‘It’s bold, it’s original, it’s controversial. This is the show journalists will love to hate and hate to love,’ Coleson says. ‘It has everything – drama, jeopardy, family, emotion.’ Someone applauds. This is not good.
‘But I don’t think this idea needs me to sell it,’ Coleson continues. ‘I’m going to let the format speak for itself. So, without further ado – I present the pilot episode of Kids on the Couch.’
They made a whole pilot. We watch as a young girl, Melody, talks to her mother about her postnatal depression, coaches her father to articulate how it made him feel when her sibling arrived and took all his wife’s attention. It’s awful and tasteless and yet for some reason, I can’t look away. The episode ends with the whole family in tears hugging each other. Someone sniffs, and I look over to see Gary crying. Gary is crying. We’re screwed.
My palms ache, and I realise my hands have been balled into fists for the entire episode. We’re given a five-minute comfort break before it’s my turn to take the floor. My armpits are already damp with sweat, even though future deodorant is terrifyingly effective. Is it normal to be this nervous? I’m sure everyone feels like this before an important, everything-riding-on-it presentation.
As I’m about to walk back in, I get a call on my mobile, a number I don’t recognise. I don’t have time to answer it, but what if it’s Felix’s school or Amy’s nursery?
‘Hello?’
‘Hello,’ says a gruff voice at the other end.
‘Who is this?’ I ask in confusion.
‘Dave. You told me to call if I heard about a machine you’re looking for.’
My mind scrambles for memory of a Dave. Do I know a Dave? Shit, Dave!
‘Arcade Dave?’ I ask.
‘That’s right. I found your wishing machine,’ he says. ‘Bloke I know says he saw one, just like you described, in a shop on Baskin Place, in Southwark. It’s not even far from here. What are the chances of that?’
My heart, which just jumped straight into my mouth, now retreats slowly down into my throat. It’s an old lead.
‘I went there,’ I explain, ‘it’s a building site. That shop is gone.’
‘Since yesterday? I doubt it,’ Dave says. ‘Anyway, it’s called Baskin News if you’re still interested. Tell ’em I’ll take it off their hands at a fair price if it’s not what you’re looking for.’
I mumble my thanks but can’t formulate words, because now I realise what he’s just said. Baskin Place. Not Baskin Road, Baskin Place.
‘Lucy?’ Gary calls from the meeting room. ‘It’s time.’
I need to get down there, I need to leave right now. The wishing machine is still there. I was looking in the wrong place all along.
Glancing around the room, I take in the anxious faces of my team; Michael, who loves three things in this world and just witnessed two of them being desecrated. I can’t be responsible for him losing the third too. Trey, whom I drunkenly advised to throw caution to the wind and propose to his girlfriend, who’s counting on me giving him a permanent position. Dominique, who needs to finish that tattoo – okay, so her concerns might not feel as high stakes as the others, but everyone on the team works hard, they’ve all put their livelihoods in my hands. I need to stay and finish this.
As I take the stage, Coleson gives me a thumbs up, which he quickly turns into a thumbs down. Mature. However unpalatable an idea Kids on the Couch might be, I can’t fault Coleson’s presentation style. It was slick and confident, perfectly paced, he had everyone’s attention. I need to do that, only better. The machine is still there, the newsagent’s is still there. I could go back! You can’t think about it now, Lucy. Focus.
‘Lucy?’ Gary asks, then coughs. Everyone is waiting for me to start.
‘Right, sorry,’ I say, clearing my throat, which is now drier than sandpaper. ‘When I think of my own childhood, I think of den building, of make-believe, of hide-and-seek and treasure hunts that my dad used to lay around the house. Simple games, fuelled by imagination. Your bed could be a pirate ship, the sofa a rocket flying to outer space.’ I take a breath, I need to slow down, my heart is beating too loud in my ears. ‘Children can make a game out of anything, their imaginations can create the fiercest foes. I don’t think kids want to be treated like grown-ups, I think kids want to be kids. I want them to be kids. As a mum, I know childhood is only too short.’
Looking out at all the faces in the crowd, my eyes land on Callum, his eyes so full of faith in me. Then it hits me. Why am I trying to do this alone? We came up with this idea together. If we’re the Cardinals, we can’t win this with one batsman.
‘What were you scared of as a child, Callum?’ I ask.
He looks back in surprise, but then he says, ‘Being sucked down the plughole in the bath by a giant squid.’ People laugh.
‘Dominique?’ I ask, finding Dominique on the front row.
‘The attic, it was all cold and dusty and full of spiders.’
‘Melanie? What were you scared of?’
Melanie looks at me blankly, and I’m sure she’s going to say ‘nothing’， but then she says, ‘The noise of the boiler in the laundry room. It made me imagine a creature made of laundry with huge grinding metal teeth and boiling hot eyes.’
‘Okay, Trey, do you think we could create a laundry-room monster right now?’
Trey stares at me wide-eyed. He’s dressed in a cream jumpsuit today, and in my eyes, he looks like the angel of salvation. I’m really putting him on the spot here, but I know he can do it. This will be more impressive, showing Melanie her monster, rather than the ones we’ve pre-animated. Trey nods. He quickly sketches the monster Melanie described, then brings it to life right in front of our eyes. There are ‘oohs’ from the audience, and I see Melanie tilt her head in appreciation.
‘We’ll give children a chance to beat the demons of their imagination, playing a game only they could come up with. But I’m going to stop talking and let my team show you what we mean. Leon, Dominique, get up here.’
This wasn’t planned either, but after only a moment’s pause, they both jump up, knowing what I’m asking them to do. They start to improvise, walking into an imaginary house, describing what they’re scared of: a dark cupboard full of spiders, a sofa that eats people. As fast as they can talk, Trey draws, creating what they’re imagining and projecting it for us to see. It creates a far better sense of the game than I could ever describe with words.
‘Callum, tell them how the scoring is going to work,’ I say, beckoning Callum to join us on stage. He devised the scoring; he should be part of this too. Callum explains, stuttering and nervous, but his passion for the project shines though. The whole presentation is messy and chaotic, but it’s fun and real, and it captures the buzz of what we all love about it.
When the demo is finished, Michael starts clapping and punching the air and then the whole room joins in.
‘Well, thank you both for those,’ Melanie says, her voice giving nothing away. ‘I’ll consult with Gary. We’ll let you know.’