‘Incorporated eight years ago by TV executives Michael Green and Lucy Rutherford’。 Lucy Rutherford? Is that me? Is that my married name, Sam’s name? I try saying it out loud, ‘Lucy Rutherford,’ but it sounds alien and wrong. I am Lucy Young, I will always be Lucy Young. Shaking my head, I keep reading. ‘The independent production company has gone from strength to strength, carving out a speciality in innovative children’s television.’ Children’s television? I never imagined myself working on kids’ shows, though I suppose children need good TV as much as anyone. A news article tells me Badger TV was acquired a year ago by Dutch media giant Bamph and is slated for ‘significant structural changes’， whatever that means. Then my cab arrives at the address and that’s all the detective work I have time to do.
Walking through revolving doors into a brightly lit reception area, I know I must be in the right place because the walls are decorated in badger wallpaper. The reception area is sparsely furnished with low silver sofas, a long white desk, and a glass-walled meeting room along one side. At the far end of the room there are lift doors and a staircase, presumably leading to an office above. A blond receptionist wearing horn-rimmed glasses looks up from his paper-thin computer screen as I walk in.
‘Oh hi, Lucy. Wow, great suit. Where are you off to?’
‘Nowhere special,’ I say, slightly thrown that this person knows my name.
His eyebrows crease into a confused frown, but he continues to smile.
‘So, I work here . . .’ I say, hoping he might volunteer some information about what it is I do, but alas, he does not. ‘Is there a runner or someone you could call to come down here and talk to me?’
‘You want me to get Callum?’ the receptionist asks.
‘Great, yes. Get Callum.’
The receptionist makes a call, and I pace up and down in front of his desk. I don’t have a plan here. Well, my plan was, ‘Just go, see what happens!’ but that doesn’t seem like much of a plan now that I’m here and I’ve sobered up. I wasn’t going to tell my colleagues the truth. I’d just be pitied, sent home, or told to see a doctor. They’d look at me the way Emily did, as though I’ve lost my mind. If I’m going to see what my future life is like, I need to experience it as Lucy Rutherford, not as a lost Lucy Young.
A few minutes later, a slim man in his early twenties with spiky brown hair and a nose piercing bounds down the stairs. He’s cute in a ‘probably plays the ukulele and brews his own ale’ sort of way.
‘Hi Lucy’ – he says, eyes widening as he takes in the purple power suit – ‘I thought you were off sick today?’
‘I was, but I’m better. Can I have a word?’ I step into the glass-walled meeting room to our left and beckon him to follow. ‘Look, Callum, can I call you Callum?’
‘Yes,’ he says, eyeing me warily.
‘It’s always the runners who know everything in a production company. So how do you feel about being my eyes and ears this afternoon?’
‘Okay,’ he says, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
‘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.