‘Let’s see where we are tomorrow, then.’
‘Does that mean you’re back on?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘But not off?’
He nods. ‘On the fence would be a better way of putting it.’
‘On the vertical trellis,’ I say, and he laughs.
‘I might have to do the show just so I can provide you with better vintages than this,’ he says, indicating his red. ‘It’s abominable.’
‘Vince needs people to get leathered so that they’re more likely to buy his new format,’ I say. ‘Talking of which, the screening is starting in five minutes. I’d swerve it if I were you – it might put you off us again.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
Tick. Well, not a tick, but not a cross either. Hearing Vince shouting at people to get a bloody move on, I head towards the screening room, along with the rest of the party, who seem reluctant at the prospect of having to sit still and stop gassing for thirty minutes. We’re all going to watch a rough cut of our new show, Blind Dinner Date, which Oz executive produced. It’s a stupid idea and no doubt Oz has made a hash of it, but it has an easily appreciable concept, and Vince managed to scrape together international funding from Red Eye’s parent companies to make a pilot. Channels are sniffing round and everyone has high hopes of selling it around the world. I spot Petroc at the back, and squeeze in next to him, far away from my dressing room demon, who is at the front, being shown to his seat by Vince. The guest of dishonour.
‘How are you?’ Petroc says.
‘Just dandy.’
He laces his fingers through mine. ‘Are you ready?’
His nicely shaped nails have mud under them – he’s probably been digging up bodies in his graveyard. ‘Do I need to be?’
‘Yes.’
I settle back, looking at the black screen as the lights dim. ‘Then let’s go.’
42
When David complimented me, I felt deeply uncomfortable, because I’m not used to it. Obviously, praise from Rose was and is as rare as hen’s teeth, and no one else in my family is particularly effusive. Susie is a very supportive friend, but not really the type to applaud. Robbie is more of a doer than a sayer, which I much prefer. When people tell me I’ve done well, I want to run away, unnerved by the scrutiny, the positive confrontation. I duck my head, sit at the back, wince when my name appears on the credits, happier to be behind the scenes than on screen. With Petroc’s hand in mine as the viewing begins, I’m safe in the dark, anonymous, hidden, and I like it that way.
Rough cuts are always pretty . . . well, rough, often with time codes left on screen, and if they haven’t been through the final online edit, then the picture quality isn’t great. This can actually enhance a viewing – commissioners feel they’re seeing something raw and new, the first to pluck the coarse diamond from the crust. So we’re all used to watching slightly cobbled-together footage and appreciating what it could be rather than what it is. Which is why when the film starts, it takes the audience quite a while to understand that they are not watching Blind Dinner Date. No; they are watching me.
When I first started at Red Eye, Petroc taught me there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Sometimes you have to get sneaky. Sometimes you don’t make a scene; you fake it. I knew the dressing room face-off wouldn’t go well; these things never do. It was always going to end in denial – he’s the villain, but sees himself as a hero, and there was no way my words were going to change anything. But in the end, I didn’t need them to. Because in the edit he comes out as a total monster.
The scene is filmed on two cameras, discreetly placed in different positions in the dressing room. We see him snort the line, beckon me over; I back away, shaking my head. There’s a cut, and I’m semi-naked, him tugging my dress off me as I try to pull it back. Then he’s looming over me, turning my chin this way and that, assessing me. I’m clearly uncomfortable, writhing and wrestling from his grasp, pushing him away: ‘Get away from me.’ More dialogue:
‘You said that if I slept with you, I’d get a promotion.’ I’m clutching my dress against my body as protection. There’s a gasp in the audience.
‘Well, I’m sure I didn’t force you.’ The camera cuts to a close-up of his self-satisfied smirk.
‘I’m sure you think you didn’t.’
Another jump cut and he’s pushing me against the door, pressing up against me, my face turned away. ‘Please, don’t.’
The cameras – and the cut – are an extremely effective means of conveying exactly how unpleasant the moment was. The edit doesn’t tell the whole truth, but it does reveal an essential truth; my truth – which is that this man is dangerous, and must be stopped. Women in the audience are turning to each other, men shaking their heads, murmuring as they work out who the baddie is, pointing at him, the turned-to-stone man in the front row. I shift in my seat, feeling twitchy and unsettled as various members of the Red Eye staff crane round, eyeing me with curiosity and confusion. This is my moment in the spotlight – I didn’t want it and don’t enjoy it, but I knew it had to be done, for all the other Clovers who weren’t able to make it stop.
‘Put your clothes on before you go out, you might cause a scene. Thanks for the fun times.’
The final shot is of me thrown against the wall, and sinking against it, my hands over my face. It looks like I’m crying – I wasn’t. What does it matter what I was doing? All that matters is how it looks. And it looks very, very bad for this particular CEO of a US conglomerate, who thought everyone would rather listen to him than me. The film finishes with his name on screen, followed by his position, and the company, lest there be any doubt. The nail in the coffin – his kingdom is lost.
The screen fades to black again, and the murmuring crescendos to an excited clamour, as TV’s great and good all pull out their phones to make sure everyone knows what just happened in this room. Nothing’s real until someone’s put it on social media. As they tap and exclaim to each other, he stands, surveying the room in disgust. His eyes rove around, and eventually they meet mine, locking in on me as he assesses the damage. But there’s no way of putting out this fire, and he knows it. And so, I hold his gaze. I want him to know I’m not scared, that he has no power, and that seems like the best way to show it. I stare him down, Petroc still squeezing my hand, and finally he turns, spitting out a curse, and stalks out, the tails of his jacket flapping. I don’t think he’ll be buying our format.
‘Prick,’ someone shouts as he exits, and I feel something inside me lift and soar. A true mindful breath. I’ve done it. I delegated this job to Petroc and he has risen to the occasion, turning around this edit in record time and producing a rough cut that hit its target perfectly. He deserves an award, maybe an Emmy.
‘Where did you get the cameras?’ I murmur, as we both sit still, ignoring the demented chatter and fussing around us.
‘Flora,’ he says. ‘She was happy to help. And Imogen switched the links so our film played instead. He’s been sending her creepy emails.’
‘Stars, all of you. Thank you.’ My throat feels thick.
‘You owe us doughnuts. Me, mainly, for working my filthy fingers to the bone in the world’s fastest edit.’
It’s true I owe him, big time. ‘I was thinking,’ I say, ‘about your church. Why don’t you film it? Make a taster on the perils of religious restoration, pitch it to Channel Four, then you can get some experts in to help you sort it all out.’
‘Hmm.’ Petroc strokes his chin. ‘That’s not a bad thought.’
I tap my temple. ‘You see, I did have a show idea after all. So it was worth taking the day off.’
He smiles. ‘Oh, I’d say it was worth it.’
And we sit together, hand in hand, as Vince stands up looking like he’s been hit by a truck, and announces that, following a technical hitch, we will now be watching an episode of Blind Dinner Date.
Tick, tick, tick. He was a suspect package but, rather than run away, I blew him up.
