leans towards me and starts to whisper menacingly, ‘The tabloids and the men’s mags have a host of new wannabe babes who present meaningless shows and are prepared to pose topless for publicity.’ I’m about to condemn this, when he adds, ‘You’re going to have to come up with something really good to top that.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The idea of topless wannabes has made him salivate. ‘Got it?’
‘Something arresting.’ I’m trying to sound cool but I keep my hands by my sides so he doesn’t see them quiver. I hope my mastery of understatement irritates him.
‘A ginormous, fucking, ratings-rocketting idea. Now go away and have it.’ He dismisses me.
I get back to my desk and give in to the shaking. I light a cigarette and swallow back a cold double espresso. Artificial stimulants are a way of life. For all Bale is as ugly as a slapped arse, he is good at his job. I do, grudgingly, admire him. He has a point. I’ve been trying to ignore our flagging ratings, positively denying the competition’s success. But the weekend runs are indisputable: TV6 is in big trouble.
Our office is in north London. A peculiar idiosyncrasy in the microclimates means that it rains more than average here. Or so it seems to me. It’s late August. It has certainly been summer in every other part of London. I have seen pavement cafes exploding throughout Soho; crowds of office workers have exploited every coffee and lunch break by pouring into the streets in the West End. Girls in skimpy sundresses and strappy sandals have been spotted as far as Hammersmith. But in Islington it’s bleak. To be specific, in TV6 it’s bleak.
‘Everything OK?’ asks Fi. Fi is my assistant and has been for eighteen months. I employed her because she reminds me of myself. She is committed, ambitious and dedicated. She’s cold comfort in times of a crisis.
‘Fine.’ I turn to my PC and hope she’ll get the hint. I like to work things out for myself.
‘Is there anything I can help with?’
‘No,’ I reply automatically. Although I employed Fi, I don’t trust her 100 per cent. It isn’t that Fi has done anything to lose my trust. In fact, when she first joined TV6, she worked very hard to be a ‘chum’, but eventually she realized I don’t do ‘chum’. And I don’t trust. These are policies.
‘If it’s Bale, maybe I can have a word,’ she offers. I sigh, depressed by the implication. Am I supposed to think she’s being helpful? I look up at her and she is twirling her fine blonde hair around her finger, tapping her foot and smiling to herself. The implication is that she has a special relationship with Bale. Has she? Has she slept with him? Oh, awful thought. I look closer and she defiantly returns my gaze. Her ice-blue eyes, sparkling out above her high, chiselled cheekbones, lock on mine for a fraction of a second. Then she starts to walk away. She is striking. Her mother is Norwegian and she has inherited her Scan, confidence and good looks. She’s one of those women who can make a beady bag and a friendship bangle look cool rather than childish. She is five foot ten; she has no hips, no thighs, no stomach. She is the ideal woman, as far as women are concerned. Generally Bale likes his women a little curvy, but then that is a generalization. It’s possible they’ve had sex. However, I don’t want to ask her. What’s the point? She wouldn’t have to tell me the truth. If she has slept with him she will have no influence over him, whatever she thinks to the contrary. But it is possible that he’s still trying to seduce her, and if this is the case I can’t afford to alienate her. She could be useful.
‘Hey, Fi. Yeah, you can help. Organize a meeting between our team after lunch. We need a brainstorm.’ I smile. We both know the smile is business. She grins back and I’m relieved. She probably hasn’t slept with him yet. I normally know about such things long before the participants do. I consider warning her but decide not to. She’ll either think I am jealous or too old to know better. Advice, by its very nature, is there to be ignored.
Our office is a huge glass building that seems to rise endlessly upwards. It’s turned inside out like the Pompidou Centre. There is an odd mix of ritz and tat. Diet Coke and watery hot drinks from vending machines are consumed around Conran aluminium tables. There are plants oxygenating the room but I suspect the nod towards green and leafy is a losing battle. Since television studios are some of the few places left in London where people can still smoke, most feel it is obligatory. A dense smoky haze fills our days. People don’t move around much, they stay at their desks. This suggests that there is a substantial amount of genuine industry but not much communication. Calling a meeting indicates the seriousness of my issue. Through the glass partition I see my team congregate. It’s like watching a bunch of anxious relatives waiting by a sick bed. The analogy is frighteningly close to the reality. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that they possibly realize as much; everyone appears slightly nervous and sweaty. They are trying hard to look as though they are not trying at all. Their names are Thomas and Mark (the creative team), Jacquelyn (production secretary), Diana (marketing manager), Graham (sponsorship and advertising manager), Deborah (PR officer), Richard (broadcast strategy and scheduling manager) and Fi. Because we work in TV they are known as Tom, Jaki, Di, Gray, Debs, Ricky and Fi. There was nothing we could do with Mark.
The team look at one another to discover a suitable expression to draw their faces into. They are trying to decide whether to look racked with professional concern, coolly indifferent or bright and optimistic. The problem with my industry is that a very large part of it is populated by those who refuse to leave their student years behind them. They dress like students. Everyone is ill-looking thin. Dressing down is an art form. The merest hint of trying, an iota of personal pride, will be condemned. Everyone looks as though they do too many drugs, and smoke and drink too much. It’s fair. Besides looking like students, the attitudes are similar, too. It is only students who could have arrived at the concepts of ‘essay crisis’ or ‘no milk in the fridge crisis’. These are not crises. Crises are earthquakes, famines and tidal waves. My team understands that the cancellation of the Christmas karaoke act is a crisis but have no concept that twelve weeks of plummeting ratings is a crisis. If they do get the concept and panic about it for fifteen minutes or so, they can’t hold the concept. It’s usual that mid-brainstorm or meeting, someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. On our return the original subject of the meeting is forgotten and the debate has moved on to whether salt and Linneker are a better flavour crisp than cheese and onion.
I don’t feel like this. There is nothing more important than my job.
I never enter a meeting room without first thinking through exactly what I want to say, how I want to say it and what effect I want to have. Fi being keen and ambitious, whilst slightly threatening and nauseous, is useful. She’ll really want to crack this. I’ve slept with both Mark and Tom, although neither of them knows about the other. (FYI, Mark is better-looking, Tom is better in bed. He tries harder.) It should be easy to keep their attention. Especially as by happy chance I am wearing an unnecessarily tight T-shirt and bootleg jeans that cling in all the right places. I haven’t slept with Gray so the outfit will be doubly effective. Debs and Di like to keep in with me as I occasionally give them tips on hair conditioners or the latest ‘must have’ fashion statement. Ricky’s gay so he does the same for me.
‘Afternoon,’ I breeze.
‘Afternoon,’ they mumble sulkily. For a nanosecond I think they are going to add ‘miss’, but they don’t.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, pointing sceptically towards a cardboard box in the centre of the table. It’s overflowing with balloons, Christmas decorations, crayons, sticky-backed plastic, old magazines, a toy trumpet, several Comic Relief noses and a cappuccino.
‘Oh, that’s my coffee,’ says Di, reaching into the box and rescuing her drink. She takes a huge slurp, oblivious to my disdain.
‘Yes, that’s clear. What is the rest of it?’ I fear Debs has been let down by her childminder again and had to bring her five-year-old son into work. I hope not – Bale just isn’t in the mood.
‘It’s the creativity box,’ pipes up Fi, enthusiasm oozing from every pore. I look at her, waiting for a more meaningful explanation. She tries, ‘It’s to help stimulate more creative thoughts.’ Even if I hadn’t read Fi’s CV I would know by this comment that she had an idyllic childhood, went to the best public schools for young ladies and had a father who adored her. How else could she be this happy with life? I think I’ll piss on her parade.
‘Remind me, Fi, which industry do we work in?’
‘TV.’ She looks cautiously around the room, unsure where this questioning is going.
‘And wouldn’t you agree that TV is generally considered a creative industry?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘We’re not bloody management consultants, we don’t need sticky-backed plastic to prove we are capable of ideas.’ I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. She sheepishly drags the box off the table and tries to hide it behind the more conventional ideas aid, the flip chart. The others disloyally look away, distancing themselves from her. That doesn’t impress me either.
‘OK. You have read the brief. We have to come up with a hero show, something that will draw in the viewers and the advertisers; interest of the press would be a bonus. Mr Bale has articulated the problem here, rather succinctly, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ I read, ‘“We need a ‘bang-those-bastards-and-their-new-shows-in-to-the-ground-
