Coming Up Next. Penny Smith
not a has-been. You’re a coming-round-again. A born-again presenter.’
‘A BAP – a sort of BAP that’s the last on the shelf.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Anyway, I was hoping to have a week or two to compost here in Yorkshire, and not say anything about those toads at work. Sadly, the press studs are on the gravel, hoping to tempt me out, and I’m thinking of getting the support of the blond and gorgeous Hercules and my Victoria’s Secret bra.’
‘You think the dog’s a good idea?’
‘You think the bra’s a good idea?’
Jim laughed. ‘Well, you sound like you’re going to be OK.’
‘Thanks. But, let’s face it, we both know there are lots of women out there who can do the job and who aren’t on the slippery slope to fifty. I knew I should have had a penis implant.’
‘You still can. I’m sure I have a number here …’
‘Very funny. I’m off to put on a face, a bra and a dog.’
‘Just remember to put them where they’re supposed to go.’
‘Thank goodness you reminded me. I was just about to adjust my la-bra-dor straps. ‘Bye.’
It took her an hour to get ready, mostly because her escape from London had involved no luggage and she had to root through the detritus of her past in the wardrobe in her bedroom. Luckily, the eighties were coming back in …
Her dad was chatting to the reporters and had given them cups of tea and coffee, telling them she was on her way back from a walk. Peering out from behind her bedroom curtains, Katie smiled. He was in his element, holding court, being witty and erudite.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror, put on a bit more lip-gloss and went downstairs. ‘How do I look?’ she asked, as she stood poised in the hall, with Hercules gazing up at her expectantly.
‘Nice dog,’ said her dad.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I always like to have a handy Lab coat when there’s an emergency operation.’
‘Good luck,’ said her mum, as she opened the front door. ‘I quite fancy the one from the Daily Mail. He smells lovely.’
The Daily Mail ran the worst article. ‘Katie Fishes Bottom of the Barrel’ was the headline on page three. The best was in the Sun. ‘The Dogs of War – Katie Fights Back’.
‘Hercules looks good,’ said her mother, as she peered over her daughter’s shoulder, and burnt the toast.
The papers had been pored over at Hello Britain! since the first editions had dropped at eleven the night before. Keera had tried hard not to look smug and ended up looking smug and arch at the same time. Mike had harrumphed and said he wasn’t reading the rags until he’d finished the show. ‘Nice dog,’ was his only comment.
Richard, the day’s producer, said under his breath, ‘Unlike you.’
The show that day had sparkled as Mike and Keera seemed to have decided they needed to prove something. Off-screen, though, they had been demanding. Mike had complained about every script and was throwing papers on the floor, describing them as ‘absolute shit’.
Richard was in the gallery, sitting next to the director and the director’s assistant, listening to the tirade and rolling his eyes. Eventually he had had enough. He leaned forward, opened the button to connect the microphone to Mike’s earpiece and said, ‘If you think they’re so shit, why don’t you get in a little earlier and rewrite them, instead of turning up five minutes before you need to go to Makeup and shouting about them now?’ Richard could tell from Mike’s face that he’d be for it later, but what the hell? He was fed up with being shouted at by an egotistical wanker – even if he was one of the best presenters around. There was no need to do all that posturing in front of everyone else: he could easily have had a word in private but, no, he liked to get out there and puff up his toady chest even more than it was puffed up already.
And as for Keera! That damn stupid question she’d put to his reporter – who, even now, was getting it in the neck from the smitten editor. ‘Why is anorexia so popular?’ she had asked.
Judith, the reporter, had winced and said, ‘I don’t think “popular” is the word I’d use.’ Afterwards, she had got on to the squawk box and instructed Richard to tell her not to use that word the next time they did the Q and A.
‘I’ll speak to her,’ Richard had said.
When they’d done the interview again an hour later, the bloody woman had gone and said the same word. Just to make a point.
‘If only she had a mere shaving of the intelligence she feels she has,’ muttered Richard, as he gazed at the beautiful profile of his female talent. Richard had been a big fan of Katie. The weeks that Keera had stood in while she was off had felt like months to him. He had been stunned to hear she was Katie’s permanent replacement. It meant a lot more work for him: not only did he have to write the links and pussyfoot around Mike’s gigantic ego, he had to explain the links and pussyfoot around the minefield of dealing with Keera.
She was in with so many people. She’d go straight to The Boss and tearfully tell him they’d been getting at her. Next thing you know, he’d be defending his use of the word ‘twat’. Even though ‘complete twat’ would have been more appropriate.
He watched her on air now, flirting indecently with a member of a boy band. If she crossed her legs in that Kenny Everett manner once more, he thought, the boy closest to her was going to stop talking. Poor sod didn’t know where to look, with her flashing her knickers like that.
She was having the time of her life, sitting on the sofa that should have been occupied by Katie – a woman who could hold her own in a political interview, who could coax the best out of a difficult interviewee, who would never have asked why anorexia was popular – as though it was football or dog racing.
Mike and Keera signed off the show, Keera doing her little wave and a giggle – one of the newspapers had commented on it and she had now decided it was her ‘signature pay-off’.
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the morning meeting where a post-mortem was being held. Keera had sent her apologies: she had a photo shoot for OK! magazine and they wanted to get her straight after the programme to talk about her marvellous new job.
The editor was swinging on his chair and looking casually out of the window as the rest of the group responsible for putting out the show waited silently for Richard’s arrival.
‘Richard,’ said the editor, pushing his fringe to one side, ‘the scripts today were a disgrace.’
Richard shot Mike a filthy look. Mike stared back innocently. ‘No worse than normal, I thought.’
‘No worse than normal? Well, bloody pull your finger out. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be the premier breakfast station in the land, and we have scripts that are no worse than normal?’
‘I was taking the piss. Which particular scripts are you talking about? Take me through one and I’ll attempt to defend it.’
‘Show me one that was good and I’ll allow you to.’
The two men faced each other.
There was a silence, then Richard finally said, ‘Well, shall we get on with the rest of it?’
‘I want a word with you later about dealing with the talent, too,’ said Simon.
‘Great. Something to look forward to.’
It was ten o’clock in the morning. Richard had done his twelve-hour shift and was wondering if they were going to feel more and more like twenty-four hour-shifts now that he had lost the one person who had made the exceptionally long nights a little less gruelling.