There’s a collective intake of breath around the room.
‘What?’ I ask, looking down to check my shirt hasn’t just popped open.
‘Um, I imagine you’re using that term ironically,’ Michael says, ‘but that kind of marginalising language would never wash with the channel. Especially in a show aimed at young people.’
‘As someone who identifies as “technologically inclined”， it’s a little too soon to be reclaiming the pejorative,’ Leon says, shaking his head. ‘Geek’？ Pejorative? Perhaps I’m out of step with modern sensibilities.
Michael’s eyebrows have furrowed into new depths of concern. I’m drowning here, and I need to pull out a sure-fire winner. Rummaging in my bag, I find the book I brought in, a middle grade series about space exploration. Future Me had an adaptation proposal saved on her laptop under ‘New ideas’。 It’s perfect for this time slot.
‘So, this book, Star Gazers is ideal for an adaptation – it’s informative and exciting . . .’ I’m about to go on, but everyone is looking at me warily again, as though not only is my blouse undone, but I’ve now sprouted a second head.
‘You want to re-pitch Star Gazers,’ Michael frowns, ‘even though Sky didn’t go for the pilot?’
They’ve already made it. Damn, that detail didn’t come up in any of the notes. That was my fail-safe big idea. My mind goes blank, but my mouth keeps talking.
‘Right, scrap that then.’ Here goes nothing. ‘Three words for you – helicopters, conger, eels.’
Silence. Something tells me this pitch meeting has not gone well.
‘Team, let’s rain check on this,’ Michael says, pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘We’ll resume play when Lucy and I have had a chance to talk strategy a bit more.’
The team all shoot each other worried looks as they troop out. Striding over to the window, I yank it open. ‘Is it hot in here?’
Michael shuts the door behind the others before saying, ‘Lucy, what’s going on?’ His voice is full of concern, puncturing my delusion that I could pull this off. I feel myself physically deflate.
‘I’m sorry I’m off my game,’ I say, still facing the window, bracing myself. I’ll have to tell him. ‘The truth is, the reason I was off last week, I’ve been having some memory issues.’ I pause, wondering how best to phrase it, but when I turn to face him, Michael is nodding, as though he’s been expecting this.
‘Brain fog?’ Michael suggests, and I nod. ‘I suspected it might be that, what with the hot flushes and the mood swings. One never wants to presume. Jane went through the same.’
‘Mood swings?’
‘Sorry if I’m overstepping. It was hard not to notice you came in on Friday an entirely different person. Just like Jane, she was up and down like a yoyo. The hormone patches did wonders to level her out, though.’ He reaches out to squeeze my hand. ‘I’ve done my Menopausal Sensitivity Training. Anything you need, Lucy – a longer break, extra support, a desk fan, you just let me know.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a little more than brain fog, Michael. It’s – ’ I pause again, distracted by the sight of Trey through the glass. He’s sitting with his head in his hands. Is he crying?
‘Just like Jane, she was always losing track of what she was saying mid-sentence.’
‘No, I don’t remember anything. Last week I didn’t know your name, I didn’t know I worked here, I didn’t even know I had a husband and children.’
‘Just like Jane.’ Michael puffs out his cheeks, then lowers his voice. ‘I haven’t told you this, but I once found her in bed with a man she met at a bus stop. She was so apologetic, but it was all down to the menopause, she simply forgot she was married.’
‘Right,’ I say slowly, unsure about the turn this conversation has taken.
Michael sighs. ‘It was terrible for her, such an extreme case. All I could do was be supportive.’
‘Is she okay now?’ I ask warily.
‘Oh yes. She got patches from the doctor, took up swimming. Her aqua aerobics instructor Marcus has been a great help. He has his own line of supplements. I could ask Jane for his number if you like?’
‘Thank you, but I think I’m okay. Look, I know whatever it is that’s going on with me is terrible timing, what with everyone’s jobs being on the line. I’ll understand if you want to roll back on the pitch off. We could tell Gary we changed our mind.’
Michael watches me for a moment. He seems disconcertingly calm. ‘No,’ he says.
‘No?’
‘Lucy, do you remember why we set up Badger TV?’ Michael continues.
‘Not that clearly just now, no.’
‘We were working together on that documentary about hamster enthusiasts. At the wrap party you said, “I’ll tell you a hundred show ideas better than Hamsterama.” And you did. Even though you were three sheets to the wind, most of them were pitchable, several of them brilliant. You can’t teach that kind of creativity.’ He pauses. ‘You can’t forget it either.’ Michael gesticulates towards the office outside. ‘We’ve been a great team all these years, with your ideas and my business brain. I know we’ve had to make compromises along the way, but I’m so proud of what we’ve built, of the programmes we’ve made. I know I was nervous about a pitch off, but you were right – the Cardinals would never accept a merger with the Red Sox. We play together, our way, or we forfeit the whole game.’
‘I said that?’ I ask.
He nods, his fingers fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘You did.’
I’m starting to dislike Future Me. She’s too persuasive for her own good, manipulating everyone into doing what she wants, selfishly gambling everyone else’s jobs on an idea she didn’t even write down in a place other people might feasibly be able to find it. She hasn’t labelled her files in any logical order or made it clear which shows have already been made and which ones haven’t. Crucially, Sam is in love with her, misses her, and I can’t possibly compete. I’ve been trying to make the best of the situation I’ve found myself in, but now I feel a dawning realisation that my best is not going to be good enough.
‘We’ll think of something,’ I tell Michael, with all the conviction of a lobster being thrown into a pot to boil.
Chapter 23
On the train home I see I have several messages and missed calls from Sam. He says, ‘We need to talk,’ and then apologises for upsetting me. At Farnham station, I can’t bring myself to drive home right away. I feel desperately lost, as though I don’t belong anywhere – not at work, not at home with Sam, not even in this body. So, I sit in the car, and I call my parents.
‘Hello, it’s Lucy,’ I say, when Dad picks up.
‘Hello, darling, I’m afraid your mother is out. How’s it all going?’
‘Not great if I’m honest.’
‘Ah.’ Dad pauses. ‘Tricky business, eh?’
‘Yes, it is; it’s a tricky business,’ I say, smiling at this familiar turn of phrase.