Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (9 page)

I roared laughing when I read it. For all the wrong reasons. ‘OK, Philip,' I say tentatively, ‘what I suggest is that we go right back to first principles. Entertain people. I think this show should be dramatic without being ludicrous, funny without being a sitcom and, well, you know … more … accessible to viewers.'

They're all looking at me. Yes, all of them. And not only has every head at the table turned my way, but there's also total silence. After all, I haven't been on the show that long; they're probably thinking, quite rightly: Who is yer one?

‘Go on,' says Philip impassively.

I have two choices here. Plan A: I do what I'm supposed to do as a deputy producer, which is keep my eyes open and my head down, make sure the show ticks along without going over budget and try to prevent Good Grief O'Keefe from driving us all nutty in the meantime. Oh … and do my best not to drunkenly snog any more of the cast at wrap parties.

Hopefully, with a bit of luck, I'll be transferred back to my old stomping ground, the newsroom, before too long and I can go back to devising new ways of making ministers sweat.

Plan B: I actually
do
something. Yes, I'm only deputizing on the show, but I do have one or two ideas. We used to do this on current affairs all the time:
sit around a table and brainstorm. I'm well used to this, I can do it. And besides, it's something I've given a lot of thought to since I was first drafted on to
Celtic Tigers
. There's absolutely nothing to lose.

Well, except my job.

Right, time to explain myself a bit better.

‘OK, if it were up to me, here's what I'd do. Firstly, I would introduce far more realistic storylines. Make
Celtic Tigers
less like a daytime show and more like a drama series. Remember
Eldorado
on BBC?'

A lot of nodding around the table.

‘The reason it flopped was because viewers didn't want to come home from a hard day's work and watch characters living the high life in sunny Marbella. Rule one of television is know your audience. We have to reflect what's happening in society
now.
A successful drama is part soap, part serious drama and part sitcom. This show needs to straddle all three or we'll never get anywhere. And actors who could actually act would help.' I can't believe I actually said that out loud, but what the hell. I'm on a roll now. ‘Honestly, that last plotline about the three vicious ex-drug dealers taking over the pub and then holding half the cast hostage? They were so brutal, they might as well have been called Snap, Crackle and Pop. I've seen head lice on my six-year-old goddaughter that were more threatening.'

There's a few titters and I'm aware that all eyes are still focused on me.

‘I have to say, I think you're right,' says Dave Bruton. I smile at him, delighted he's backing me up. ‘Personally, I thought that story wouldn't have looked out of place in a Coen brothers' movie.'

There's some ice-breaking laughter now, although Sharon from marketing is looking at me with the blank expression of early man being told the meaning of fire.

‘Good, good,' says Philip approvingly. ‘What else?'

‘Well, there's one tried and tested formula, proven to boost ratings,' I answer.

‘And that is?' Philip is addressing the room, but looking at me.

‘The death of a major character.'

Silence.

Then my mobile rings, loud and clear. That really irritating ‘crazy frog' ring tone, which I only put on it to amuse Emma, Caroline's eldest.

‘Sorry about that,' I say, blushing to my roots and snapping the phone off. ‘I'll personally be torching whoever that was as soon as the meeting's over.'

More nervous titters, which Philip barrels over. ‘So, pitch it to me in one line.'

‘Less daytime, more primetime.'

‘OK, Amelia Lockwood, here's the deal. As of right now, you're no longer deputizing the show, you're officially producing. The bad news is, I'm giving you exactly six months to get a result. And just so you're clear, by a result, I mean a steady viewership of
one million. Otherwise, here's the worse news, folks,
Celtic Tigers
is history.'

Winston Churchill once observed acutely that a lie gets halfway around the world before the truth even has a chance to get out of bed and put its trousers on. And thus it is after the meeting. No sooner have I gone back to the production office than the rumour mill has gone into overdrive.

‘Good Grief O'Keefe is for the chop. One hundred per cent, definite,' I can hear being hissed around the office, almost like Chinese whispers.

‘Oh my God! Without television, she's nothing.'

‘Not true. She's the drinking man's crumpet.'

‘Serves her right. This is a woman who, when she's filling out forms, under “Occupation” puts “Household Name”. Nothing like a good, long spell of unemployment to put manners on her.'

I just smile, say nothing and head for my desk. That's one fire I can pee on later, as Jamie would say. I take a deep breath, slump down into my chair and frantically try to regroup.

Six months to turn the show around.

Six months
.

OK, this isn't so bad. Yes, I had hoped to get back to the newsroom sooner, but that's not going to happen so I might as well make the best of this and get on with it – with a good attitude.

After all, what's the worst that can happen?

I could change the whole format of the show and it could be a disaster and I could end up getting fired.

Shit.

No, I have to stay positive. If Philip Burke has confidence in me then … then …Then I remember.

My mobile rang in the middle of the meeting. I fish it out from the bottom of my overstuffed handbag and play back the messages.

‘Hi, Amelia, long time no hear. It's a blast from the past here, Greg Taylor. The receptionist gave me your number and said you'd called looking for me. Something about a reunion?'

Oh dear God
.

Ten minutes ago, I successfully persuaded the head of television to grant
Celtic Tigers
a stay of execution, and now the very sound of Greg Taylor's voice is turning my insides to the consistency of a mushy pea.

It's OK,
my rational inner voice says,
you don't have to return the call. It's never too late to run away and start a new life in the Outer Hebrides. No one will ever know just how insane I've been.

Just then, Dave saunters over. ‘Hey, Amelia, is this a bad time to talk?'

I bury the mobile phone under a mound of unsigned contracts and try my best to look busy and important. ‘No, go ahead, Dave.'

‘Just wanted to congratulate you. That was some performance you gave in there. Only for you, the
Axeman would have had us all on our merry way to the dole queue by now. You were great, you know, you were really on the same wavelength as him. And I think your suggestions for the show are terrific. If I had to direct one more episode where a character says, “I love you Cherie, but ever since my sex-change, I love myself more,” I'd have screamed.'

‘Thanks, Dave, I appreciate it. You know, I don't want the show to turn into one where the most dramatic thing that happens is that someone buys a tin of Heinz beans, but I do think a little realism will go a long way.'

He whistles. ‘Boy, do you have your work cut out for you, though. A million viewers in six months? Some target. Some deadline.'

‘We can do it. We have a terrific team here. But there will have to be a fair few changes.'
Did that sound confident enough?

‘Well, you go, girl. If anyone can do it, you can.'

I smile up at him, really touched.

‘I know the next few months will be tough on you, Amelia, but we're all behind you.'

‘Thanks, Dave.'

‘And you know the one really great thing you have going for you?'

‘What's that?'

‘You're single.'

‘
Excuse me?
'

‘Well, what I mean is, you're not like the rest of us. You can put in all the long hours and the working weekends. You have no ties or commitments. It's not like you're rushing home to a husband and family every night.'

I wait until he's out of the office before I pick up the phone and dial.

‘Now, the minute you get in there, you're to order a large vodka and tonic and knock it right back.'

‘Oh yeah, sure. That's what you want? My inhibitions lowered?'

I'm sitting in the car park of the Cabin theme pub/restaurant, on the phone to Jamie. To my utter astonishment, Greg has suggested we meet here for a drink this very evening, except now I can barely pluck up the courage physically to leave the safety of my car and go inside.

It's an odd place for him to have suggested. A bit dingy and, well, out of the way. The Greg I remember from twenty years ago would have gone for somewhere hip and trendy in town, the kind of place that has cool jazz music playing in the background and is filled with beautiful, thin people all wearing black and talking about obscure writers and beatnik poets I never even heard of.

This kind of feels like I'm about to meet George Clooney in a Taco Bell.

‘Honey, switch the engine on and get the hell out of there. This is not just any old date you're about to go on, it's the kamikaze of dates.'

‘He was very friendly on the phone,' I say, trying to convince myself as much as Jamie. ‘You know, sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. And he was the one who wanted to meet up. Sooner rather than later, he said. Those are his words, not mine.'

OK, I'm playing for time now … a bit.

Well, a lot. Anything to postpone actually getting out of the car.

‘It's sweet that he said that and sweet that you believe him.'

‘I just can't believe he's driving the delivery van for his mother, can you? I thought he'd be running a whole chain of hotels by now, with one hand tied behind his back.'

‘Well, maybe he got thrown out on his arse. Or, as he'd say, his elbow.'

‘Ha ha, very funny. Greg was my first love, I'll have you know. There were some wonderful things about him.'

‘Yes, the cheating particularly springs to mind. So what are you going to say to him when you get in there? Or have you learned nothing from your one-hour class?'

‘Something will come to me. I'm good at talking shite. I work in television.'

‘Right. Then go to it, girl. Get it over with. As I always say, if you're going to fail, you might as well fail gloriously.'

‘OK, here goes nothing,' I say, giving my lipstick the final once-over before getting out of the car. ‘If things go badly wrong, know that my last thoughts were of you …'

‘Oh, that's so sweet!'

‘Let me finish. Of you … blinding and torturing him if he turns out to be a complete arsehole.'

My apprehensions turn out to be quite well founded. The Cabin is dark, almost empty, with cheesy, nautically themed tat covering the walls: fishing nets and photocopies of the last menu served on the
Titanic
; that kind of crap. The music playing is awful too; the kind of stuff soccer hooligans listen to whenever they're feeling philosophical.

There are two middle-aged, overweight guys propping up the bar, nursing pints of Guinness as I walk past. Thankfully, they're both too engrossed in an Arsenal versus Manchester United soccer match that's on TV even to notice me. Still, though, I'm seriously beginning to regret my choice of outfit. The fab suede miniskirt and tight, low-cut jacket Rachel gave me just seem to be sending out the wrong signal in a place like this. I park myself at a table in a booth, under a
galley-style oil lamp, so at least Greg will be able to spot me through the gloom when he gets here.

If he gets here.

The barman follows me over and asks what I'm having.

‘White wine spritzer, thanks,' I say, by now really starting to feel self-conscious. I've always had a pet hate of meeting anyone in a pub when I'm on my own, but tonight's even worse. There's something about this place that makes me feel very much like a woman in her late thirties on the pull.

Ick.

I keep darting furtive glances over to the door, but still no sign. Nervously, I check my watch again. And again. And again.

Eight-twelve. Eight-fifteen.

OK, I figure, I'll give him till eight-thirty and then leave with my head held high. After all, apart from the two fatsos at the bar, there's no one else to witness my humiliation at being so unceremoniously stood up. Even desperadoes like me have to draw the line somewhere.

And then the unthinkable happens.

As the soccer match ends, fat balding guy number one picks up his newspaper and saunters over to the men's toilets, which has a sign above it that says ‘Sailors'. Fat guy number two also peels the bar stool from underneath him, stretches, spots me for the first
time, then casually ambles over to where I'm nervously waiting.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, am I seeing things?

‘Well, well, well, Amelia Lockwood. Look at you.'

My jaw almost falls to the floor. It's him. Greg Taylor. Except instead of the clean-cut, preppy, good-looking guy I knew, there's a 1980s snooker player standing in front of me. Red-faced and boozy, wearing jeans that are clearly a size too small and a T-shirt that only a nineteen-year-old with the physique of a US marine could carry off.
Even Mickey Rourke didn't age this badly!

Eventually, I manage to close my jaw and get a sentence out. ‘Greg. I honestly wouldn't have known you.'

‘You look good,' he says, sitting in beside me, a little too close for comfort. He's wearing too much aftershave and it's kind of pongy.