‘What are you wearing?’
‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ I say in a silly voice, and Dad bursts out laughing. It’s a childish joke between Dad and me. We race to say it whenever there’s even the hint of a double entendre.
‘What’s so funny?’ asks Mum in the background.
‘Tell Mum I’m wearing M&S court shoes and a sensible hemline.’ He repeats this back to Mum and I hear her say, ‘Very good.’
‘Thanks for calling, but I’ve got to run,’ I say, dragging myself away from the shop window and hurrying down the street.
‘Okay, darling. Just remember to have fun. You’re only young once,’ says Dad.
‘Have fun? Why are you telling her to have fun, Bert?’ says Mum. ‘She needs to apply herself. Remember Eleanor Roosevelt – “I am who I am because of the choices I made yesterday.” ’
‘Mum also says to have fun,’ Dad says before hanging up.
By the time I reach the office, I’m so hungry, I’m beginning to regret saying no to Betty’s broth. Hopefully there’ll be some leftover biscuits in the communal kitchen. Someone brought a proper tin in last week, though all the chocolate ones had already been eaten.
‘Lucy.’ A sharp voice snaps me out of my reverie about biscuits. It’s my boss, Melanie. She has a phone to her ear, but holds out a finger, indicating I should wait until she’s finished her call.
Melanie Durham is everything I aspire to be in the world. She’s in her mid-forties, whip smart and impossibly stylish. She’s one of the executive producers at When TV and she exudes a steely confidence that instils respect and fear in equal measure. She once shouted at me in a meeting for not opening a window fast enough and I ever so slightly peed my pants. Sometimes I go to sleep fantasising what it must be like to be Melanie. She buys hardback books as soon as they’re released, not even waiting for the paperback. Every day, she buys a takeaway coffee on her way in to work, then she has lunch from one of the expensive Soho delis. She sometimes sends me to get her lunch and her salads cost thirteen pounds. Thirteen pounds! Can you imagine? That’s my entire weekly shop. Apparently, she’s married to a tech entrepreneur called Lukas （with a k） and they live in a detached house in Islington. A detached house, in London. They don’t have to share a single wall or ceiling with anyone.
But the biggest source of my Melanie envy is her wardrobe. She has twenty-six different pairs of heels. I know this because I’ve counted them. Today she’s wearing my second favourite pair – her black Louboutin ankle boots. If I owned those boots, I don’t think I could be anything but deliriously happy all day long. Anything could happen, I could get pecked by a pigeon, or hit by a truck, and I’d just look down at my perfect ankle boots and feel that everything was right with the world.
‘We’ve got the channel coming in for a pre-show meeting this morning,’ Melanie says, and I realise she’s finished her call and is now talking to me. My eyeline snaps up from her boots and back to her face. ‘Can you nip to the bakery on the corner and pick up some pastries?’ She pauses. ‘Get a dozen. Since it’s show day, I’ll treat the team.’
The thought of a delicious pastry from the posh bakery makes me want to weep with joy. Then I remember, I’m a junior researcher now – maybe I should ask Coleson, the new runner, to go for pastries so that I don’t miss the production meeting. Then again, I don’t want Melanie to think this mini promotion has gone to my head. As I’m having this internal debate, Melanie walks off towards the lift, and I cringe as I’m forced to call after her, ‘Sorry Melanie, please can I just get some cash, for the pastries?’
‘Just bring me the receipt,’ she says, looking annoyed that I’ve troubled her with the practicalities of pastry purchasing. She’s in the lift before I can explain that I don’t have enough on my credit limit to spend thirty pounds on pastries.
By the time I’ve tracked down Gethin, the production manager, begged him for a loan, legged it to the bakery, then run all the way back, the production meeting has started without me. After I offer around the pastries, there are six left in the box – cinnamon swirls, chocolate croissants and the almond ones with icing sugar on top. I don’t even mind being the last to choose, they all look incredible, and the smell of delicious warm flaky pastry is making me light-headed with anticipation. Just as I’m about to take one, Melanie says, ‘Lucy, can a few of you hold back? I want to make sure there’s a choice to offer the channel commissioners. You can have what’s left after the meeting.’
The production meeting is full of important information about the show recording this afternoon, but I can hardly concentrate. All I can think about is the unfairness of the croissant distribution and the smell of sweet, flaky pastry that still fills the room. Near the end of the meeting, Melanie asks, ‘So, who’s got new ideas? We need segment suggestions for next week’s show.’
Hands fly up, including mine. The show we’re working on, The Howard Stourton Show, is a prime-time chat show full of celebrity interviews, sketches, and games with the guests. All the A-list stars love Howard. They’re happy to come on his show and juggle jelly or get pranked because he’s chat show royalty, and the humour is always inclusive rather than mean.
‘Tristan.’ Melanie points to one of the producers.
‘Everyone loves it when Howard’s dog Danny comes on the show,’ Tristan says. ‘What about a segment called “Date with Danny”？ We set up a restaurant scene and the guest has to date the dog.’
Everyone laughs. It’s a stupid idea, but those are often the ones that work. I wonder if it would be funny for Howard to voice the dog’s internal monologue. He’s brilliant at that kind of improvised comedy. I start to suggest it, ‘Maybe Howard could do the—’
‘I like it,’ Melanie says, cutting me off. ‘We could get Howard to voice the dog’s internal monologue.’
‘Yes! That’s so funny,’ Tristan enthuses.
‘Maybe Danny is really picky,’ Melanie goes on. ‘He finds Miley Cyrus’s table manners off-putting, the way she eats with a knife and fork and discards all the tasty bones on the side of her plate.’
Everyone’s laughing at the idea, and I kick myself for not speaking up faster or louder. I have more ideas though, so I thrust my hand higher. I’ve spent every evening this week working up item ideas, just waiting for the chance to pitch them, to show Melanie I can contribute creatively. But Melanie doesn’t ask me and eventually my arm is too weak from lack of croissants to keep in the air. Once, I emailed Melanie a few of my ideas. She sent a one-line reply saying, Printer out of ink. Stationery cupboard a mess. Please rectify. I took this to mean, ‘Stop sending me ideas when there are runner’s jobs to do.’ It’s so frustrating, because when I see what the producers do – talking to guests, briefing Howard, coming up with content – I know I could do it just as well as they do, maybe better even, if only someone would give me a chance.
At the end of the meeting, Mel asks me to plate up the remaining pastries for her meeting with the channel. Perhaps this is how they tortured people in the olden days? Did they have croissants in the olden days? I google ‘when were croissants invented?’ 1838. I’ll tuck that little fact away just in case I’m ever on a quiz team and one of the questions is ‘When were croissants invented?’