She doesn’t understand this unusual lack of grip from Ricky. Even when very inebriated, he can always keep the show going.
Robin jumps up crying, ‘Camera 5, pull wide! No close-ups. Stay wide!’
Elizabeth walks quickly back to her seat and Lola turns, her face full of panic. Elizabeth leans over the talkback microphone, presses down the button and reads from her script carefully and slowly, ‘Okay, Ricky, say after me… Now, most of us when we fancy a snack, think about a toastie, a steak bake or maybe some fish fingers…’ She turns her eyes to the bank of television screens and watches as Ricky slowly lifts his head and fixes his eyes, now glassy and unfocused, on camera 5. Out of his mouth, mechanically, come the words she recites in his ear…
‘But not my next guest, the man who invented the fish eyeball brioche! Ladies and gentlemen, Paolo Culone!’
‘Cue Paolo!’ cries Robin and the young whizz-kid of nouvelle cuisine comes running down the stairs and on to the set to wild applause, generated furiously by the floor manager. Only the lady with the flask and those sitting in the very front rows have noticed Ricky shaking and fumbling for his words and they are now sitting up very straight, alert to the exciting possibility of being witness to a proper show-business meltdown. Ricky doesn’t move from his desk chair as Paolo bounds on, but with a sort of superhuman effort, shifts in his seat so that he can greet the chef from a sitting position.
‘Ricky,’ Elizabeth continues, low and encouragingly in his ear, ‘the food props that you asked for are under your desk. You remember, we’re going to see if he recognises his own dishes by their smell. It’s a great idea – it was your idea, Ricky! Let’s do it now. They’re under your desk.’
Paolo sits down but is clearly uncomfortable with the surprising lack of a welcoming handshake. Nothing that the researcher backstage told him would happen appears to be taking place and so to fill the empty air-time, he begins to jabber nervously about meeting an X Factor finalist backstage. As he speaks, Ricky slides down in his chair and with a trembling hand, produces one of the dishes hidden underneath and places it shakily on top of the desk.
‘Mate, have some water,’ Paolo suddenly says, reaching for a glass decanter of clear liquid on a low side table. He pours a glass and hands it to him. Elizabeth puts her head in her hands and Lola cries, ‘No! Not the gin!’
But Ricky ignores the offered glass and instead eats with his fingers from the dish and licks them ostentatiously. He says, suddenly loud and clear, ‘Mmm, what do you call this dish again?’
‘Well,’ Paolo sits forward on the sofa excitedly, ‘that’s cockle ketchup and…’ but he stops mid-sentence, his mouth dropping open.
Ricky’s trembling hand, holding the dish, has suddenly dropped to his side and the plate falls to the studio floor with a clatter. His cheeks are bulging, as if with extreme exertion, his face is contorted and turning a dark purple. His shoulders suddenly seem to give way and his whole body sinks, as if loosed from its moorings. Up in the gallery, Elizabeth flies out of her chair as Lola cries, ‘Oh God! What’s the matter with him?’
The back rows of the studio audience are struggling to get into their coats and scarves because Elizabeth, taking no chances, has turned the air-conditioning glacially high in order to keep them awake. But an amused muttering begins to build amongst them – they’re clearly enjoying the extravagantly comic turn. The front rows on the other hand are half out of their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at the now slumped star of the show. The lady with the flask is foremost amongst them, the considerable weight of her experience sitting bored and cold in television studios telling her that none of this seems planned.
Under the heat of the studio lights, Ricky is momentarily motionless and a shimmering sliver of spit glistens its way down his chin. With enormous effort, it seems, he lifts his head and his bloodshot eyes search out his close-up camera. He holds its unforgiving gaze for an instant. But then his body twists and writhes, caught in the pitiless rhythm of its own maniacal dance, until one jerking spasm throws up his head and Elizabeth cries out in horror at his distorted face, his mouth gaping and gasping for air. Paolo leaps from the sofa with a scream, but still some people in the back rows are shrieking with laughter.
Elizabeth turns on her heel to run down the spiral staircase that will take her back to the studio floor. ‘Stop recording!’ she cries over her shoulder to the gallery. ‘And for God’s sake, get the warm-up back on.’
By the time she’s groped her way around the heavy black drapes that enclose the set and the audience, the warm-up is on the studio floor and calmly announcing that the show has been suspended. People are reluctantly gathering their things. On set, Ricky has slithered to the floor beside the desk. The floor manager is trying ineffectually to shield him with her own body from the openly gaping stares of the front rows. Paolo Culone is being ushered politely off the set by Zander, the researcher, whose face creases with alarm as he passes Elizabeth running in.
‘Ricky?’ Elizabeth bends low over her presenter’s head and gently touches his shoulder. ‘Ricky – can you hear me?’ Her touch seems to topple him, he rolls on to his back and she can’t help herself, she shrinks back in horror. The whites of his eyes have yellowed and a sudden spasm forces his head back, but his hand seems to find her wrist and his grip is like a vice.
‘Phone 999. Where’s the St John Ambulance attendant?’ Elizabeth shouts. She tries to find Ricky’s pulse. The flesh around his wristwatch is pudgy and his shirtsleeve is stuck to his skin with sweat. She sees Lola running into the studio and tries to restrain her but Lola sinks to her knees beside Ricky. She bends low to stroke his soaking forehead and whispers in his ear, ‘It’s okay, babe. Someone’s coming. Hold on. It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be okay.’
Elizabeth straightens up and says, ‘Get the audience out the back way. Now! Quickly! Keep the scene dock clear for the ambulance.’
She notices the cameramen are still standing by their cameras, watching curiously. They’ve seen people die in television studios before – they worked on Celebrity Wrestling – but this is definitely more sensational. Phil on camera 5, when he catches her eye, holds out his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, Who’d have thought…? She turns back in despair to Ricky and sees that Lola is kneeling and rocking beside him, almost in prayer. He is lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed, as if completely spent.
Then there are uniforms, men in hi-vis jackets saying, ‘Clear a space please, coming through’, and a stretcher. Ricky is laid out flat on the floor, behind the desk hidden from view, but he’s stiff and unresponsive, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. A machine is placed on his chest.
Elizabeth steps aside and takes a deep breath. She wants to be calm and capable, but she can barely think straight and her heart is pounding. She steels herself and pulls out her mobile to phone her boss: the Controller, All Channels.
‘Elizabeth? Um. Hi. Everything okay?’ Matthew sounds sleepy, slurred, like he’s just surfacing.
‘Ricky’s collapsed in the studio. The ambulance is here. They’re working on him now.’ Her voice is unnaturally high, but steady.
‘Jesus Christ! Working on him? What, like resuscitation?’ Matthew is suddenly alert. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without recognising a crisis when he’s just been told that there is one.
‘Yes. He just keeled over at the desk.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘No. Well. Definitely no more than usual.’ The paramedics
