What’s my unique selling point?
‘I don’t know what my hook is, Faith, but Jordan suggested sex sells,’ is the best I can come up with at short notice.
‘Ha!’
We exit the landing. The top floor is desolate, the offices empty. Titan has cleaned out most of the incumbent executives, too.
‘Yes, well. Ironically, I accused him of wearing green underpants to bed to avoid having sex with me,’ I divulge, walking steadily on. Faith stops me sharp.
‘Gracie, what did you say?’ Fit for laughing, she composes herself promptly. ‘Sounds like someone forgot to take his HRT?’
Hormone replacement therapy – I wish they made it for men.
I talk to Faith about most things. But I haven’t before mentioned my sexual dry spell. In the face of how easily she drifts from one banging fling to another, it seems so… excruciating. Not that Faith is here to judge me.
‘Gracie, my love, with that face – and those heels – Jordan won’t resist you tonight,’ she says.
I do feel remarkably good about myself right now, with this new look. Also, Zelda’s stone is in my coat pocket on set. With a bit of luck, that’ll be attracting unconditional romance my way. We’ll see how this meeting goes. But maybe it’s not a bad idea for me to throw myself at Jordan this evening, see if he doesn’t resist?
‘Faith, what would I do without you?’
‘And I you?’
We arrive at the imposing oak doors of the meeting room.
Turning to me with one eyebrow arched – it’s Faith’s thing and it packs a punch – Faith says, ‘You know, it’s some angle… getting steamy in the kitchen. Sex sells. I like it.’
‘Oh God, Faith, is that really all we have?’
‘I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Gracie, we’ll not see you fired.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I say.
And in we go.
5
Inside the meeting room, Faith and I are seated at a small table positioned about a dozen feet back from a rectangular table, behind which sits the executive team with my future on the small screen in their hands. Our CEO, Timothy Sykes – silver fox and ageing Lothario—is chair. He’s flanked by two Titan executives I recognise but haven’t met.
‘Grace, Faith, thank you for your attendance,’ Timothy begins, unnerving me with his formality. Ordinarily, our CEO greets the pair of us with something along the lines of ‘Why, hello there, ladies.’ He’s in his usual attire of navy chinos, a perfectly pressed white shirt and expensive brown leather loafers. A tennis junkie with his own central London court – perhaps now cemented over after wife number 3 ran off with his tennis coach – the man is in terrific shape for any age, let alone pushing sixty. His flirtations too bumblingly British to cause a #MeToo objection, our CEO is, rather, quite the catch. Faith says she’d do him in a heartbeat. Personally, I’m more endeared that, as CEO, Timothy knows me to talk to. He’s always so… nice. Which is presumably how he landed himself in such a mess with his divorces – this last one cost him the shares he sold off to Titan. On top of which, his ex cashed in with every gossip magazine that would interview her about their super-charged sex life. How she simply had to run away with Stefan, the Swedish tennis expert, because Timothy’s children from his prior marriages never included her as ‘family’. (A twenty-two-year-old Ukrainian dancer, younger by far than all of Timothy’s four children, none of whom still live at home, Milenna is the sort of woman rich old men are supposed to have a fling with, not marry without a pre-nup.) Poor Timothy. Always smitten. Perhaps, one day, it’ll be fourth time lucky?
‘This is Brian Bunce, financial controller for Titan.’ Timothy introduces the middle-aged and balding man seated on his left. ‘Brian is here temporarily from LA for group budgeting purposes.’
Brian barely looks up from his iPad. He’s dressed ‘casually’ for his finance job in media in a green hoodie, pale denim jeans and white trainers. Sparing us no further attention, he jabs the screen with his finger, sucking his lips in furiously. Brian is the finance guy who’s cut our budget down to zero.
Clearing his throat, Timothy turns more enthusiastically to the woman on his right. ‘And this is Joanna Minnow, our new global vice president of content. Joanna, remind me for how long you will be with us in London, will you?’
‘I’ll be here for as long as it takes, Timothy,’ Joanna says, in a strong New Yorker accent.
Timothy gazes at her with his flinty grey eyes. Joanna checks him by smiling neatly. Her mouth stays closed as her burgundy lips curl. Her dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
Joanna is small, yet wiry. Even from back here at the small table, her biceps are defined beneath her tailored black blazer. Her hair is dark, sleek and cut sharply at the nape. Her fringe is cropped Audrey Hepburn-short. I know from passing her in the corridor that her skin is completely unlined. Aged anywhere between a natural forty and a ‘well-done’ fifty, our new vice president is undeniably attractive. Albeit in a very sharp way.
Rising from her chair, Faith crosses the room to introduce herself. ‘Hello, I’m Faith Williams, agent for Gracie,’ she purrs, shaking hands. ‘Lovely to meet you both. Timothy, always a pleasure.’ Working her stuff at the top table, Faith steals glances at Brian’s little screen. Pedigree looks and the wiles of an alley cat – I’m glad she’s on my side.
By the time Faith returns to her seat, I haven’t moved or said a word.
For some time, Joanna stares at me.
‘So, you’re Gracie from Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together.’ Joanna sizes me up with her dark-as-black eyes. I’m betting her USP is: I always get what I want.
I need her to like me.
I need her to like me so much that she lets me keep my job – and, with a bit more luck, teaches me how to nail this business of being on television.
‘I’m her. I mean, she… I’m Gracie,’ is what pops out of my mouth.
I sense Faith looking at me sideways.
‘Okay then, Gracie.’ Joanna seems faintly amused, which wasn’t my plan. ‘Shall we proceed?’
‘Indeed,’ Timothy agrees cheerily.
Without further ado, the floor is handed to Brian, who proceeds to reel through a long list of statistics from his iPad. ‘Blah, blah, blah negative.’ ‘Blah, blah, blah consistently poor.’ ‘Blah, blah, blah falling sharply.’ Tapping his screen, he carries on without interruption for such a long time, I lose track of precisely which part of my performance he’s tearing into – I’m pleased Faith is here for me to rely on. At various points, she sends him into a scramble about his calculations and corrects him sharply on what the total addressable market size of media spend in television is in the UK today. Joanna appears, at the very least, bored by it all, which could work in my favour. Timothy is still glancing at her, unchecked by any discouragement. Brian drones on. After a litany of numbers numbers numbers numbers, I actually jump in my seat when the conversation turns.
‘Brian, you may stop now.’ Without raising her voice, Joanna interjects. ‘And turn that thing off.’
‘But—’
‘I’d like to talk business, Brian. Not bar charts that no one but you can see. Thank you.’
Like a petulant, albeit balding, child, Brian casts his device aside. He begins to pick at his fingernails. Joanna turns her attention on us.
‘Ladies, let’s distil the points raised so far. Television is a hit-driven business. If you don’t have a hit, you don’t have any business in television. You understand this, of course?’
I nod my head, perhaps too vigorously.
‘So what is interesting to me is that cookery shows are, for now, very much a hit. You Brits set up your big-top and carry on about “soggy bottoms” and “icing-horns” and everyone tunes in.’ Joanna sniffs a little laugh. ‘It’s all ever so politely tongue-in-cheek. What’s not to love?’
‘Bake Off was a wonderful show,’ I enthuse, trying to bond.
Joanna narrows her gaze towards our table. �
�Indeed. So tell me: what can you deliver to give me my culinary hit?’ Joanna fixes her dark eyes on me. ‘I must be clear, I find your current format – I’m sorry to say – rather stale…’
Joanna looks far from sorry as she forms another neat smile. Timothy is leering at her chest. But this slight curling of her burgundy lips is for me. I’m pretty sure I’m losing my job here.
There is a long pause that Timothy fills. ‘Some studies suggest cookery shows, in general, may have had their day,’ he says, I suspect to soften the blow. ‘Channel 4 might well agree,’ he chortles, but not unkindly.
I turn to Faith, my colour draining.
Faith rises. In her stunning outfit of silk and chiffon, she strides towards the top table. ‘Excellent,’ she announces, parading boldly up the front. ‘In which case, we’ll dispense with our argument that cookery programmes, in general, don’t appeal any more. Stale? Absolutely.’ Faith beams back at me. I force a smile. ‘So what’s fresh? What’s fun? What do people want to watch?’ Pushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her face, she continues in her I’m-here-to-do-business voice. ‘We believe, something like a late-night edition of Jamie’s Naked Chef.’ Faith laughs heartily. ‘Or a really naughty Nigella.’
I’m not sure where she’s going with this. But Faith isn’t looking to me for approval. Joanna’s eyes narrow, I think pleasantly.
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘I’m listening.’
I sink into my chair.
‘Why not a cookery show that’s a little more steamy, that whets all sorts of hungry. Shall I be bold and say, something more cock and bush than croquembouche?’ my best friend, as my agent, suggests. For all intents and purposes, on my behalf.
My mouth drops.
Timothy’s mouth drops.
Brian looks up from where he’s been ripping at his nailbeds.
Joanna’s eyes twinkle.
There’s no stopping Faith now.
‘Picture Gracie turning her hand to deliciously moist dishes, served with spicy banter on the side…’ Her voice is like dripping honey.
When Faith turns to me, her cat-eyes, which run the spectrum from gold to green, are luminous amber.
‘You mean food porn?’ Timothy is first to query, not entirely awkwardly, but having first cleared his throat.
‘I’m not suggesting Gracie serving up meatballs wearing nothing but her best silk panties,’ Faith bats back, clearly enjoying herself. ‘But PG-rated food porn? Sure. Let’s go with that.’
Speechless in my defence, I gulp at the air I’m trying to breathe.
For starters, I don’t own any silk panties – not that my underwear is all Bridget Jonesy big pants.
Timothy shuffles in his seat.
Joanna gives him a knowing pat on the arm, unperturbed.
Faith turns and winks at me.
When we get out of here, I’m going to throttle her.
‘You could be on to something,’ Joanna says. ‘Maybe… I’m not sure.’ She checks me out from top to bottom. ‘You look… different. Not like on your show.’
‘Oh, um…’ I’m unsure how to respond. Is this a compliment? Joanna rests a steely gaze on my Jimmy Choo-heeled feet. The shoes are grand. What does she think of the rest of me?
‘I tell you what I’ll do, ladies,’ she says. ‘Show me what you mean by steamy. Make me… hungry… and we may have ourselves a deal.’ She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’re running out of fresh ideas around here otherwise. And never let it be said I don’t love a challenge,’ she adds, looking coolly – but not, I think, coldly – at me.
I’m wondering how to respond to this ludicrous proposal, and still keep my job, when Brian protests vehemently, ‘Now, hang on a minute, Joanna…’ At the top table, a fierce debate erupts regarding the correct process for contract renewals and who is authorised to do what. Under the cover of Brian’s petition, Faith returns to our table.
‘Faith, what are you playing at?’ I hiss as she sits down. Everyone up the front is speaking over the other. ‘I didn’t know you were being serious earlier. Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Gracie, this is good. I think Joanna’s on board.’ Faith is so pleased with herself. ‘She was about to axe you on the spot. What did you want me to do?’
I tell Faith I would have preferred she hadn’t mentioned the words ‘steamy’ and especially not ‘moist’ in the same sentence with regards to me doing anything recorded for television.
‘The sexy angle was your idea,’ Faith reminds me, unhelpfully.
‘Jordan’s, actually,’ I remind her.
At the top table Brian is thrusting his iPad towards Joanna and she is sliding it back to him, refusing to look. Timothy is piggy in the middle between them. It’s almost comical – except that it’s my livelihood hanging in the balance.
‘It’s the sort of cookery show I’d love to watch,’ Faith carries on. ‘And, let’s face it, I could do with the lessons.’
Faith’s domestic disabilities are diabolical. She once set her kitchen cabinets alight burning cheese on toast, then copped off with the fire engine driver who arrived swiftly on the scene. For weeks, I heckled her about sliding down his fireman’s pole.
‘I mean, just this morning, my house guest donated a little carton of eggs, with a note that said “Eat Me”. Only, I haven’t a clue how to cook eggs! What I served up for him instead is quite another story…’
Faith says this quietly, and under cover of the arguing at the front.
‘Name?’ I whisper.
This is our standard Q&A dissection of Faith’s hook-ups.
‘Toby Ellison.’
‘Occupation?’
‘He’s a colleague.’
‘Is that what you’re calling them these days?’
‘He’s visiting from our New York office. You’ll love this, Gracie. His assistant accidentally booked him to stay in a place called The Puss in Boots, which turned out to be not as “quintessentially English” as she believed. She sent him to spend the night at a massage parlour on Golden Square, with all the trimmings.’
I snicker appropriately.
‘When Toby returned to the office, amused, but not wishing to play along, I did the only charitable thing.’
‘You offered him a happy ending at your place?’
‘I offered him my spare room. And, well, one thing led to another…’
Usually, I enjoy hearing about Faith’s sexual conquests in detail. But this is neither the time nor the place.
I check the front and catch Joanna glancing our way even as she is rolling her eyes at Brian’s incessant carping. Timothy’s arm has manoeuvred its way around the back of her chair. Our silver fox.
‘Anyway, I’m like the joke, right?’ Faith continues. ‘I can’t even boil an egg.’
‘I can teach you to boil an egg, Faith.’
‘Would you, darling?’ Faith leans in closer. She smells, like her signature perfume, Carnal Flower, of lusty tuberose and creamy sweetness. ‘All I could think to do this morning was stick the Post-it onto Toby’s naked torso.’ Faith shrugs suggestively. ‘Eat me…’
‘Oh God.’
‘Mmm. I wouldn’t mind keeping this one.’
‘You’ll have new man candy to practice your egg boiling skills on by next week, Faith,’ I beg to differ.
‘You’ll teach me some culinary tricks?’
‘As Jerry Hall said, to keep a man, be a cook in the kitchen—’
‘And a whore in the bedroom.’
Faith and I giggle in whispers.
Only, when we calm ourselves, it’s apparent we didn’t finish our private repartee in the hushed intonations in which we started. That we must have carried on our confab after the ruckus at the big table had finished. The room is pin-drop silent, all eyes on us.
‘Gentlemen, what did I tell you?’ Joanna exclaims, sweeping her hand triumphantly towards us. ‘Food porn with a capital P! Ladies, that was wonderful!’ She glares at Brian. ‘The idea of man candy, a different gue
st each week, what a hook!’
She and Timothy launch into talking about multi-camera production for a weekly show, probably airing on a Monday or Tuesday evening, most likely after the 9 p.m. watershed.
Nothing comes out of my mouth.
Faith looks like the cat who got the cream.
Joanna beams very much like a woman who has just got what she wanted. ‘I just love the name,’ she gushes. ‘Eat Me…’
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
Before I can protest, to clarify the gross misunderstanding that’s just occurred, Brian is instructed to work through numbers and get an offer to us as early as tomorrow. Evidently, he lost their spat. Timothy offers to put us in touch with a professional agent, if we prefer.
Does he imagine this is a show Faith and I will host together?
‘That would be great, thank you, Timothy,’ Faith replies.
Is she possibly thinking she wants to be on such a show with me?
Either way, I’m not sure I’ll need an agent any more. They’re all talking food porn – not the drooling over a perfectly melting-in-the-middle chocolate soufflé sort of food porn, but food porn with a capital P. That may, or may not, require somebody – certainly not me – sticking sexually loaded Post-it notes onto a new man’s candy every week. That’s close enough to what I think Joanna believes we just pitched. And I really, really don’t think so.
I may not know my USP. But, given I can barely woo my own boyfriend, I know it isn’t this. Absolutely not.
With a charm offensive, Joanna smiles at me warmly. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you closely, Gracie, now I know you better.’
I can’t believe I manage to spit out, ‘Absolutely, Joanna. Me too.’
6
‘Faith, I’m not doing it.’
‘Gracie, are you home yet?’
I stumble out of the cab, tipsy. It’s well past midnight. I attended Howard’s farewell, which also turned into something of a wrap party for Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together and, ostensibly, a celebration of whatever this next show may be.
Look At Me Now Page 4