pit bull puppies. Len had turned up in his chalk-stripes. Joey sported a kilt. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any more uncomfortable, I noticed a terrifyingly familiar outline across the room: a jagged edge, almost like a royal crown. White-silver in color. Yes, there was only one man on earth who could be identified with such ease by the mere shape of his hair.
Sir Harold Killoch.
I felt as though my soul had just frozen over.
Surprisingly, however, the evening turned out to be a relaxing affair—at first, anyway. The wide red armchairs in the theater were the softest things I had ever sat on. The champagne was delicious. And after the lobster rolls, we were each presented with a single, luxuriously battered french fry, followed by a buffet of candy served in little paper bags. And the show? Well, it was better than expected. I even teared up for a moment during the bit when Mia Pelosi walked onto the podium in a purple ball gown and sang “The Prayer.” The editors had earned their wages, that was for sure. Especially when it came to Bibi. One or two moments notwithstanding, they’d managed to cut the tape in a way that made her seem entirely focused on the contestants throughout, rather than gazing beyond the set at Teddy’s cue cards, as she’d done throughout most of the Houston and Milwaukee auditions. What surprised me more, however, was her presence. You didn’t feel it in person, when she was just this tiny, glittery… pain in the ass. But up there on screen, no matter where she was in the frame, it was extraordinary. She was—for want of a better way of putting it—a star. When the cameras were on her, Icon wasn’t a reality show any more: It was a blockbuster. Amazingly, Joey didn’t have this same effect. He was more entertaining, no doubt whatsoever. But he wasn’t an event in his own right.
When the hour was over, the lights came on to the double-ting of silver on glass. The screen went black. And then Sir Harold appeared in front of it—spoon and champagne flute in hand—grinning in a way that could have been taken as either sinister or paternal. I decided on the latter. It might have been the booze.
“Well, well, well,” he began. “And to think they said you’d never make it this far.”
Nervous laughter.
Sir Harold looked slowly around the room, as if mentally identifying each employee in turn, calculating their value, their cost… their usefuless to the whole Big Corp operation.
“Seriously, everyone,” he continued. “Very well done. Really, I really mean that.” With his hands still full, he mimed applause. “I know you’ve all been reading about yourselves a lot in the press lately. And if you believe ShowBiz magazine, which I don’t, by the way”—this prompted more laughter, and mutters of “Chaz fucking Chipford”—“you guys are facing an either/or situation with The Talent Machine. Nonsense! I truly believe that both shows can thrive.”
Silence.
“Well, don’t you?”
A desperate cheer filled the room, led by Len, who sounded almost hysterical.
“And the proof of that I’m certain will come tomorrow morning,” Sir Harold went on, his tone unexpectedly hardening. “With all the hype around season thirteen, and our greatly increased budget to attract the very best in talent”—he pointed in turn at Joey and Bibi—“I’m very, very excited to see where the ratings come in. Even a modest ten percent gain in the metrics will really prove to the world the ongoing strength of this franchise. And anything more than that—well, that’s just gravy!” He paused for a moment, resuming in a more contemplative tone. “Y’know” he said, “In the village of Nbdala, South Africa, where my dear mother was born, they have a saying, and it translates something like this: ‘For the wise farmer, a good harvest is vengeance enough.’ So here’s to silencing our critics with a good harvest, eh? And to some gravy on the top, heh-heh-heh.”
Up went his glass.
This time, no cheering. Just a roomful of sweaty, quickly sobering faces. A modest ten percent gain? Was the man out of his fucking mind? We’d be lucky if the ratings didn’t fall by that much! What the hell was he talking about? Was he thinking of a different show?
“Hmm,” said Sir Harold, answering the silence. “Well, it’s late, and I’ve got to be on a plane to Germany tomorrow morning—a few local difficulties. So a good night to you all.”