‘I don’t remember.’
‘Well, Bonio didn’t kill himself in the tomb, he revived the drugged Juliet with a delicious packet of Monster Munch.’
We both laughed.
‘I had totally forgotten about that.’
‘So you see, Poppy, if TV is a bit shit – it needs you.’
‘Thanks, Clem,’ I said, rubbing her arm affectionately.
‘Well, I don’t usually blow smoke up your arse, but seriously, one of us has got to follow in Aunt Josephine’s footsteps, and it ain’t going to be me.’
‘Speaking of which, we’d better go. They’ll be waiting.’
We left the pub, shuddering as cold drizzle hit our faces. The restaurant wasn’t far, so we picked up an old paper from the bar to cover our heads from the worst of it.
Mum and Dad rarely came to London, but when they did, they wanted to eat in the same place they always ate – Mallories. Mallories was a small family-run Italian in Soho that had been around for decades. The service was dreadful and the menu hadn’t been updated since the seventies, but our parents had a strange attachment to the place. I think Dad used to come here when he worked in London, or maybe he and Mum had come on a date here once. Every year they reserved the quiet table downstairs in the basement and Aunt Josephine made her annual outing to visit us from the Welsh commune.
‘Ah, there you are, girls.’ Mum bustled around the table to greet us, while Dad waved at us from the bench seating, indicating that he couldn’t easily extract himself from behind the table to hug us.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ Clemmie said, handing her an envelope. ‘This is from both of us.’
‘Yes, happy birthday,’ I said.
‘What is it?’ Mum asked sceptically.
‘Well, open it and see,’ said Clemmie.
‘It’s a spa day,’ I said. ‘We thought you and Dad could make a day of it.’
‘Don’t ruin the surprise.’ Clemmie prodded me.
‘I’m not sure your father will be on board with a spa day, but very nice, girls, thank you. Perhaps I’ll take Lorraine-next-door instead?’
‘Good idea,’ I said, mouthing, ‘I’ll pay you back’ at Clemmie.
We sat down and looked at the menu. I didn’t need to, as I knew the best dish they did: aubergine Parmigiana, caked in oregano and bubbling with cheese.
‘So, Poppy, when do you hear about your placement?’ Dad asked.
‘In the next two weeks, I think.’
‘Does it pay better if you get the permanent contract?’ Mum asked.
‘I’m not sure, and it’s not a permanent contract, it’s a year’s contract.’
‘Well, that’s no good!’ Mum cried.
‘That’s a very long time in TV, trust me. Most people are freelancers working very short contracts.’
‘So what’s the Plan B?’ Mum pressed.
‘Mum, let her have a drink first,’ said Clemmie. ‘Seriously, can’t we have a nice family meal without the career-drilling beginning before the starters have even arrived?’
‘Good idea,’ Dad agreed.
Sometimes I could kiss my sister.
‘Well, it’s all right for you, Clementine, little Miss Lloyds Bank!’ said Mum, clapping her hands. ‘At least we don’t have you to worry about.’
‘What?’ I looked to Clem.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. I just lined up some work experience through Ian for the Christmas holidays.’
‘You didn’t say anything,’ I shot back. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to work in banking?’
‘Well, I’ve got to grow up and make a living sometime, don’t I?’ Clem shrugged.
‘Exactly! Poppy, you could take a leaf out of your sister’s book,’ said Mum.
Sometimes I could kill my sister.
Just as the waiter arrived to take our drinks order, Aunt Josephine arrived. When we visited Aunt Josephine on her commune, she didn’t appear quite as extraordinary as when you saw her in London. Perhaps it was because her fellow commune dwellers dressed in an equally eccentric manner. Whenever she left the confines of ‘The Village of the Mind Beyond Materialism, and The Dwelling of the Peaceful Spirit’ (or, as my mother called it: ‘La La Land’), she never failed to cause a stir. Aunt Josephine had waist-length grey hair, which today she was wearing half up in a tie-dyed pink headscarf. Two green feathers poked out of her hair in a strange bird-like garnish. She wore a dash of bright orange lipstick, which clashed hideously with the headscarf, then a strange ensemble of druid-esque kaftans and bits of brightly coloured fabric (indistinguishable in themselves as items of clothing) draped around her shoulders and arms. She looked like a rotund mermaid, emerging from a sea of fabric with an enormous splash.
‘Aunt Josephine,’ I cried, leaping up to greet her.
‘Hello! Oh, what a journey. How you deal with so many people everywhere, I have no idea.’ Aunt Josephine floated over to give Clemmie and I both a hug.
‘Barbara, happy birthday,’ she said to my mother, blowing her an air kiss across the table.
I could see my mother looking Aunt Josephine up and down, trying not to let the disapproval show on her face. In my mother’s opinion, having ‘family fall-outs’ was not the done thing, so she always made every effort to make it appear as though she and Aunt Josephine had a perfectly normal sibling relationship.
‘Lovely to see you, Jo,’ said my father, again making his ‘I can’t get out’ mime about having been made to sit against the wall in a space that was too confined.
‘What a treat to see you all,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘My, my, it feels an age since I’ve left the village. Though it’s almost worth leaving just to remind myself how hectic for the soul the outside world can be.’
‘Ooh, Aunt Josephine, I should suggest to my work that they make a documentary about your commune. People would love it,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, Poppy, congratulations on your new job. My niece, the television producer. We don’t have a television at the village, but Eskabell has a sister in town who’s promised to record anything you make.’
‘Eskabell?’ my mother muttered under her breath.
‘Yes, he’s the pagan druid. You met him last year. Lovely man, very into runes.’
‘I don’t think I’ve worked on anything worth recording yet,’ I said.
‘That’s because you’re a worker bee, dear. Once you’re Queen Bee, you’ll show them what’s what,’ said Dad.
‘Worker bees can never be queen bees,’ said Clemmie.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Well, they can’t. You’re born a queen bee, you can’t become one. Sorry, it’s just not a great analogy, Dad.’
‘She’s right, you know,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘We have beehives in the village and Dandelyon tells me a lot about bee behaviour.’
‘Dandelyon?’ mumbled my mother.
‘And where are you living, Poppy?’ asked Aunt Josephine, ignoring Mum.
‘In the basement at my friend’s parents’ place in Greenwich. It’s… well, it’s not a long-term solution, but it’s a start. It’s quite tricky not having any idea whether I’ll still have a job in two weeks, so I can’t commit to anything more permanent.’
‘It’s not a very secure career path Poppy has embarked upon,’ my dad explained.
‘It will all end in tears. We won’t be bankrolling this madcap career plan, that’s for sure,’ said Mum.
‘Yes, as you’ve said. Let’s not talk about it all again now,’ I sighed.
‘Ah, it reminds me of my first few years in London,’ Aunt Josephine said wistfully. ‘I lived in my friend Ray’s basement with four other artists, in a studio full of paint, plaster and potter’s wheels. Oh, I’m sure we all got high sleeping among the paint fumes, but it was one of the most creative periods of all our lives.’
‘I doubt it was just paint fumes making you high,’ muttered Mum.
‘Enjoy this part of your life, Poppy,’ Aunt Josephine went on. ‘You’ll have no money, and no i
dea whether the art you are making is even any good, but my god it’s glorious. Youth and passion and colour and sex – oh, lots of sex!’
Clemmie and I blushed at Aunt Josephine mentioning sex.
‘Finding your creative voice in the world, fighting to be heard, building yourself from the ground up… Oh, it makes me almost sentimental to think of it. I am envious, dear girl!’ Aunt Josephine clasped my hands together in excitement.
‘I don’t know if working in TV is quite like being an artist in the seventies, Aunt Josephine,’ I said. ‘I’m mainly photocopying and making people coffee.’
‘Ostensibly that might be true, but inside you are crafting the person you want to be. You are carving the imprint you want to make on the world. Art is life, life is art – it’s all the same thing.’
‘Shall we order?’ sighed my mother.
There was always the implication from my mother that Aunt Josephine was a failure because she didn’t have any form of financial security or retirement plan. But whenever we spent time with her, I always came away thinking what a luminously happy person Aunt Josephine was. Surely that had to count for something? Maybe it had more to do with her personality than her art or her life choices. Still, maybe if I could channel a bit of my inner Aunt Josephine, I would fare better.
‘Oh, before I forget, I have a little present for you, Poppy,’ said Mum as our drinks arrived.
‘It’s your birthday, Mum, you shouldn’t be getting me anything,’ I said.
‘Hey, why does she get a present and I don’t?’ whined Clemmie.
‘Well, it’s just a little something, a sort of “moving to London” present,’ said Mum, handing me a small box.
I was touched. Buying me a present for getting a job in London meant that, subconsciously at least, my mother was proud of me. I opened the package to find a rather strange-looking bracelet inside.
‘Oh, jewellery,’ said Clemmie, peering over my shoulder. ‘You never buy us jewellery.’
‘It’s a rape bracelet,’ said Mum.
‘A what?’ I said.
‘Well, it’s a bracelet that’s also a rape alarm.’ Mum reached over to show me. ‘If you yank it apart like this, the alarm goes off. You know London is a dangerous place, especially with you living all the way out in the depths of zone six.’
‘Zone two,’ I corrected her.
‘Well, you can’t be too careful. I saw them on Dragon’s Den. Aren’t they clever?’
‘Well, thanks, I guess,’ I said.
‘The woman who invented them said that a lot of women have rape alarms, but they’re always hidden in their bag somewhere. You know, by the time you’ve been mugged and thrown up against a wall, you’re not going to be able to get into the depths of your bag, are you?’
‘Mum, that’s a bit graphic.’ Clem grimaced, wrinkling up her nose.
‘Well, I thought it was a very good invention. Go on, put it on, Poppy.’
I put it on under duress. This was a typical present from my mother: well-meaning, but cloaked in a depressingly pessimistic outlook on life. The implication being: you live in a bad area in a bad city, and you’ll probably get raped and murdered because of your bad life choices.
‘I think it’s actually quite a nice bracelet, very chunky and modern,’ said Clem. ‘It’s also a bold statement on the reclamation of our gender from misogynist ornamentation and decoration purely for decoration’s sake.’ (Clem was currently doing a module at university called ‘The Feminist ID and the Misogynist Within.’) ‘I think I’d like one too.’
‘You’re not going to get raped in Cardiff, Clementine.’
‘Rape can happen anywhere, Mum, don’t be so old-fashioned. You could get raped in Dorset; you could get raped in this restaurant.’
‘Can we stop talking about rape?’ said Dad, who had gone quite pale.
‘Sorry, but it’s a fact of life,’ said Mum. ‘They’re called “Rapelets” if you want one, Clementine. I’ll stock up. You can give them to all your friends for Christmas.’
‘Can we eat? I’m ravenous,’ I said.
‘Let’s make a toast first,’ said Aunt Josephine, holding up her glass. ‘To my sister. May this year bring enlightenment, joy and peace to her heart.’
‘I am perfectly enlightened enough, thank you very much,’ my mother objected, but we toasted to it anyway.
STEP 40 – IT’S TOUGH TO GET YOUR FIRST FORMAT COMMISSIONED, DON’T EXPECT TO RUN BEFORE YOU CAN WALK
TO: POPPY
FROM: BRAD
Tabitha, how is the Congo? Thought I’d send u some pictures to keep u warm at night… ; )
ATTACHED: *EXPLICIT MATERIAL*
TO: NATALIE
FROM: POPPY
SEE ATTACHMENT!!! AMERICAN GUY FROM BAR IS SENDING ME PICTURES OF HIS ANATOMY THAT I DO NOT WANT TO SEE! NOT FUNNY.
TO: POPPY
FROM: NATALIE
Nice…
REALITV HAD A monthly meeting for all employees. Those out on production were excused, but for everyone else it was an opportunity to eat free Danish pastries and hear from CEO Jack Chamberlain what a wonderful job they were all doing.
Rhidian was back in the office for the afternoon, so we were both sent to lay the boardroom for teas and coffees. I was pleased to see him; the post room always felt rather empty without him around.
‘So how are you finding Les and Kel?’ I asked.
‘Wow, she is really something, isn’t she?’ Rhidian laughed. ‘Beautiful but deadly.’
‘You think she’s beautiful?’
It was a stupid question; obviously she was beautiful, but for some reason I’d hoped Rhidian’s tastes were less obvious.
‘On the outside, but I think she has a black soul,’ said Rhidian, catching my eye. ‘You know, Poppy, I wasn’t going to say anything…’ He paused, putting down the teapot that was in his hand. He suddenly looked unsure of himself. ‘I know it’s not my place to say, but…’
‘But?’
‘JR isn’t good enough for you.’
Rhidian reached out to touch my hand, so I put down the coffee cup I was holding.
‘Look, I know he’s successful and good-looking and I’m sure he’s great company, but, well, I’m sorry but I think he’s a bit of a prick. You know he’s still seeing Kel O’Shaunessy? I saw them kissing in her dressing room. He doesn’t deserve someone like you.’ Rhidian looked embarrassed. ‘There, I’ve said it.’
I looked up at him. Rhidian chewed his lip nervously, his whole face aglow with anticipation. We stood looking at each other for a moment and it suddenly hit me: this was the man I’d been wanting to kiss. This gorgeous, funny, kind man was the one I’d been thinking about in JR’s flat. This sledgehammer realization threw me, and I suddenly felt unsteady on my feet. When had this happened? When had Rhidian – my competition, the one who was so irritatingly good at everything, who would no doubt win this job and leave me jobless – when had he crept into my head like this? And here he was, worrying about JR! I hadn’t given JR a moment’s thought all week.
‘Rhidian, I…’ I reached out for his arm to steady myself, but before I could formulate what I wanted to say, people started coming into the boardroom and I didn’t have a chance to.
We rushed around offering people drinks, Rhidian studiously avoiding making eye contact with me. Eventually the milling pool calmed and people started to take their seats. A few bold stragglers lurked by the Danish pastry table as the CEO made his entrance.
Jack Chamberlain was quite short, with neatly trimmed grey hair and impeccably tailored suits (he was the only person in TV I’d seen wear a suit). Apparently he was one of the richest men in the industry, and counted among his friends Rupert Murdoch, the Prince of Wales and most of the dragons from Dragon’s Den.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ he said to the room. ‘We’ve all got places to be so I’ll keep this catch-up snappy. Firstly, congratulations to Can Your Dog Do Your Job? on being re-commissioned for a ninth series.’
Everyone clapped, and the series producer, Viv, nodded in acknowledgement.
‘Also, we have to congratulate Jordan for getting Who Wants to Marry a Serial Killer? commissioned in the USA. It really is one of the most groundbreaking, controversial formats we’ve ever been involved in, and kudos to the channel for letting us continue to push boundaries. Huge congratulations to the Last Clan Standing team; the first few episodes all won their slot in terms of ratings, and we’re in talks with the channel about doing an international version set in Iceland.’
More applause.
‘And our biggest news,’ Jack went on, ‘is two brand-new commissions, both masterminded by the brilliant James Ravenstone. One, a big-budget quiz show for ITV called Banker’s Bonus, and the other an animation collaboration, Tipsy and Tim, which we’ll be co-producing with InkBlot Media.’
My heart started pounding in my chest, and I scanned the room for JR. Had my show been commissioned? Why hadn’t he said something? Why had Rhidian’s idea been mentioned? A small ball of panic formed in my gut, swirling around, gradually gaining momentum.
‘James is truly a colossus when it comes to development,’ Jack went on, ‘and as such, I’d like to announce his promotion to Head of Development here at RealiTV.’
Looking around for JR, my gaze landed on Rhidian. He was glaring at me with a mixture of anger and disappointment. Oh god, he must think I stole his idea – that I talked to JR about it. Shit, I did talk to JR about it…
JR walked up to shake Jack Chamberlain’s hand and everyone clapped. I turned to see Rhidian leaving the room and dashed after him.
‘What the hell, Poppy?’ he snarled as I caught up with him in reception.
‘I… I didn’t… He took my idea too…’ I trailed off.
‘Why were you even talking to him about my idea? I told you that in confidence, Poppy. I told you I hadn’t talked to anyone else about it, it’s a really personal project for me, and then what, you talk to your boyfriend about it over pillow talk?’
‘No, no, it wasn’t like that,’ I said, trying to reach out and touch his arm, but he shrugged me away.
‘So what, you didn’t tell him about it? It’s just a coincidence, is it?’
How to Get Ahead in Television Page 21