The Good Part(23)

‘It’s a concept for a new show,’ I say, thinking on my feet. ‘Can you guide an imposter through a job they don’t know? Just follow me everywhere and discreetly tell me who everyone is and what job they do.’

‘Isn’t that already a show? Job Blag on ITV,’ Callum asks, pressing his palms together in a nervous prayer.

Who would make that into a show? It’s a terrible idea.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, unbuttoning my jacket. ‘But I have a different version in mind.’

‘Oh?’ Callum asks.

‘The format’s not quite there yet, I’m just stress-testing the principle. Look, do you want to help me or not?’

He nods like an overeager puppy, so I open the door to the meeting room, and he follows me out. ‘Just give me a rundown on all the people who work here, the whole hierarchy of the office, a who’s who of Badger TV.’

‘Even Ravi?’

‘Who’s Ravi?’

‘Him.’ Callum points to the receptionist, looks at me in confusion, then grins. ‘Was that a test?’

‘Yes, that was a test. Assume I know nothing.’

I realise I’m still holding all my Selfridges bags, so I ask Ravi if he’ll look after them for me and he kindly stows them beneath his desk. At the top of the stairs, we emerge into an open-plan office full of clean white desks and impossibly trendy-looking people. There’s one man wearing a blouse with a prominent neck ruff so outlandish, it makes Harry Styles’s wardrobe look positively conservative.

‘We’ve only got the development team in the office right now, since we’re between productions,’ Callum tells me. ‘But there’s Dominique the AP.’ He points at a girl wearing a leather onesie. ‘Trey the producer’ (neck ruff man), ‘Leon the researcher’ (glasses, impossibly vertical hair). ‘Is this what you mean?’

‘Perfect,’ I say, which only makes Callum more eager. He reminds me of my parents’ old dog, Apple, who was always jumping up excitedly.

‘In there you have Michael, BTV’s co-founder.’ Callum points to a closed door with ‘King Badger’ written on a silver placard. People nod or wave to us as I follow Callum across the office floor. Everyone looks surprised to see me. On the walls are framed posters of programmes Badger TV must have produced: How Does Your Garden Grow?, with images of children planting vegetables; Busy Lizzy’s Gruesome Mysteries, with a young girl holding a magnifying glass.

‘And my desk is . . .’

‘In there.’ Callum points to a huge corner office with ‘Queen Badger’ written on the door.

‘And the pitch this morning was for . . .?’

‘Rainbow Bear and Friends,’ Callum says, looking more confused by the minute. ‘It’s a pre-school show. Rainbow Bear makes a new friend in every episode. Someone with a problem or insecurity that Rainbow Bear can solve with love and understanding.’

‘Sounds a little twee,’ I say, grimacing.

Callum laughs, then covers his mouth, unsure whether I’m joking. The chair at my desk is one of those huge ergonomic ones, with multiple levers for maximum comfort. On one side of my computer is a photo of Sam and the kids, and on the other, the ‘Congratulations’ card Zoya drew with the sketch of me holding a TV. I framed it, I kept it all this time. Picking it up, I find a photo behind it of me and Michelle Obama.

‘I met Michelle Obama?’ I squeal, examining it to check it is real.

Callum looks ever more perplexed. ‘I think that was taken at the Women in Business Awards. She was hosting.’

I met Michelle Obama, I run a production company, I have my own office and a chair with multiple levers. This is so much better than I ever could have imagined.

With a knock on the door, a man I assume must be Michael lets himself in. He’s older than everyone else, possibly late forties, with a greying Afro and wise, gentle eyes. He is impeccably dressed in a waistcoat and shirt, with trousers that have a sharp crease down the front. He looks like the Great Gatsby, if the Great Gatsby was being played by a younger Danny Glover.

‘I thought you were ill,’ he says.

‘Turns out it was just one of those two-hour things. Puke your guts out in a train-station toilet and then you’re fine. Better than fine.’

‘I don’t think you’ve taken a sick day in four years, not about to start now, huh?’ he says, shooting me a knowing smile. ‘What’s with the suit? That’s a very different look for you.’

‘I have a thing . . . later,’ I say, suddenly feeling less confident about my ability to pull off this outfit. Maybe it screams Margaret-Thatcher-in-a-box-of-Quality-Street rather than fashion-forward-professional-with-her-shit-together. ‘So, the pitch went well?’

‘We knocked it out of the park, Luce.’ Michael swings an imaginary baseball bat and makes a ‘glock’ sound in his throat, like a ball hitting a bat. ‘They’re looking to commission more diverse programming, so it’s right on message for them.’ He claps his hands. ‘They’ve even asked for a budget for twenty eps rather than twelve. Do you want to run some numbers now? We can get them an updated projection.’

Budget? I wouldn’t know where to begin doing a budget. As I try to think of a valid excuse for not doing that, the rest of the team have moved from their desks and are now loitering in the doorway behind Michael.