‘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?’
‘Jonno Ritchie.’
She made a face. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you know his assistant?’
‘Lizzie. Nice girl.’
‘Do you think you could give her a call?’
Under my direction, Imogen called Lizzie, but she was having a day off, so Imogen spoke to a temporary assistant, Sian, who spoke to Jonno’s colleague Petra’s assistant Anita. With Anita on the phone, I explained the situation and, luckily, she understood perfectly. It turned out Jonno was in a viewing and was unlikely to have seen the email yet. We all agreed that it was in everyone’s interests if he never did. Anita went into Jonno’s office, logged on to his computer and deleted the message from his inbox and trash, erasing all evidence of Petroc’s indiscretion. Petroc cried with relief, and tearfully took himself off to the Fat Shelf to root out a slice of carrot cake, which he gorged on to restore his blood sugar levels. Then, at my behest, he contacted Bloom & Wild and arranged to send Anita a nice bunch of flowers to say thank you. Assistants are the lifeblood of the TV industry, of any industry. They know everything, everyone. They’re the power behind the throne, and you need them on side.
Back in my office, I spotted a rogue almond on the floor under my desk. I crawled under, picked it up and ate it. That’s what producers do; we clear up the mess. Sometimes we even enjoy it. Now Art Andra is my mess, and I’m going to wipe the floor with him.
25
When Danny drops me off at the house on Cheltenham Avenue, Susie’s outside looking like thunder, but I’ve got precisely fifteen minutes to get ready for my visitor and don’t really have time for explanations. As she unlocks the door and starts messing about with a devilishly complicated alarm system, she throws questions over her shoulder at me while I stand on the steps, drinking in the imposing façade. It’s gigantic, with Juliet balconies and a carefully shaped magnolia tree in the elegant front garden. Thinking of my own front garden, full of withered pot plants and flourishing weeds, I wish I could achieve this level of pruned perfection. But that would require professional help; maybe a whole team of dedicated gardeners and landscapers. If only I had staff – people to pick up my dry-cleaning, power hose the patio, renew our TV licence, make my hair curly every day. I would be so much more productive if there was a team of people taking up the slack, being productive for me.
‘What’s going on? Why are you so weird? What on earth have you done to your hair? Is that some sort of creature in your bag? Where did you get that dress?’
I deal with the most important thing first, putting down Bigwig and my bag to give her a twirl.
‘It’s got pockets!’ I jam my hands in them to demonstrate their capaciousness.
She gives me a grudging nod. ‘That’s really nice, how much did it set you back?’
‘McMany Pounds, but I got a discount thanks to some hard-nosed haggling.’
‘See, that’s what I mean.’ Susie beckons me onwards and, carrying Bigwig, I follow her across the hallway and up the stairs, already goggling. ‘The Clover I know doesn’t haggle.’
‘Over the next hour or so, you’re going to get to know another Clover. Just go with it.’ I gaze around the room she’s just led me to, at the back of the house. ‘Bloody hell, this is . . . unbelievable.’
‘This is the old ballroom.’
We’re in a vast space lined with long Georgian windows. The ceiling is covered in intricate cornicing, picked out in brilliant white against a beige background, and punctuated by three huge chandeliers that glint in the afternoon sunlight. The floor is smooth polished oak; I can imagine Regency couples bowing to each other and circling, while dowagers look on disapprovingly. But now, instead of dancers, the room is populated with sculptures – a huge marble head emerging from rough-hewn rock; a series of metal spikes set in a concrete base; a big looping resin blob with a hole in it; an enormous shiny balloon animal; and an elongated bronze figure of a man who appears to be leaning against the wind. This is the second rich person’s house I’ve been in today and once again I can’t imagine what they do with the space – what is the point of a sculpture room? Do they come and stand here of an evening, finger to chin, mulling on the curves of the blob?
Susie continues. ‘On this floor, there’s also a library and a drawing room. Six bedrooms on the second, third and fourth floors, including a huge suite. Downstairs is the kitchen, dining room, cinema room, and then below that is the basement where he keeps all his cars.’
‘Huh. Some collector.’ I run my hand over the marble face – even on this warm day, it feels cold to the touch. ‘This is the real deal, right? I mean, worth a few quid?’
