‘What?’

‘Just for a bit. Can you meet me there?’

‘No. What are you talking about?’

‘I just want to hang out there for a bit. You’re always saying I should see these places.’

‘I don’t trust you. You’re crazy today.’

‘Half an hour, that’s all.’

‘I don’t understand.’

There’s another call coming in. ‘Thank you, love you, see you there, bye.’ I switch lines. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, is that Clover Hendry? This is Art Andra.’ He has a kind of strangled American accent, like Loyd Grossman.

I give a little gasp. ‘Mr Andra! You don’t know what an honour this is. Thank you for taking the time, for picking up the phone, for blessing me this way.’ Since he has an interesting accent, I decide to have one too, and go for something vaguely Eastern European.

‘I’m very upset about this.’

‘Of course you are. Of course. I can’t imagine . . . But please, I can explain everything. I wondered if you would do me the additional honour of coming to my house—’

‘I don’t think so—’

‘—my house on Cheltenham Avenue, so that I can offer you a proper apology, an explanation, and perhaps some light refreshment?’

There’s silence at the other end, the address doing its work. Cheltenham Avenue is the most desirable street in Bristol – the average house price is at least two million. Everyone wants to live there, or at least have a

nose around.

‘It’s near the gallery, with lovely views of the green.’ Before this I was just a random woman; now I’m a random rich woman.

‘As you wish,’ he says, as if he’s doing me a huge favour.

‘Thank you so much, you’re too kind. Shall we say five p.m.? I’ll message you the address.’

As I hang up, Danny catches my eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Playing a deep game, ain’t ya.’

I clasp Bigwig against my chest. ‘You have no idea.’

24

That’s what TV producers do; we clear up the mess. Sometimes we make it too – omelettes, eggs and all that. But firefighting is a prerequisite of a good programme-maker; fearlessness in the face of chaos. Sometimes things unravel quite spectacularly – presenters throwing strops, contributors backing out, the production haemorrhaging money, commissioners shifting goalposts. The producer keeps a steady hand at the tiller, guiding everyone through. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

The problem is, normally, I don’t do fearlessness. Tidying up is OK, stemming the frenzy, keeping things together, ticking over – that’s doable. But managing all that without bricking myself is something I’ve never quite achieved. Pretty much every production I’ve ever worked on has added years to my life in terms of stress and anxiety, repeating Other Delia’s mantra ‘It’ll all come out in the edit, it’ll all come out in the edit . . .’ to calm myself down. In our catch-ups with Vince, I’d listen to my fellow executive producers Petroc and Oz casually mentioning the various production issues they were battling, and find it hard not to grab a paper bag to hyperventilate into – how were they not made dizzy by the things they had to deal with? As execs, we were near the top of the tree, production-wise, which meant that lightning struck us first. Of course, they were delegating the worry down to someone else, which is something I’ve never been able to do. Sometimes, you clear up the mess by giving everyone a broom and telling them to get on with it.

After he helped me out with Vince and the head of development job, Petroc and I had become friends, regularly sneaking off to the pub round the corner to snark about colleagues, commissioners and the industry generally. He’d been at Red Eye for longer than I had and, although professionally we were equals, I’d come to rely on him as a sounding board – or at least someone I could let off steam with. He has a certain sagacity – laced with sarcasm of course – that I find reassuring. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes he fucks up, just like everyone else.

One day, I was in my office watching casting tapes and eating honey-and-sesame-coated almonds that someone had brought back from Turkey. We have what Vince inappropriately calls the ‘Fat Shelf’ in the communal kitchen, where people leave treats out – chocolates they’ve been given, leftover birthday cake, holiday harvests. It’s where I left my doughnuts, where I leave my bagels – ostentatiously, so everyone knows I’m being generous. Someone had left the almonds out that morning, and after telling myself I definitely wouldn’t have any, I took a handful and lined them up on my desk, resolving to only eat one when I came across a contributor I liked on the tape. I’d eaten three almonds when Petroc burst in, looking grey and unhinged.

‘Kill me now.’

He threw himself into my armchair, which is a prop from a celebrity interview show we made. It’s orange, designed to pop on camera, which only served to heighten the zombie tones of Petroc’s face. He looked distraught, so I offered him a nut.

‘I can’t eat, I feel sick,’ he declared, passing a hand across his sweating brow.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Call the TV police, I’m going to jail.’

Petroc was making a popular science documentary about people who like immersing themselves in ice water. It was niche stuff, for a natural history department, who wanted an excuse to feature stunning frosty backdrops, with a bit of lunacy thrown in. But Jonno, the commissioner, was becoming increasingly obsessed with getting the presenter, a survival expert, to join the ice enthusiasts in their pursuits. Petroc felt it would compromise her gravitas, and that Jonno really just wanted to get her in a swimsuit (she was a very easy-on-the-eye survival expert), so he was pushing back.

‘I was so pissed off with him,’ he explained. ‘He kept saying “Couldn’t you just get her to have a dip in Lake Windermere?” But that wasn’t the point. We were going back and forth arguing, and then Vince bumped into Jonno in Avon House and Jonno tried to get him on board as well. Suggested putting Harriet in a bikini. I lost my rag.’

‘What did you do?’ I’d now eaten all the almonds.

Petroc put his head in his hands. ‘I sent Vince an email. Said Jonno is a pervy old man who knows nothing about programme-making, and should get in the sea, which is about eight degrees this time of year. See how he likes it.’

‘So?’

He splayed his fingers to look at me with haunted eyes. ‘I accidentally sent it to Jonno.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘I know.’ He buried his head again. ‘What shall I do? Maybe I’ll get in the sea. Just wade out and never come back, like Reggie Perrin.’

‘He did come back.’

‘Well, I won’t. You have to help me. I don’t know what to do. Apart from go into witness protection.’

But I was busy thinking, fuelled by sugary nuts. Because it wasn’t me in the firing line, for once I felt fearless and driven. ‘When did you send the email?’

He sighed dispiritedly. ‘What?’

‘When did you send it?’ Something in the sharpness of my tone pierced him, and he sat up straighter, uncovering his face.

‘Five minutes ago. Why? Can you save me? Save me! Do it! What are you thinking?’

‘I’m not sure, but I’ve got an idea.’

Sweeping almond dust off my desk into the bin, I stood up and walked out into the open-plan section, trailed by a hangdog Petroc. Everyone was tapping away, staring at their screens. Ian Gittings had his feet up on the desk, headphones on, chortling at old episodes of Seinfeld. I carried on, past them, towards Vince’s corner office. His shelves are lined with awards – not awards he’s won, just random trophies he’s swiped to make himself look illustrious and successful. Some of them are his son’s football cups.

Vince’s PA sits just outside her boss’s office, in case he wants her to do a coffee run or help him out technically – he’s a terrible Luddite who still tries to send people faxes. She was typing up one of his reports, squinting at his terrible handwriting, and drinking from a Red Eye branded coffee cup, which are universally known as the myxomatosis mugs.

‘Imogen, can you spare a moment?’

She looked up vaguely, her eyes readjusting. ‘Yes?’