Coming Up Next. Penny Smith

       CHAPTER ONE

      In hindsight, the holiday had probably not been a good idea. Two weeks earlier, Katie Fisher had presented the Friday-morning programme, said, ‘Thanks for watching,’ to a nation in nightwear, and gone to collect her suitcase from the newsroom. Then, an unusual occurrence: she had been called in by the editor. He was normally too busy shouting at his minions to notice the presenters coming and going.

      She had stepped breezily into his office and waited for him to say something. It was such a long time coming that, mentally, she started to take his clothes off. Yes, she thought. Unattractive underpants with his skinny little legs hanging out the bottom like spotty Twiglets. Possibly a fat pudenda, lightly sprinkled with ginger hairs. So, I have to make one choice to save the life of my brother. Lick the Twiglets. Or cut off my hand. No, too easy. Lick the Twiglets or …

      ‘Sorry?’ she asked.

      ‘I said,’ he put his fingers together, ‘that the annual research had thrown up some interesting information.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Well …’ He paused.

      She got the impression he was enjoying this.

      ‘They seem to be having a few problems with your, erm, allegedly quirky sense of humour.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘The viewers – and therefore the advertisers – appear to find your brand of humour unappetizing. Unappealing. Unfunny. Irritating.’

      Katie had never been good at concealing what she thought. The viewers could always tell exactly how she felt about the celebrity she was interviewing, or the story she was telling. So Simon could see that she hadn’t been expecting what he’d just told her. And, yes, he was enjoying it. He didn’t like Katie. She had made it quite obvious that she thought he was repulsive, despite his considerable efforts when he had arrived at the breakfast-television station.

      ‘So, what do you want me to do about the fact that viewers have a problem?’

      ‘Nothing, really. I mean, it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the queen of the lame joke. The princess of puns. Top banana of the never-ending once-upon-a-story. The managing editor suggested I told you, in line with procedure. That’s all.’

      In line with procedure? What was he talking about? ‘Well, thank you,’ she had said, after a pause, with a tight smile. ‘Thanks very much. In that case I’ll have a lovely holiday, shall I? Good. See you in a couple of weeks, then. And I’ll go via the humour-bypass surgeon and see if I can check in for a quick one. I’ve got BUPA, after all.’

      On the plane, though, she had spent the entire flight worrying.

      No matter which way she cut it, with a vodka and tonic or the next passenger’s roll and cheese (‘Are you sure you don’t mind? Just that I haven’t eaten since five this morning …’), it didn’t look good.

      The advertisers ruled the airwaves. They wanted mothers with children – they craved mothers with children. If they didn’t get their mothers

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