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her permanently. But,” he continued quickly, “this series is a year. If we like you and you want to stay, we'll move you on and the sky's the fucking limit here as far as I'm concerned.”

Now this really was music to my ears.

“So tell me about you,” he said suddenly, leaning forward, holding eye contact far longer than most, so long, in fact, I broke a cardinal rule and broke his eye contact first. Something I never do.

“I started working in radio,” I said, telling him about my quick progression to producer of my own show, but, obviously, omitting Robert.

“Nah,” he said after a few minutes. “Tell me about you. What makes Maeve tick. I need to know if you'll fit in with the team.” He looked at my expression and started laughing. “Fuck, I can't believe I just said that. What makes Maeve tick,” he mimicked as we both laughed, the ice now broken. “What a wanker.”

“I'm glad you said that,” I ventured boldly, buying time, because I hate being put on the spot like that. I never know what to say.

“Seriously, though,” he said, grinning. “What, for example, is your favorite film?”

I smiled back and relaxed for the first time. “The Great Escape,” I shot back.

“Interesting choice.” He raised an eyebrow. “More of a bloke's film, I would have thought, unless it's because of Steve McQueen.”

“Steve McQueen is a factor, but I'm more of a Brando kind of gal. The early days of course.”

“Of course.” He smiled, enjoying the conversation. “Not George Clooney, then?”

“Oh, please.” I grimaced in disgust at the obviousness. “So what's your favorite film?” I took a chance.

“Sleepless in Seattle,” he said, very seriously, as my mouth dropped open and hit the floor. “Oh, all right, then.” He was enjoying my reaction. “I lied. My all-time favorite film is Easy Rider.”

“Good choice. I take it you have a motorbike?” He nodded. “Let me guess. I'd say Harley but that doesn't seem quite you.”

“So what does seem like me?”

“I'd guess at a Norton, even though you're probably more of an Indian man, but I can't see you paying the money.”

The phone started to ring and Mike stood up, extending a hand. “Maeve,” he said, “you're undoubtedly a girl after my own heart.” He picked up the receiver as he shook my hand. “Thank you for coming in to see us. I'll be in touch by Friday at the latest, but I would say be quietly confident.” Quietly confident? I was more than quietly confident. When the conversation turns personal and, better yet, becomes fun in a job interview, you know you're in. No question.

On the way out I bumped into Julia, Lorna's friend, whom I'd met at the wedding. I'd liked her then, thought she was the sort of person I could be friends with, but Jesus, she looked so terrible now I barely recognized her. We had a brief insincere conversation in which I told her I was going to call her (which, actually, I would have done, except I completely forgot she even worked there, but that doesn't sound too good), but she was so spaced out she barely registered what I was saying.

It was only as I reached the tube that I was hit by the realization that it might be Julia whom I'm replacing. There, after all, was a woman who appeared to have very definitely lost the plot.

I must phone Lorna when I get home, I thought.

I move down to London a week before I'm due to start. My contract with London Daytime Television is such that I can afford substantially more than I have been paying in Brighton, which is rather lucky, considering that the rent for my house in Brighton would enable me to live in a pea-sized hovel in London.

I end up with a flat in Belsize Park. It belongs to a single woman, Fay, about my age, who is traveling for a year; I met her through a friend of a friend. Her home could not be more perfect: A tiny bedroom is more than compensated for by a vast living room with twelve-foot ceilings and a bay window that opens on to a flat roof just big enough for a table and two chairs.

Her furniture is also perfect for me: Conran-style minimalism via a touch of Habitat and a large dose of IKEA. (Cubed bookshelves: IKEA. Television stand: IKEA. Dining table: Habitat.) Everything is shades of nothing, with white walls and those wooden floors that property