‘Bale, we are too old. Even the lads and ladettes we know are aspiring to “me-time” and their own pads. We can’t do anything for the teen market.’
‘Well what then?’ he asks petulantly. I bet he’d already chosen the bunny outfit for the receptionist.
‘I don’t know. Late twenties and early thirties are always rich pickings.’ I know I’m clasping at straws. ‘We should think of a schedule that targets them.’
‘Yeah, they all have more money than sense, no direction and lots of time. How about sport?’
‘I’ve never believed in encouraging sports fanaticism, the next thing you know they are actually playing, which involves turning off their TV sets. We don’t want them out playing sport. We want them slouched in front of the box. Besides, ASkyA are there.’
‘Yes, whilst I think about it, write a complaint letter. ASkyA are running sports updates throughout their ad breaks on sports programmes. They’ll be charging advertisers a premium for that. Where there’s advertising there is money for programme development,’ he warns.
‘You could argue that it distracts the viewer from the advert. Maybe it’s worth less money.’
‘Yeah, send a spoiler letter to the advertisers,’ he instructs.
‘Get your secretary to do it,’ I counter.
We glare at one another. Both livid and arrogant.
And scared.
‘I want an idea,’ he yells again. ‘A single idea, but a big one. A humongous one. A bloody big-dick-swinging one. An astonishing, unique, bang-those-bastards-and-their-new-shows-into-the-ground-idea.’ He changes tack. He 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 cafés 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