the beak for killing a trifle-eater with E. coli or whatever you get from uncooked pork.’
‘Tapeworms.’
‘Nope. Don’t think it was a tapeworm. Anyway, he said he felt sick, drove home and never went near the place again. He presents some show on BBC4 now.’
‘Food?’
‘No, thanks. Unless they have one of their special lemon meringue pies. Why? You hungry?’
‘I meant, does he present a programme about food?’
‘Oh. No. I think it’s vaguely intellectual. He was telling me something about Einstein’s brain being bigger in one area than another and scientists trying to work out whether it developed like that or had always been that way. It seemed to me that it was a bit difficult to prove. I mean, it’s not as though you can cut the top off people’s heads to look at their brain–like peering into a boiled egg–to find out whether nature or nurture is responsible for what’s going on in it.’
‘What was his answer?’
‘I don’t recall.’
The inside of the café was steamy. Katie rested her hands on her cup to warm them. ‘Hey, talking telly for a minute, did you see that beast Keera Keethley on Hello Britain! this morning?’ she asked.
‘Why do you watch that programme? It only annoys you,’ said Kathy, who had witnessed the hurt Katie had suffered when Keera had replaced her on the Hello Britain! sofa.
The new presenter was exotically beautiful, with long black hair and blue eyes. She was also hugely ambitious, and employed publicists to make sure she was constantly in the public eye. She rarely drank alcohol, appeared at all the right events and in all the right places, and never left the house without checking in a mirror…unlike Katie, who had appeared in numerous periodicals and publications coming out of the wrong sort of places in the wrong sort of state.
‘So what did she do this morning?’
‘She was interviewing this chap from some massive quango about what they were going to do for consumers. And then–because, as we know, she’s as thick as a Scotch pancake–she asked in that sugary little-girl voice she does, “But do you have any teeth?” And he looked bemused, smiled and said, “Of course I do.” And then she looked confused. And Rod Fallón rescued her with, “Yes, she obviously doesn’t mean it literally. What Keera means is what teeth does your organization have?” And then there was a two shot with Keera looking thunderous. It was hysterical.’
‘You know, Hello Britain! suddenly sounds like it’s worth watching,’ said Kathy, rolling her eyes.
‘Yes. All right. Maybe you had to be there.’
‘Anyway. As for the Adam stuff, I’m sure he’s in love with you, just as they always bloody are.’
‘Being, as I am, the most gorgeous creature alive,’ said Katie, deadpan.
‘Frankly, I don’t know what it is. You’re an ugly muppet with no personality. It must be the smell of your feet,’ said Kathy, glancing at her watch and doing a double-take. ‘Damn. I really have to go. Enjoy your relationship for what it is. That’s what you tell me when I occasionally get lucky. See you.’ She grabbed her things.
All was not well at Hello Britain!. The ratings were down, and the editor was blaming everyone but himself. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. He had had a new male presenter foisted on him by The Boss. Rod Fallón had all the presence of a sock. He had been brought in as a safe pair of hands to replace the previous male presenter, who had been unveiled as a kerb-crawling sex pervert. Mike had been the consummate breakfast-television host. He had looked good, sounded good, and could do a good interview. He had been able to turn a difficult situation into must-watch television with a sense of aplomb. Rod could do a passable interview–period, as they would have said in the States. He was grey in every sense of the word. And that, coupled with the easy on the eye, but essentially dim Keera Keethley, was not pulling in the viewers.
Simon gazed out of the window, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, pulling the thin material tight over his bony haunches. As he waited for the news editor and the producers to come in for their morning meeting, he mulled over what was needed to give the show a boost–something that everyone would be talking about.
He turned as they walked in. ‘Morning,’ he said nastily. ‘Not a good one, frankly, was it?’
The news editor, Colin, was taken aback. ‘Oh. I thought it was. Bounced along. Lots of content,’ he said.
‘Flat as a tea-tray and about as inspiring,’ said Simon, sitting down and tapping some of the keys on his computer. ‘There was nothing that would have got me tuning in. We could start with some intelligent bloody conversation. What the hell was Keera doing asking what a potato clock was when Rod quite clearly said he’d got up at eight o’clock?’
‘I think she thought it was funny’
‘We both know she doesn’t think,’ said Simon, bitchily.
Colin was surprised. What he couldn’t have known was that Keera could no longer be bothered to flirt with the programme’s editor. Knowing that she wouldn’t be sacked now that Katie and Mike had gone, she had no further use for the little tête-à-têtes she’d had when she’d first got her feet tucked firmly under the famous Hello Britain! sofa.
Consequently, Simon’s view of her had altered. The stirring in his loins was still there when he caught the glimpse of thigh and panties she flashed so regularly on the show it had almost become her trademark, but her lack of intelligence grated. That morning, she had called some starving Africans ‘emancipated’. You could get away with that sort of mistake if you were seen as innately clever. People assumed you knew the right word. The problem was that Keera probably didn’t.
‘Right,’ said Simon, clenching his small buttocks in the pale blue trousers. I have decided that we need one of our presenters out and about. Next week we’ll go on the road. We’ll do OBs every day’
There was a subdued groan. Outside broadcasts were a recipe for disaster. There was disruption, chaos…and that was just the presenters’ and crew’s home lives. There was so much to organize, so many things to go wrong, and therefore more reasons for bollockings from Simon, who relished them.
‘I want a different town every day. You can forget about Northern Ireland, but I want one morning in Wales and one in Scotland. One in the north, one in the south-west, the other wherever. But not London. And I want a proper reason for us to be there, not some made-up crap. Now. What have we got for tomorrow?’
The rest of the meeting was conducted in the usual bear-pit manner, with one person being picked on for a special mauling.
Afterwards they spilled out in silence.
‘I don’t see why it’s so awful to do OBs,’ Kent, the producer, said to Heather, wrinkling his nose in confusion. ‘I’ve never been on one, but they sound like good fun.’
Heather was a senior producer, and had been there
