I was woken by my mobile at nine the next morning, so badly hungover one of my eyes wouldn’t open. Long and painful story short, it was Mishkin! Not the saluki from Pengelly Avenue, who never really mastered the telephone, but the wraith in the leopard-print trousers. Was I interested on working on a new show they had just been commissioned to make called Why Do They Do That? The series would explore the psychological roots of why people did the jobs they do. Why surgeons get a kick out of cutting into human flesh, why comedians like making audiences laugh, why police enjoy nabbing crims, that sort of thing. Was I free to come in for a chat 9 a.m. Monday morning, and if it was agreed I was a “good fit” for the project, I could start there and then! My job would be to find articulate, self-knowing celebs who—when their palm was crossed with silver—would blab endlessly about their hopeless craving for laughter, applause, etc. If there was some shameful incident in childhood, so much the better; if I could actually get them to cry on camera, then there was a five hundred quid bonus in it for me! (I made up the last bit.)
It was shocking how much up my street this job was—I decided to buy Chantal a big bunch of flowers as a thank you—and I spent the weekend having ideas and generally preparing to kill at the interview. Online I found a fantastic list of top tips for making an impact on a potential new boss.
Tip one: Do a Google “deep dive” about the company, and the person you’re trying to impress. Don’t just look at page one of Google, look at page ten, where all the bodies are buried! (Discovered that Mishkin—real name, Harriet Vick—began her career on the Stoke Sentinel. Did that count as a buried body? Note to self: Find out where Stoke is. Like on a map.)
Tip two: Read the papers. Know what’s going on in the world, from politics to low culture. Show them you’re not just a work drongo but a well-informed, rounded individual. (Things with North Korea still shitty; MPs still arguing about Brexit; novel written by computer still topping the paperback charts.)
Tip three: Eat breakfast in a hotel. Apparently, it makes you feel like a boardroom big shot. (The full English at the Premier Inn probably doesn’t count.)
Tip four: Sort out your eye contact. Practice maintaining eye contact with a friend or loved one. The longer you can look them in the eyes at an i/v the more confidence, sincerity and authority you convey (without coming across as a total psycho, obvs). The bloke in the Turkish deli on West End Lane liked to chat; I thought I’d try it on him.
Tip five: Punch something! Exercise generally and boxing in particular are recommended for feeling relaxed and up for it. (As an experiment, I thumped the sofa. Hurt my thumb.)
So then it was Monday afternoon and—drum roll—I got the job!
It turned out that none of those interview tips were the slightest use. She didn’t once ask if I’d ever been to Stoke or what I thought about global warming. It was more, was I okay with the money they were offering—very okay!—and could I get to celebs like Chad Butterick?!
So funny you should mention his name, I told her, my mum’s memory doctor lives opposite his house; in fact, there was a horribly loud party there only the other night.
I think she was genuinely impressed at the extent of my showbiz contacts!
Now I was sitting at my new desk—Chantal was in the next office—and funny drunken fetus Dylan was joining us next week. I spent the rest of the day putting in calls to all sorts of entertainment lowlife and their wonderfully ghastly agents. One of them actually told me, “Darling, what you need to understand is Joan doesn’t get out of bed for less than fifty thousand!”
Not too shabby then, all things considered: exit old job Friday; begin new job Monday. Just for a change, I appeared to have landed with my bum in the butter, as they say in Stoke. (They do. I looked it up.)
In the war room, where we gather to plan our next move, the toothbrush is buzzing with excitement. Through its contacts in the toothbrush network—they talk to each other; who knew?—it thinks it may have discovered in the London suburb of Fulham, an eligible lookalike of the mythical Golden Nicky! His name, pleasingly, is Johnny, which, while not a perfect homophone of Nicky, does indeed share some fortuitous resonances.
I repeat my mantra that we are not in the business of finding Daisy a mate. In the famous piscatorial analogy, I explain that we are not feeding her for a day by presenting her with a fish; we are nourishing her for life by teaching her to fish.
Perhaps it would be more correct to say we are allowing one or two of the uglier bites on her hook to “get away.”
Okay, the metaphor is out of control, but I can’t help it. I’m intrigued. After all, I’m only non-human!
“What do we know about him?” I find myself asking (it seems to me, in the manner of a police detective in the early stages of an investigation. Possibly one of those rumpled loner types who don’t play by the rules, but who get results, despite having a shocking hangover and an unstable romantic history).
“Quite a narrow mouth. But good brushing habits. A crown at
