Game Over Read online

  ‘No.’ Issie manages the single syllable by cramming a load of fudge cake into her mouth.

  ‘Oh. What a shame. Are you working too hard? You’re not neglecting your social life are you? Don’t forget there’s more to life than work.’ My mum and I agree on one thing. If Issie wants a man it should be possible.

  ‘It’s not work. It’s just that all the men I meet are bastards.’ Mum blushes at Issie’s expletive. I’m amused and watch the exchange with interest. My mum and I run through this routine every week. It amazes me that whilst her marriage made her so unhappy, she still thinks it’s the answer to everyone else’s dreams.

  ‘I met someone last night.’ I catch Issie’s eye – we both know she is giving my mother false hope. ‘But I took his number down incorrectly, one digit too many.’ She’s just bending the truth to protect the feelings of an older lady. Anyone would do it. My mother and Issie then spend an hour looking at the telephone number working out which is likely to be the wrong digit. This is one of the most pointless exercises I’ve ever witnessed. I spray the roses, which have a spot of greenfly.

  2

  He is appallingly ugly. And whilst most people are embarrassed by their physical drawbacks, Nigel Bale, my boss, is blissfully unaware that he looks like Hissing Sid. His mannerisms are, by some way, less attractive. He is very tall and should be skinny, but he has wide, middle-aged woman’s hips and a pot belly. The pot belly is a testament to the numerous occasions he’s cornered some poor, defenceless junior in the pub and drunk them under the table or, more accurately, into bed. He has large feet and fat fingers. He’s balding. The hair he does have is greasy, serving to glue his dandruff to his exposed scalp. And yet he is inconceivably arrogant, confident and vain. So much so that he will not recognize himself from this description. He considers himself to be the most intelligent of the male species and although he doesn’t come across as crushing competition on a day-to-day basis at TV6, he is mistaken. He firmly believes he is irresistible to the opposite sex. Sadly, to many he is.

  It’s his bank balance. It is huge. Massive.

  And he is powerful. Extremely so.

  Two compelling aphrodisiacs. I am ashamed to be female when I see Hissing Sid surrounded by an entourage of young vixens, willing to lie back and think of the Bank of England. It disgusts me that these women, always attractive and often intelligent, are too lazy to think of anything more creative than sleeping with the boss to ensure a promotion.

  I can sense his presence, and this isn’t entirely to do with his body odour and bad breath. A deathly hush has fallen. Hissing Sid is oozing his way across the open-plan office towards me. I brace myself for his visit by starting to breathe through my mouth.

  I force myself to look up. Nigel is leaning over my desk. He has no perception of personal body space and does not seem to understand that I don’t want to be close to him. Could his mother? I think of dead fish in a fishmonger’s window.

  ‘A word, if you please,’ he sprays. He mistakenly believes that the fake Dickensian language is distinguished. Flapping my arms, encouraging the air between us to circulate as quickly as possible, I follow him back to his office. As Controller of Entertainment and Comedy (a position he secured by uniquely blending bullying, bullshitting and – much as it pains me to admit it – a genuine business acumen) Bale has three offices. The executive office on the sixth floor, which is bigger than my flat, heaves with mahogany and teak, deep shag-pile carpets (literally), and numerous pictures of Bale with celebs. It doesn’t work for me – I still don’t think he is interesting, I still think he is offensive. This office is straight out of a set from Dynasty. This man is blissfully unaware that New Romantics are passé and even their retro revival has been and gone. His second office is a pied à terre in Chelsea. I shudder to think what kinds of contracts are negotiated there. I’ve never visited. The third office is the one on our floor, which he is currently leading me to. Again, huge – this time very modern and open. Not so that we are encouraged to drop in on him (no one wants to) but so that he can terrify us through constant surveillance.

  Although visiting Bale’s office is unpleasant, at least I am one of the few heterosexual women in TV6 who is safe from his advances. He obviously asked me to sleep with him when we first met, but I refused. He quickly became distracted by a far prettier but less fastidious PA. By the time she received her P45 (following her justified but failed attempt to bring a sexual harassment case to court) I’d proved that I was actually quite good at my job. Lascivious Bale is, but stupid he is not. He realized that actively pursuing me as a lay was unlikely to be successful and would certainly limit my productivity. More concerned with the bottom line than any bottom, he’s since left me more or less alone. He occasionally takes the odd pot shot, when he’s had one or two dozen too many. He leers at me or sprays his spittle in my direction, but a friendly hint that Mandy in Comedy finds him really attractive is usually enough to distract him.

  Bale nods towards the leather chair that is strategically positioned to be four inches lower than his. It’s a ham-fisted attempt at intimidation. I sigh; this man is a parody. I sit down and wait.

  He waits too.

  Silently.

  Then he grins. It’s the cruellest smile I’ve ever seen and it totally fails to ignite his eyes. I wonder if he is going to sack me. I feel a bead of sweat run down my back. It’s cold. If he calls me Jocasta this is serious.

  ‘Jocasta, I want an idea.’ He bangs his fist on the desk. I force myself not to jump. I know we are at war. But then, I always am. His gesture is unnecessary but I understand his motivation. He knows, as well as I do, that every eye on the floor is turned towards us. He likes to appear passionate; it’s very new millennium.

  ‘We’re in trouble, Cas.’ Because he calls me Cas, I realize that we may be in trouble but I am not. He needs me. I allow myself to relax enough to take in what he is saying. He flings the channel’s weekend viewing figures over the desk. I don’t pick them up to examine them. I don’t have to. I checked them this morning at 7.30 a.m. They are terrible.

  Not content with being one of the youngest executive producers at ITV and managing some of the strongest shows for a main commercial channel, two years ago I decided I needed new challenges. I took a leap of faith and joined a consortium led by a group of guys with enough venture capital and balls to bid for the franchise of a new channel. Our team won the bid for TV6 by insisting that instead of being yet another publisher broadcaster, filling airtime with programmes shipped in from the US, we would produce new programmes. I had visions of producing challenging, dynamic, informative and startling programmes. I threw away my six-figure salary, company Porsche, obscene expense account, private healthcare, pension and gym membership, and moved to TV6. To be clear, this was not an act of altruism. My end goal was not to educate and entertain the great British public. I just thought that this novel approach would generate huge viewing figures, that the channel would be an unprecedented success and that I’d get more material rewards than I’ve ever had before. The added benefit, the incalculable advantage, would be that I would have control. A smaller pond to swim in perhaps, but I’d certainly be a much bigger fish. A shark.

  I’d honestly believed that the public wanted new programming. New thoughts, new ideas. It pains me to admit that this was a misjudgement on my part. It’s unusual that I miscalculate human nature and it’s unprecedented that my miscalculation is rosy. It appears that the general public is very happy with repeats of Different Strokes and Fame. Channels that, three years ago, looked as though they’d never sail are beginning to race in the white waters. It could be that I am on the Titanic.

  ‘The competition are whipping our ass. Have you seen their Internet policy? They’re not fucking around.’ He throws a competitive annual report in my direction. I’ve read it. ‘And they are capturing the youth market.’ He throws another annual report my way. Again, I’ve seen it.’ Youth is the name of the game. We should go after that.’

&
nbsp; ‘What and be a “me too”?’ I comment scathingly. I notice that the slats in the blinds in Bale’s office are damaged. I briefly wonder who he’s fucked up against them. Bale ignores my put-down.

  ‘Let’s employ some designers with trendy jeans. We could get the girl on reception to serve our clients vodka and Red Bull.’ He looks at me hopefully. My eye falls on his desk. He has a mug with a dozen identical, yellow, sharp pencils. All this in the digital age. Oblivious, he carries on. ‘They could listen to trance music and send their friends text messages. They could wear blades to work.’

  ‘And that would help with the schedule, would it?’

  ‘It would bring fresh ideas.’

  ‘Bale, we are too old. Even the lads and ladettes we know are aspiring to “me-time” and their own pads. We can’t do anything for the teen market.’

  ‘Well what then?’ he asks petulantly. I bet he’d already chosen the bunny outfit for the receptionist.

  ‘I don’t know. Late twenties and early thirties are always rich pickings.’ I know I’m clasping at straws. ‘We should think of a schedule that targets them.’

  ‘Yeah, they all have more money than sense, no direction and lots of time. How about sport?’

  ‘I’ve never believed in encouraging sports fanaticism, the next thing you know they are actually playing, which involves turning off their TV sets. We don’t want them out playing sport. We want them slouched in front of the box. Besides, ASkyA are there.’

  ‘Yes, whilst I think about it, write a complaint letter. ASkyA are running sports updates throughout their ad breaks on sports programmes. They’ll be charging advertisers a premium for that. Where there’s advertising there is money for programme development,’ he warns.

  ‘You could argue that it distracts the viewer from the advert. Maybe it’s worth less money.’

  ‘Yeah, send a spoiler letter to the advertisers,’ he instructs.

  ‘Get your secretary to do it,’ I counter.

  We glare at one another. Both livid and arrogant.

  And scared.

  ‘I want an idea,’ he yells again. ‘A single idea, but a big one. A humongous one. A bloody big-dick-swinging one. An astonishing, unique, bang-those-bastards-and-their-new-shows-into-the-ground-idea.’ He changes tack. He leans towards me and starts to whisper menacingly, ‘The tabloids and the men’s mags have a host of new wannabe babes who present meaningless shows and are prepared to pose topless for publicity.’ I’m about to condemn this, when he adds, ‘You’re going to have to come up with something really good to top that.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The idea of topless wannabes has made him salivate. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Something arresting.’ I’m trying to sound cool but I keep my hands by my sides so he doesn’t see them quiver. I hope my mastery of understatement irritates him.

  ‘A ginormous, fucking, ratings-rocketting idea. Now go away and have it.’ He dismisses me.

  I get back to my desk and give in to the shaking. I light a cigarette and swallow back a cold double espresso. Artificial stimulants are a way of life. For all Bale is as ugly as a slapped arse, he is good at his job. I do, grudgingly, admire him. He has a point. I’ve been trying to ignore our flagging ratings, positively denying the competition’s success. But the weekend runs are indisputable: TV6 is in big trouble.

  Our office is in north London. A peculiar idiosyncrasy in the microclimates means that it rains more than average here. Or so it seems to me. It’s late August. It has certainly been summer in every other part of London. I have seen pavement cafés exploding throughout Soho; crowds of office workers have exploited every coffee and lunch break by pouring into the streets in the West End. Girls in skimpy sundresses and strappy sandals have been spotted as far as Hammersmith. But in Islington it’s bleak. To be specific, in TV6 it’s bleak.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asks Fi. Fi is my assistant and has been for eighteen months. I employed her because she reminds me of myself. She is committed, ambitious and dedicated. She’s cold comfort in times of a crisis.

  ‘Fine.’ I turn to my PC and hope she’ll get the hint. I like to work things out for myself.

  ‘Is there anything I can help with?’

  ‘No,’ I reply automatically. Although I employed Fi, I don’t trust her 100 per cent. It isn’t that Fi has done anything to lose my trust. In fact, when she first joined TV6, she worked very hard to be a ‘chum’, but eventually she realized I don’t do ‘chum’. And I don’t trust. These are policies.

  ‘If it’s Bale, maybe I can have a word,’ she offers. I sigh, depressed by the implication. Am I supposed to think she’s being helpful? I look up at her and she is twirling her fine blonde hair around her finger, tapping her foot and smiling to herself. The implication is that she has a special relationship with Bale. Has she? Has she slept with him? Oh, awful thought. I look closer and she defiantly returns my gaze. Her ice-blue eyes, sparkling out above her high, chiselled cheekbones, lock on mine for a fraction of a second. Then she starts to walk away. She is striking. Her mother is Norwegian and she has inherited her Scan, confidence and good looks. She’s one of those women who can make a beady bag and a friendship bangle look cool rather than childish. She is five foot ten; she has no hips, no thighs, no stomach. She is the ideal woman, as far as women are concerned. Generally Bale likes his women a little curvy, but then that is a generalization. It’s possible they’ve had sex. However, I don’t want to ask her. What’s the point? She wouldn’t have to tell me the truth. If she has slept with him she will have no influence over him, whatever she thinks to the contrary. But it is possible that he’s still trying to seduce her, and if this is the case I can’t afford to alienate her. She could be useful.

  ‘Hey, Fi. Yeah, you can help. Organize a meeting between our team after lunch. We need a brainstorm.’ I smile. We both know the smile is business. She grins back and I’m relieved. She probably hasn’t slept with him yet. I normally know about such things long before the participants do. I consider warning her but decide not to. She’ll either think I am jealous or too old to know better. Advice, by its very nature, is there to be ignored.

  Our office is a huge glass building that seems to rise endlessly upwards. It’s turned inside out like the Pompidou Centre. There is an odd mix of ritz and tat. Diet Coke and watery hot drinks from vending machines are consumed around Conran aluminium tables. There are plants oxygenating the room but I suspect the nod towards green and leafy is a losing battle. Since television studios are some of the few places left in London where people can still smoke, most feel it is obligatory. A dense smoky haze fills our days. People don’t move around much, they stay at their desks. This suggests that there is a substantial amount of genuine industry but not much communication. Calling a meeting indicates the seriousness of my issue. Through the glass partition I see my team congregate. It’s like watching a bunch of anxious relatives waiting by a sick bed. The analogy is frighteningly close to the reality. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that they possibly realize as much; everyone appears slightly nervous and sweaty. They are trying hard to look as though they are not trying at all. Their names are Thomas and Mark (the creative team), Jacquelyn (production secretary), Diana (marketing manager), Graham (sponsorship and advertising manager), Deborah (PR officer), Richard (broadcast strategy and scheduling manager) and Fi. Because we work in TV they are known as Tom, Jaki, Di, Gray, Debs, Ricky and Fi. There was nothing we could do with Mark.

  The team look at one another to discover a suitable expression to draw their faces into. They are trying to decide whether to look racked with professional concern, coolly indifferent or bright and optimistic. The problem with my industry is that a very large part of it is populated by those who refuse to leave their student years behind them. They dress like students. Everyone is ill-looking thin. Dressing down is an art form. The merest hint of trying, an iota of personal pride, will be condemned. Everyone looks as though they do too many drugs, and smoke and drink too much. It’s f
air. Besides looking like students, the attitudes are similar, too. It is only students who could have arrived at the concepts of ‘essay crisis’ or ‘no milk in the fridge crisis’. These are not crises. Crises are earthquakes, famines and tidal waves. My team understands that the cancellation of the Christmas karaoke act is a crisis but have no concept that twelve weeks of plummeting ratings is a crisis. If they do get the concept and panic about it for fifteen minutes or so, they can’t hold the concept. It’s usual that mid-brainstorm or meeting, someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. On our return the original subject of the meeting is forgotten and the debate has moved on to whether salt and Linneker are a better flavour crisp than cheese and onion.

  I don’t feel like this. There is nothing more important than my job.

  I never enter a meeting room without first thinking through exactly what I want to say, how I want to say it and what effect I want to have. Fi being keen and ambitious, whilst slightly threatening and nauseous, is useful. She’ll really want to crack this. I’ve slept with both Mark and Tom, although neither of them knows about the other. (FYI, Mark is better-looking, Tom is better in bed. He tries harder.) It should be easy to keep their attention. Especially as by happy chance I am wearing an unnecessarily tight T-shirt and bootleg jeans that cling in all the right places. I haven’t slept with Gray so the outfit will be doubly effective. Debs and Di like to keep in with me as I occasionally give them tips on hair conditioners or the latest ‘must have’ fashion statement. Ricky’s gay so he does the same for me.

  ‘Afternoon,’ I breeze.

  ‘Afternoon,’ they mumble sulkily. For a nanosecond I think they are going to add ‘miss’, but they don’t.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask, pointing sceptically towards a cardboard box in the centre of the table. It’s overflowing with balloons, Christmas decorations, crayons, sticky-backed plastic, old magazines, a toy trumpet, several Comic Relief noses and a cappuccino.