Calvin looked at Rodney as he thought it through.
‘Yes. I suppose you’re right actually,’ he said finally.
‘That’s my job.’
‘Like, I’m the hard-bitten professional. OK, so we had our thing, but that’s dead and gone . . .’
‘Get over it, babes. I have.’
‘Exactly. Move on.’
‘Walk away.’
‘Can’t build a future if you’re living in the past.’
‘No way.’
Rodney was growing enthusiastic.
‘So if she comes back solo we give her another chance?’
‘Exactly, and you can show just how tough you’ve become by giving your ex-girlfriend, to whom last year you were almost engaged, a really, really hard time.’
Once more doubt clouded Rodney’s features.
‘A really,
really
hard time?’ he asked nervously.
‘Great telly, Rodders. Great telly.’
Flight of Fancy
The next morning found Calvin, Rodney and Beryl squashed together in the rear section of a private jet circling high over RAF Brize Norton. They were squashed together because the front section of the plane was occupied by a camera crew, which consisted of a camera operator, a sound recordist, a continuity girl, costume and make-up mistresses and the director. Trent and Emma, senior researchers, were also present because it would be their job to stitch the material taken that day into the overall edit. They were shooting the ‘travelling’ sequences, those earnest, dramatic shots of the three judges diligently sweeping the country day after day, week after week, in search of potential Chart Throbs, those raw young talents whom they would mentor and mould into superstars.
They had been airborne for about ninety minutes and although the plane in which they were travelling had never been more than twenty miles from Brize Norton they had already visited Glasgow and Newcastle and they were just leaving Manchester.
‘All right,’ Trent called out from the confusion of cables, clipboards, laptops and costumes in which he was crouching. ‘We’re flying out of Manchester and heading for Birmingham. Can we change position, please? Beryl and Rodney swap seats.’
‘Why do we have to change position?’ Beryl complained, for the aircraft was small and moving about in it was not easy and involved unpleasantly intimate contact as the three judges attempted to squeeze past one another.
‘Because it’s a different day, Beryl.’
‘I know that, Trent. I am acquainted with the magic of television, you know.’
‘Yes, of course, Beryl, I . . .’
‘Do you have an Emmy? I don’t think you do, do you? I’ve got an Emmy, in fact I’ve got fucking two, darling, so don’t talk to me about how to make television.’
Emma smiled ruefully at the sound recordist with whom she was crammed into the plane’s tiny toilet. He smiled back. They all hated Beryl. They didn’t hate her for being an arrogant, bullying bitch, although she was. They were used to that, putting up with that was what they were paid for. They hated her for the way she
pretended to be so fucking real.
When it suited her she was everybody’s friend, just one of the girls, no airs, no graces, just big-hearted old Beryl, but God help you if you crossed her, or if she took against you for no reason at all, or if you forgot for one moment that she was the Empress of Popular fucking Culture and the people’s darling. What was most frustrating for those who worked with her was that she truly believed the popular conception of her was the result of her own special talents and fabulous personality. She thought the public believed her to be sexy, mumsy, caring, playful, emotional, honest, sensitive, hard but fair and totally down to earth because she
was
all those things, whereas Emma, who had spent many, many weary days in the edit suite cherrypicking the handful of shots that made her look so good, knew that Good Old Beryl was the creation of her editors and production teams. Be they in America working on
The Blenheims
or stuffed into the tiny toilet of a private jet hovering over RAF Brize Norton for
Chart Throb
, it was the crews who created Beryl Blenheim. Perhaps that was why she treated them with such contempt.
‘I just don’t see why, because it’s a different day, we all have to sit in different seats,’ Beryl moaned as Hair and Make-up got to work on the subtle changes they had planned so carefully in order to create the fiction of a progression of days. ‘I get on planes all the fucking time, I don’t get on thinking, oh, I must sit somewhere different from yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ Rodney added. ‘I think we’d have kind of got our set places by now. You know, we’d have sort of claimed our own little space.’
‘Yes, but we need to
show
the viewers it’s a different day,’ Trent argued, looking anxiously at his watch.
‘That’s what the costume changes are for, darling,’ Beryl replied. ‘I’ve changed my jacket, it’s a different day. I don’t need to change my seat. I’m not fucking moving.’
Trent sent an appealing glance towards Calvin, who was staring out of the window and so missed it completely.
‘Calvin,’ Trent said. ‘Beryl doesn’t want to change seats for Birmingham.’
Reluctantly Calvin engaged his attention.
‘Problem, Beryl darling?’ he enquired.
‘Every time we cover a different day, this prick makes us swap seats. Why would you always sit in different seats?’
‘Not
always
in different seats, Beryl,’ Trent protested. ‘We only
have
six seats after all and you “visit” five cities so the combinations are—’
‘I am
talking
to Calvin.’
‘Well, darling,’ Calvin smiled, ‘it’s like this. Quite a lot of rather careful storyboarding has gone into this morning’s shoot and we are attempting to create rather more than the impression that the three of us spend months together travelling the country looking for talent. For instance, during the Manchester auditions you and Rodney will have had a fight about Rodney being mean to a talentless sweetie . . .’
‘I’m going to be mean?’ Rodney enquired, brightening up immediately.
‘Yes, Rodney, you’re going to be mean. You can use that “sharp as a coffee table” putdown if you like.’
‘Flat.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Yes, anyway. Terrific.’
‘What’s your point, Calvin?’ Beryl snapped.
‘Well, darling, when we leave Manchester you are all angry and sad. Your mother instincts have been roundly provoked by this sweet disillusioned little girlie being brutalized by smug old Rodney.’
‘Smug?’ Rodney enquired.
‘Witty,’ Calvin corrected himself. ‘And you, Beryl, are sitting apart, in that single seat at the back, lost in thought. You don’t like this job any more, you are even wondering about resigning. That’s why Trent wants you in that seat where Rodney had been sitting on our way
into
Manchester.’
‘Why was I sitting on my own on my way to Manchester?’ asked Rodney, his suspicions aroused.
‘Because Beryl throws a glass of water over you in Newcastle.’
‘Oh
no
, Calvin! We agreed . . .’ Rodney protested.
‘
You
agreed, Rodney.’
‘Yes! I
said
I don’t want Beryl throwing water over me this year.’
‘It’s a theme, Rodney, the public expect it.’
‘I hate doing it anyway,’ Beryl moaned. ‘It was that Osbourne woman’s thing on
X Factor
.’
‘And if a thing’s worth doing, darling,’ Calvin said gently, ‘it’s worth stealing. Old showbiz rule.’
‘I think I should punch him in the mouth. You know, a little bit of the old Blaster in me coming out.’
‘Maybe next series, darling. I don’t want to tease them with your masculine side until your beard line’s completely gone.’
‘Fuck off. I’ll bet Madonna shaves her ‘tache more often than I do these days.’
When the storyboarding had been explained to her, Beryl agreed to change seats and, with her hair and make-up revamped, she was filmed staring angrily out of the window.
‘Try to look like you’re thinking of resigning,’ Calvin instructed.
‘No problem there, mate,’ said Beryl, imagining that she was sounding tough and witty, unaware that everybody in the plane had long since worked out that she would die rather than resign from this brilliant job that had done so much for her.
Once the shot was in the can, Hair and Make-up again adjusted Beryl’s look while the camera swung across to Calvin and Rodney, who were sitting next to each other at a double table.
‘What’s the next story, somebody?’ Calvin shouted.
‘You and Rodney looking at each other like naughty schoolboys because you’ve annoyed Beryl,’ Emma shouted back, squeezing past the sound recordist and poking her head round the toilet door.
‘Thank you, darling,’ Calvin said and he smiled directly at her.
Emma blushed. Then, looking away in some confusion, she dropped her pen. As she bent forward to pick it up, her glasses, which had been perched on top of her head, fell on to the floor while her bottom pressed back into the toilet against the sound recordist.
‘Watch out, Emma,’ the recordist protested. ‘Your arse nearly deleted the last take.’
Emma stood up quickly and bumped her head on the door frame of the toilet cubicle, yelping and dropping her clipboard.
‘Steady on, darling,’ Calvin smiled. ‘Focus.’
Emma blushed more furiously than ever.
‘I’m fine. Fine. Sorry, Calvin,’ she said, then: ‘SHIT!’ She had trodden on her glasses.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Could we
please
get the fuck on with it,’ Beryl called out grumpily.
‘Yes, absolutely, Beryl,’ Emma replied, clearly trying to remember where they had got to.
‘It’s Rodney and me looking naughty,’ Calvin said, giving Emma another smile.
‘Thanks, yes, I knew that,’ Emma replied gratefully, returning the smile.
‘And after that are we done with leaving Manchester?’ Trent enquired.
Emma pulled herself together and looked down at her notes.
‘No, Trent,’ she called. ‘We need Rodney on the phone.’
‘Rodney on the phone?’ Rodney enquired.
‘Yes, Rodney,’ Calvin explained. ‘Terrific stuff, old
X Factor
idea, hasn’t been used since and anyway we’ll do it loads better. Lots of on-air time for you.’
‘Great, how’s it work?’
‘Well, while in Birmingham we’ll have seen some hopeless old Blinger bird who can’t sing and has a face like an appendix but loads of personality . . . You know, big laugh, “My friends think I’m just like Tina Turner”, that kind of thing.’
‘Ye-es,’ said Rodney, suspicion once more growing inside him. ‘Who is this woman?’
‘We don’t know yet, obviously, but we’ll find one.’
‘Got about twenty contenders marked down from the envelopes, Calvin,’ Trent assured him. ‘We’re spoilt for choice. Emma will find you a good one in pre-select, won’t you, darling?’
‘Of course,’ said Emma, poking her head out once more from the recesses of the toilet but clearly not much liking Trent’s patronizing tone.
‘Good girl,’ said Calvin, winking at her. Perhaps Emma did not like Calvin’s patronizing tone either but for some reason she blushed.
‘So what’s the idea with me and my phone?’ Rodney asked again.
‘Well, Beryl and I will have taken one look at this sad old dinner lady and said no, but you decide she has potential. Of course I’m amazed and say, “Rodney, you can’t be serious!” and Beryl just laughs at you.’
‘Because this woman is a hopeless old Blinger bird who can’t sing, has a face like an appendix and an irritating laugh?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why do I think she has potential?’
‘To make the joke work.’
‘What joke?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. We can’t believe that you think she’s any good but the more we laugh at you the more you insist that you think she has a bit of
X
, a bit of
Pow
, and in the end I turn to the Blinger and give her your phone number.’
‘My phone number?’
‘Yes, I tell her that since you believe in her so much she should ring you and you’ll try and build her a pop career.’
‘My phone number?’
‘Not your actual phone number, Rodney. We’ll give you a phone and every now and then during that week’s show it’ll ring and it’ll be her asking when you’re going to make her into a star.’
‘So the joke’s on me then?’
‘Well yes, I suppose it is in a way but come on, Rodney, it’s a lot of screen time and let’s not get precious about things. It’s a laugh.’