A woman’s work is never done. I blink back the tears, take her outstretched hand and let her help me to my feet.
‘Yes. Sorry. Just a hot flush. It’s boiling in there.’
She smiles. ‘I’m just making a call, I’ll see you back inside.’
It’s a hell of a to-do list, but I have to get through it somehow, spray a hose on the conflagration. Time to roll up my sleeves and get stuck in. Brushing myself down, I turn around and head back to face the music. It’s thumping in there, everyone partying hard. No sign of Petroc. Back in the party room, I start with Caroline, who is still sniffling, being comforted by Oz, of all people. He’s awful to all his producers, treats them like dirt. I shoo him away.
‘Caroline, I’ve come to say sorry.’
She squints at me, her fringe all askew. ‘No, I’m sorry – you’re right, I’m lazy and horrible and no one likes me.’
She’s clearly been at the free prosecco. ‘No, you’re not, you’re a bit bossy, but that’s a good thing – you just need to channel it in the right way.’
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, watching me with doleful red eyes.
‘I messed up at Chew Hill this afternoon. I should have been more constructive in my criticism. Should have been kinder. You have the makings of an excellent producer, and it’s my job to turn you into one. Before, I was too feeble to do it, and today I was just a bitch. You deserve better, and I’m sorry.’
Caroline starts to cry again. ‘It’s not true! You brought us bagels! That’s not feeble, that’s just . . . nice.’
‘Well, from now on I’ll stop bringing bagels and be a bit more direct.’
She laughs through her tears. ‘Can’t you bring in some bagels?’
‘No more bagels! But I can give you something better . . .’ I dig around in my bag, looking for my purse. There’s my twenty-pound note, still unfurling, and my mother’s Visa, which also took a battering, but I don’t need either of those. ‘Here.’ I hand Caroline a business card.
‘Art Andra.’ She looks up at me enquiringly.
‘An incredible artist. I think he could be really good talent. You should get him in, film a taster tape. Maybe work on a format together. It can be your own project, and if you get a commission, it’s your credit.’
I’m spinning her a line here, but it’s not entirely untrue. Arturo Andra may be a bit of a wally, but he’s renowned in the art world and has a cartoonish quality that might work on telly. He could be good on camera if only he had someone to boss him around.
Caroline flicks the card around her fingers like a majorette. ‘You really think he’s got potential?’
‘I think he could have, with the right producer. Maybe the right executive producer?’ I tease her, and she steps forward to hug me, which I think is a bit much, but the gesture is probably fuelled by fizz. We’re never going to be friends, but I reckon we can work together.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘You rock. I’ll give him a call.’
‘You do that,’ I say. ‘Tell him I said hello.’
Tick. One down, several more to go.
* * *
I find David Lyon-James in the little drinking den upstairs, talking to Finn, the intern. He’s holding two glasses of wine, one red, one white, swilling them, telling Finn something about the colour. That’s the thing about David; he’s a natural teacher who loves his subject. He’d be the perfect talent for our show, would provide a kind of benign, fatherly presence, bestowing his wisdom on our binge-drinking bunch. I realize that I really want to make the series – that I could do it well, make it funny and entertaining with a dash of something extra, something illuminating and unexpected that will take it beyond the usual Fact Ent fare. Not award-winning or august or worthy; just good, enjoyable telly.
‘Hi.’ I stand in front of him with my hands clasped behind my back because I don’t know what to do with them.
‘Hello, Clover.’ He puts down the wine and regards me steadily. ‘Did Vincent tell you about our conversation?’
‘Hmm.’ Now I’m here I’m not sure what to say. My script has dried up. ‘He’s sent me to change your mind.’
‘Are you going to give me another speech about BAFTAs and Rose d’Ors?’
‘No.’ I sigh, sinking into the seat beside him. ‘I think the chances of me winning a BAFTA are roughly the same as Vince deciding to donate his profit margin to charity.’
He smiles, and hands me one of the glasses. ‘So why on earth should I agree to do this show?’
I take a belt of the wine. It’s the club’s house white, nowhere near as good as Chew Hill’s Bacchus – I know that, because he showed me how to tell the difference.
‘Because it’ll be fun?’
‘I think you might have to do better than that.’
‘I mean it though.’ Leaning back, I rotate the glass like he did, holding it up to irradiate the liquid. ‘When we first met, you showed me the palate of whites, from pale pinot grigio to rich sauternes. This wine sparkles in the light so that means it’s not dense and isn’t oak-aged. I really enjoyed that afternoon, and I learned something.’
Suddenly I know what to say, and it isn’t a script, it’s just what I feel.
‘We have the chance to make a show that will look really beautiful, and be really funny, and tell the audience something they don’t know. And the kids might get drunk, and throw up on your lawn, but we’ll clean it up, and at the end of the series they’ll come out with a bit of knowledge that might make them more responsible and interesting people. Who knows, maybe there’ll be a future winemaker amongst them. Just because this show won’t win a BAFTA doesn’t mean it’s going to be as bad as Oz’s Would Like to Meat. There’s a middle ground, and I think we can find it.’
For a second, David is silent, looking at the red wine undulating around his glass. ‘Do you know why I said yes in the first place?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Because we offered you a fat location fee?’
He smiles, acknowledging the hit. ‘Well, yes, I’ll admit that was part of it. But I mainly said yes because the producers who’ve approached me in the past had a well-worn spiel that I could spot a mile off, and you didn’t. You looked rather embarrassed, and you stuttered when you spoke, and you made sure your associate here’ – he indicates Flora, who’s joined us and is talking to Finn – ‘had a glass of my wine, and you asked her what she thought about everything. In short,’ he smiles, ‘you were very genuine. I liked you.’
Oh God, this is awful. I feel like we’re on an American talk show. Is he going to sing? Noticing my discomfort, he holds up his palms in contrition. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t compliment you any more. I didn’t like you as much this afternoon.’
‘Today has been a weird day.’
