy the coffees. I insist.”

“All right, but I can’t stay long,” Sheila replied. “I’m due at work in an hour. I work in the pet shop just a few doors along.”

“Like animals, do you?” Michael asked hopefully. “I’ve a shaggy old dog called Maisie.”

Sheila’s eyes lit up.

“I love them. I have two dogs, a goldfish and a frog. What about you, Michael, where do you work?”

Michael beamed from ear to ear as they walked up the stairs to the café.

“Let me tell you all about it over a mug of hot chocolate and a slice of apple pie.”

The End.