By the time the series was finally finished that October when I’d just turned twenty-six, we’d filmed in a number of ‘hair-raising half-finished haunted houses’ across the country. Jill and Eddie had managed to find a (mad as a hatter) buyer and we decided to have our wrap party in the empty Ecclestone vicarage with its spooky dripping tunnels. Because, you know, telly people. They’re absolutely nuts. The production co-ordinator arranged for a load of booze to be delivered and everyone turned up in Halloween fancy dress. Nowadays, wrap parties are much tamer affairs – like the viewing for Blind Dinner Date would be tonight, just a few drinks and nibbles laid on as you show everyone a teaser trailer or the rough cut of an ep – but in those days they went large. They were different times, a culture of excess and devil-may-care that filtered down through the ranks until everyone was frothing on MDMA. Vince, for all his foot-in-mouth tendencies, is a pretty benign figure compared to what I saw going on at Beatnik.

It got out of hand pretty quickly, that night. Production can be intense, and everyone wanted to let their hair down, even if it involved shutting each other in the dripping air raid tunnels or coming out of the Bad Bedroom sniffing and rubbing their gums. A group of creatives were trying to play spin the bottle with a supernatural twist, waiting for the bottle to spin on its own, and just snogging each other randomly. I passed a couple of interns who were looking for the iron bed so they could shag on it. All around were the sounds of yells and cackling laughter – Humphrey Ecclestone would probably have been in his element. Maybe he was in there somewhere, dropping an E and groping a researcher.

And me? I was pretty pissed, obviously, but didn’t go in for any of that stuff. Too strait-laced, and worried about the consequences. When I was about fourteen, I read the Sweet Valley High book where Regina the former deaf girl does a line of coke and instantly dies of a heart attack, and knew that kind of scenario was my destiny. Stay out of trouble, Clover. Be a good girl, like my mother told me. I thought that if I behaved myself then everything would be OK, I wouldn’t get into trouble. And yet . . .

Later, the vicarage was still lit up like a jack-o-lantern when I stumbled away into my taxi. I went back to the hotel we were all staying in, curled up with a hot water bottle to read Atonement, and tried to forget all about it. The twin towers had just fallen, the world was changing, everything was a mess, ruined, ruined. It couldn’t be fixed, a fire that couldn’t be put out. Before I turned the lights off, I put a chair against the locked door, checked the windows were secure and got back into bed. There I was, tucked up, safe and sound. Move along. Nothing to see here.

* * *

I realize it’s been a while since David asked me the question, and I haven’t said anything, just gazed down the valley and on, to the clear horizon beyond.

‘Well?’ he says. ‘Tell me your story.’

I gulp my wine. ‘Not much to tell. I’m very boring, I’m afraid.’

‘Surely not,’ he says, gently. ‘With wine, I can glean so much just by looking. I don’t even have to taste it. The hue, for example. Did you know, the colour of a wine comes from contact with the grape skins after the grapes have been juiced? The longer the wine comes into contact with the skins, the more they will impart their colour on the wine. The skins have their own characteristics, just like the zest of an orange has a stronger flavour, or an apple skin contains more fibre. The longer the skin of a grape is in contact with the wine, the more of its own characteristics it imparts.’

I don’t think we’re discussing wine any more, but I don’t know what he’s talking about, or how I’m supposed to respond, so I just look at him.

‘Tell me about the grape skins,’ he says. ‘The ones that gave you your colour.’

Thinking about my job, the people I’ve rubbed up against . . . If they’ve left a mark, I don’t want to know.

I finish my wine and set down the glass. ‘Gosh, I must be water, then. Anyway, back to the show, I really think . . .’

Back to the hard sell, to the thing I do best. New Clover can do the spiel, even without a script. When David delivers me back to Danny’s car, I’m still going, making sure all bases are covered. He can’t back out now.

‘Goodbye, Clover,’ he says, lifting his hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming. It’s been extremely edifying.’

I think that means I nailed it.

‘Home, James,’ I say to Danny, gathering a dozy Bigwig onto my lap for a cuddle. With my face buried in his downy fur, no one can swirl me in a glass or tell how long I’ve been aged in oak. I’m safe here in the car; cocooned, protected, anonymous.

No one can touch me.

23

We’ve barely left Chew Hill’s grounds before Vince calls, wanting an update. I answer, stroking Bigwig’s head with one finger, feeling like Blofeld.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Had him eating out of my hand.’

‘You what? That’s disgusting.’

‘It’s a figure of speech, Vince.’

‘Is it? What does it mean?’

‘It means he’s back on board.’

‘H-excellent . . .’ I can almost hear him steepling his fingers. ‘I’ll talk to the channel execs, they might want someone to go down and be wined and dined there. Probably just wined.’

My finger circles Bigwig’s silky head. ‘Meanwhile, you can wine and dine me.’

‘You what? That’s—’

‘I mean,’ I interrupt him. ‘In a metaphorical sense. Literally, you can start remunerating me sufficiently.’

Silence from the other end. He’s wondering if he can pretend he doesn’t know what ‘remunerate’ means.

‘I want more money, Vince. A lot more.’

There are a few coughs and splutters. ‘I pay you a fortune! A fucking fortune!’

‘No, you don’t. Not comparatively. Not as much as Oz.’ I don’t know exactly what Oz is paid, but am sure it’s more than me.

‘Not even Elon Musk earns as much as Oz.’

‘But we do the same job,’ I say. ‘And I do it better.’ It’s outrageous – not to mention illegal – that I’m on less than Oswald, and, I suspect, Petroc, but until now I’ve been too weak-kneed to do anything about it.

‘How about I send you to Babington House for a massage?’

This is Vince’s go-to for stressed-out employees. The female ones, that is. He sends the male ones to the Kendleshire Golf Club.

‘No, I want you to salary-match me with Oz, or I’m going to work at Tin Roof.’ Vince particularly loathes them because they were the ones who embedded one of their producers in our panel show for Dave, so they could steal our ideas and pitch them to BBC Two.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Try me. Or I might just see if Broadcast want to run a story on the gender pay gap in the industry, starting with me.’

He can hear the conviction in my voice. Today has been so useful. ‘OK.’ He sighs. ‘Talk to Layla in HR and she’ll sort you out. But know that you’ve made an old man very unhappy.’

‘I’ll take it to my grave.’

‘See you at the wrap later.’

‘Hundred per cent.’

I hang up and give the rabbit a kiss.

‘Jenny Big Potatoes,’ says Danny.

‘You’d better believe it,’ I say. Having longed to ask for more money for years, watching my salary rise barely in line with inflation as my credits stacked up and my roster of shows lengthened, it’s only today I’ve been able to pluck up the courage to broach the subject. And in fact, I didn’t have to pluck up the courage at all; I just demanded it as my due. There’s nothing remotely embarrassing about asking for something you deserve, about doing yourself justice. Maybe my problem was I didn’t believe I deserved it; thought I was lesser somehow. But the way I just dealt with David proves I’ve got what it takes. I’m a ballbreaker, and if that’s what Vince needs, then he’s going to have to pay for it.

We’re driving past the bit of road where we stopped earlier, and as we pass the dirt track, Danny slows, both of us peering out. The dented Golf is being pushed up the hill by a man and a woman, both slipping and scrambling on the gravel. Danny grinds to a halt, leaving the engine running as we stare at them. They’re clearly a couple, and not a happy one – the woman is gesticulating furiously with one hand, jabbing and pointing at the man. He has sweat pouring down his face, which is set in a mutinous expression. They obviously regret their choices today, and that gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing, having engineered this pastoral scene; a Cold War Steve version of The Hay Wain. They’re bunny boilers and they deserve all they get.

‘Shouldn’t you go and give them the rabbit back?’ Danny is eating his Wotsits like popcorn.