‘How are you, Sara?’
‘Excellent,’ I said, giving him the Meyers smile (wide, dazzling and bright according to Hello! magazine eight years ago). ‘You?’
‘Good, yes, thanks.’ I noticed he wasn’t making eye contact. Never a good sign. ‘So. Sara. Bit awkward this. No easy way to tell you but we’re going to be making some changes round here. I … er …’
I let him squirm. I stopped smiling.
‘Well … thing is, direction from above,’ he continued. ‘They want a fresh look for the morning show …’
As if I didn’t already know, I thought. ‘Ah.’ A couple of months ago, there had been some changes in management and a young chap in tight skinny jeans and designer sneakers had been brought in. I’d only met him a couple of times but the rumours were that he’d been head-hunted to take Carlton TV into the next decade.
‘New faces …’
‘Younger faces.’
‘Some, not all. This isn’t about your age, Sara, but the programme formula is getting a bit tired …’
‘I get it. So you won’t be renewing my contract.’
Chris looked very uncomfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, if it was up to me—’
‘Not a problem, Chris. I’ve already had some offers,’ I lied. ‘One that looks very promising actually.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘You know I can’t say.’ I stood up. I didn’t want to prolong the meeting. No point. At least I’d be leaving with my dignity intact, and Chris would tell others that I’d had offers. I’d learnt long ago not to let anyone see when you’re sinking. This had been coming a while, moved from the prime morning show to mid-morning; only a dummy wouldn’t have seen what was happening. I offered Chris my hand.
Chris stood and we shook hands. ‘Best of luck, Sara. I really mean that.’
‘And to you too. I really mean that.’ I didn’t.
As I came out of Chris’s room, I spotted Rhys by a coffee machine on the other side of the open-plan office. He was staring at me to see how I’d taken it. I put on my most cheerful face and gave him a friendly wave.
What now? I asked myself once I was in the lift. I needed to talk to someone who would understand. The first person I used to call in situations like this was my close friend Anita, but she’d died five years ago. She’d have known what to say but she’d gone. So … what to do? Alcohol. Nicholas.
*
An hour later, Nicholas and I were ensconced in a comfy pew in a bar on Ladbroke Grove. In front of us was an ice bucket and an almost-empty bottle of Chablis.
‘Told you so,’ I said.
Nicholas rolled his eyes. ‘You told me your career was over. As your agent, I can’t possibly agree with that.’
‘So what now then?’
‘I’m often asked if you’ll do commercials.’
‘What for? Equity release? Stair lifts? Retirement homes?’
‘No, of course not, Sara, nothing like that, so you can stop that right now. Commercials can be quite lucrative.’
‘And everyone who sees them knows you need the money.’
‘So? Everyone needs money. No shame there. Want me to put some feelers out?’
I shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘Again, enough with the “woe is me” attitude. It’s not like you and it’s pathetic and self-indulgent.’
I laughed. ‘OK, being realistic. I’m past my sell-by date. Is it over for me now in TV? What other opportunities are there out there?’
‘Of course you’re not past it – you’re being over-dramatic. There are lots of women on TV who are your age.’
‘So you keep saying, but usually fronting programmes about pension fraud and care homes in crisis.’
He sighed. ‘Then write a thriller like one of those that are so popular now; they have to have “girl” in the title: Gone Girl, Girl on a Train, Girl with a Dragon Tattoo.’
‘Mine would be Girl with a Bus Pass or Girl with a Hearing Aid.’
He sighed again. ‘Stop wallowing. How about you write a children’s book? Loads of celebrities are doing it—’
‘I can’t write,’ I pointed out.
‘You don’t always have to. Some of them use a ghost writer to do the bulk of the work then add their voice with a few tweaks at the end.’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t a clue what children like to read now.’
‘That hasn’t stopped the others, and don’t forget you were a child once. What did you read to Elliott when he was small?’
‘Charles used to read him the Financial Times. That’s why he ended up in banking.’ Elliott is my son, currently living in New York.
Nicholas laughed. ‘Write one of those guide-to-life books, or how to entertain or decorate your house.’
‘No, thanks. It would be in the bargain-basement bin before you could say Pippa Middleton.’
‘Can you afford to take some time off? Think about things? Let me see what’s out there while you tread water for a while?’
‘I could for a few months, not more. I hadn’t planned for this, as you know. My divorce cleaned me out, then, before she died, Mum’s care-home costs ate up most of what was left of my income.’ My dear mum had suffered from dementia and had needed care for the last eight years of her life. I found her a fantastic place, not that she really knew where she was, or even who I was some days, but she was safe and looked after, with doctors and nurses on call twenty-four hours a day. It cost all her savings, just about everything I earned to keep her there, plus I’d remortgaged my house but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. No regrets. She died last year but, in truth, I’d lost the mother I’d known years before
