idea”.’ The team treat themselves to a nervous giggle. I’m tough, but Bale is a tosser and our common loathing of him unites us again. I roll up my sleeves and sit on the side of the table, smiling and allowing the good humour to penetrate. ‘So what’s the competition doing?’
‘ITV are concentrating on their main stable of shows, successful soaps, quiz games that make people rich and buying in blockbuster films that earned a fortune in the box office. Here’s their schedule for the next four months. The docusoap features heavily too,’ says Ricky. He’s done his homework efficiently. Unfortunately the news is depressing. The room falls silent again; the good mood has evaporated.
‘What about Channel 4’s scheduling this year?’ asks Fi hopefully.
‘Just as strong,’ adds Ricky, embarrassed to be twisting the knife. ‘They have everything. Arts, music, drama, comedy, entertainment, lifestyle, leisure, documentaries, film premieres and something called “4 later”.’
‘What’s that – porn?’ asks Mark.
‘I don’t expect they even need porn,’ answers Tom.
I read the descriptor. ‘It’s porn,’ I assure. No one knows whether we should be glad that C4 have resorted to this or depressed because it will be a crowd pleaser. I clap my hands. ‘OK, to business. No idea is a daft idea, any thoughts, please?’ I pick up the marker and stand with my pen poised in front of the flip chart.
Silence.
‘Come on,’ I encourage. ‘Don’t let those schedules intimidate you. I really think you can overestimate a period drama with high production values, big stars and great plots. I think they are too highbrow. Let’s catch another niche market.’
Fi gets it. ‘Drama is too expensive for TV6. Entertainment is cheap.’
‘Exactly,’ I bolster. ‘With entertainment the main outgoing is people’s pride and common sense.’
‘What about a game show?’ offers Tom. The look on his face suggests that he thinks he’s just invented electricity.
‘Good,’ I assure. He’ll be the first to go, when the P45s are being dished up. ‘Now try and think of what
We bandy a few game show ideas around but they’ve all been done before. Often on bigger budgets than we have available. We talk it round and round.
‘We could diversify. We could buy a publishing house or a football team,’ suggests Gray. He’s thinking of the free tickets that he could blag for his friends.
That’s a stupid idea,’ comments Di.
‘Gary, the commercial director, likes it.’
‘I think it is a great idea,’ says Di.
‘Can we keep to the point, please,’ I instruct. It’s getting hot and late. I call out for more coffee and Coke. The rest of London’s workforces teem out of their offices and escape into pubs for a long cool lager. This isn’t an option for my team.
‘How about a “fly-on-the-wall” programme?’ asks Jaki. ‘They are cheap and popular.’
‘Absolutely. On which subject?’
‘The police force?’ offers Mark. ‘We could expose their ruthless tactics and racist tendencies.’
‘They do a pretty good job of that themselves, without TV,’ points out Jaki.
‘The fire brigade?’ offers Ricky. I know he’s simply getting hot and sweaty over the idea of them swinging down their pole. He’s a sucker for uniforms.
‘Been done.’
His disappointment is criminal.
‘Banker-wankers ?’
‘Same as the police force, really.’
‘The gas board?’
‘Done.’
‘Electricity?’
‘And water. Nothing left to be said on the utilities scams.’
‘Or builders or mechanics.’
‘It’s all been done before,’ sighs Mark. ‘It’s all too undemanding and formulaic.’
‘We are talking about an escapist medium,’ I remind him. ‘No one wants demanding. Demanding is how we describe our kids, red bills and the lover we no longer want to have sex with.’
We fall silent again. I look at the trash that’s lying on the table. Numerous empty cans of diet Coke, overflowing ashtrays, curling sandwiches. This mountain of debris and my Patek Philippe watch tell me it’s time to call it a day.
‘OK, go home. Go and see your partners and kids.’ I flop back into my chair and put my head on the desk. The cool surface is a relief. ‘But don’t stop thinking about this. The idea may come to you on the tube or in the bath or whilst you’re making love.’
‘You’re sick,’ grins Jaki. She seems to think that part of her job description as production secretary is to tell me how it is.
‘Look, Jaki, football is not a matter of life and death, it’s more important than that. And TV? TV is more important than football.’
She laughs and closes the door behind her.
But I’m not joking.
3
I live on my own, in a spacious pseudo-loft apartment in a trendy part of East London. I say pseudo because it’s not in the loft, it’s on the second floor. But I do have exposed brickwork and genuine iron girders that keep the roof from falling in. My space is the antithesis of both the abandoned family home in Esher and my mother’s two- up-two-down in Cockfosters. It’s modern and light and empty. I only allow things into my flat if they are both useful and beautiful. Except for the men who visit, which would be asking too much. My two favourite possessions are my charcoal-grey B&B Italia couch that seats umpteen and my B&O TV, which is the size of a screen at a small local cinema. I love my flat and Issie hates it, for the same reason: it’s clinical and impersonal. Issie keeps trying to introduce chintz by buying me floral bathmats and tea cosies for Christmas. I return the favour by buying her aluminium, slim-line pasta jars, which she can’t open.
Josh and Issie both have keys to my flat, as I do to their homes. We are Londoners so we don’t literally drop in on one another. But sometimes we make arrangements to go round to each other’s pads for supper, as it’s nice to occasionally come home to the smell of cooking and the clink of someone pouring you a G&T. Tonight I’m delighted we’ve made this plan. I need their company. I push open my door and am hit by delicious cooking smells.
‘You’re late,’ shouts Josh from the kitchen. He’s responsible for the delicious smells. I drop my bags and PC and head straight for the kitchen.
‘What’s cooking?’ I enquire, lifting lids and spooning small amounts of heaven into my mouth.
‘Out,’ he snaps, playfully swiping at my hands and trying to replace the lids. ‘You have to wait.’ But he can’t resist showing off. ‘It’s
‘Chargrilled peppers with anchovy and capers,’ translates Issie, as she hands me a glass of Australian Chardonnay. ‘Mountadam, Eden Valley 1996,’ she assures, knowing it’s important to me.
‘And
I turn helplessly to Issie. She fills in, ‘Roast pork with balsamic vinegar.’
‘Fantastic.’ Funny, I’m never irritated by Josh’s pretension of insisting on calling every dish he cooks by its Italian name. ‘Have I got time to shower off my shit day?’
‘Yes, if you are quick.’
Sometimes we chatter non-stop throughout supper and sometimes we watch TV, entertaining ourselves by hurling abuse or a book at the commentary, but tonight we eat in comfortable silence. Or at least I think it is comfortable until Issie asks, ‘What’s up, Cas? You’re really quiet tonight.’ She’s given me authority over the remote control. Normally I love this but tonight, as a diversionary tactic, the remote control is a failure.
