bursts into the office.
‘Have you seen the ratings?’ he screams.
Shit, the ratings. I must have been affected by the booze fumes to allow the ratings figures to slip my mind. The number of calls we have received that have been duly logged suggests we have a stonking success on our hands. However, I can’t count my poultry just yet. Ratings are the accurate measure of exactly how many people watched the show. This is the acid test.
Ricky is breathless. I know it is good news.
‘Well?’
He grins. Enjoying his moment.
I humour him and extend my grin a fraction wider. ‘Well?’ He hesitates again. This time I consider firing him. A girl can only be so patient.
‘1.4 million viewers tuned in at 10.00 p.m.’ There is a whoop. The team throw off their hangovers to cheer and shout and clap and generally behave like delinquents on E, which is not so far from the fact. I stay calm.
‘Well done to marketing.’ I smile across to Di and Debs. I know that the number of viewers we draw in as the initial credits roll is 95 per cent down to the marketing. Keeping the viewers for longer than five minutes is down to the quality of the programme. I am at the mercy of the remote control. It’s so undignified.
‘And what were the numbers after the centre break?’ I ask.
‘1.6 million!’
Now I scream.
Really loudly.
5
‘Can you believe it?’ I ask Fi for the fourteenth time. The ratings went up. That means people actually called their friends and told them to tune in!’
‘Or something good finished on the other side,’ adds Fi.
I scowl. ‘I’ve thought of that and checked the schedules. It wasn’t the case. Not unless you count a documentary on the hibernation habits of bugs on hedgehogs as good TV.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Can you believe it? A follow-up interview with Declan in the Sun. I’ve got to hand it to him: he’s a natural the way he worked the tabloids. And now they are begging us for the names of the people in the next shows. We’ll have to work really hard to keep the can on the interviews we’ve already got. The trick is going to be in continually surprising the mark.’ The ‘mark’ is the official name for the person we are tempting. We also call them Grouchos, stooges and victims. ‘Can you believe it’s such a success?’ I complete my circular diatribe.
‘Not really.’ Fi grins. I glare and she corrects herself. ‘Well, obviously it is a brilliant idea. We all knew that it would be a fantastic show. But the public isn’t always as perceptive as we’d like to imagine. There’s always a risk.’
I’m mollified by her obvious flattery. ‘Very true. Exactly my point. Want another drink?’ I survey the debris in front of us. It’s roughly half past seven. I’m not certain. The hands on my watch have shrunk and they are randomly bending. We’ve been in this pub since four thirty. Celebrating. We have drunk my week’s calorie allowance and smoked an entire tobacco field. I’m beginning to see Fi’s more sympathetic side. In fact, I’ll definitely be buying her a Christmas pressie.
‘I shouldn’t, but OK then. A gin and tonic. Go easy on the tonic. Best make it slim-line, ‘says Fi as she reaches for the bowl of cashew nuts. She offers them to me but I decline.
‘I’m allergic.’
This isn’t true. I’m very thin and very fit. Whenever anyone asks me how I manage this I smile and say it’s genetic and effortless. This is, of course, bollocks, but I know that if there is anything more annoying than a thin woman, it’s a thin woman who professes that she never diets. There’s no such thing as effortlessly thin. It comes as a direct result of one or more of the following: dedication to a relentless fitness regime, being a slave to the calorie counter, drugs or an unreliable bastard of a boyfriend. I work out at the gym five times a week – minimum. I’m also an expert kick boxer, although I don’t enter competitions; it’s just for fun. I own a Z3 series BMW but cycle to work, six miles there and back every day. I club once a week and I never touch any saturated fat. In addition I indulge in every detox programme known to womankind. I can regularly be found swathed in seaweed or mud at Champney’s or the Sanctuary.
I place the double G & (slim-line) Ts on the wooden table. Fi is chewing