Coming Up Next

He hated dealing with the management there. Half of them were virtually related – he had felt the need to check surreptitiously that they all had thumbs. He could only assume they had information on someone at the top. How else could you explain the barrel-chested simian Barry Spicer, who was paid a huge salary and had never been seen to do anything but organize his holidays.

Whatever you thought of Katie’s presenting skills, she turned up for work five days a week, wrote most of her own scripts, did as much research as she could, and never moaned.

‘Hi, Katie,’ he said, when she phoned. ‘Hold on a second. I’ll just take the phone downstairs.’ She could hear his girlfriend grumbling about people phoning at this bloody hour of the night. ‘Katie? How are you feeling?’

‘Oh, fine. Fine. Obviously. Just been sacked. Mortgage to pay. Never felt better. Naturally. How are you?’

‘I know. I did try to warn you.’

‘When?’

‘When I came over six months ago and showed you the audience research I’d got my hands on through an exchange of dirty info.’

‘But it said the viewers didn’t particularly like anyone, except the newsreader. And the only reason they liked her was that she didn’t frighten the horses. About as interesting as a damp flannel. Although at least flannels can germinate something interesting.’

‘Yes. But they hated your jokes, which had been getting increasingly bizarre.’

‘Not bizarre. Just silly.’

‘And you, of course, are so clever you’ve been out-manoeuvred by Keera.’

‘Was it Keera who stuffed me, then?’

‘That’s what I’ve heard. She’s been very quietly having conversations with the people upstairs about where she’s going to go now that she’s such hot property. She’s got a publicity agent.’

‘You told me I never needed one.’

He ignored that. ‘And the publicity agent’s been busy sowing all those trumped-up stories about megabucks being offered by NBC, ABC, ITN, the BBC, et cetera, et cetera. Plus, let’s face it, she looks bloody gorgeous in a swimsuit and those wet photos in Loaded can’t have done her any harm. Particularly since the soaking was in the name of rescuing refugees from that African country that’s permanently on the verge of starvation.’

‘They said in Private Eye she did those pictures in southern Spain.’

‘Exactly. She’s canny.’

There was a long silence.

‘Well, what do I do now?’

‘We say that it was your decision to leave. That you’re pursuing other projects. You’ve had enough of getting up at a ridiculous time in the morning. You’re thankful for the experience, blah-blah-blah, and that you wish Keera every success with one of the best jobs in television.’

‘And then what do I do?’

‘You lie low until we get you another job.’

Jim ended the phone conversation and went back to bed.

‘Who was that?’ asked his girlfriend.

‘Katie Fisher.’

‘Oh, right. She in a state?’

‘She sounded all right. Pissed off. But she’s level headed. I suspect she’ll go to ground for a bit. Hopefully, we can sort something out pretty quickly. Although at the moment there’s nothing around that’s even remotely in her ballpark.’

Had he seen Katie at that moment, he wouldn’t have felt quite so sanguine. She had looked over the Cliff of the Television Career and seen the River of Smiling Through Gritted Teeth running down to the Sea of Z-list Parties and the Desert of Invitations. And had set about what was left of the bottle of whisky. Who gives a toss what time it is? she thought. I’m on Barbados time and the sun is so far over the yardarm there it’s almost … oh … last night. Who cares? I can have as many lie-downs, lie-ins, or whatever, as I want from now until I die alone in a shed and get eaten by cats.

Was there anyone she should be phoning? Her fuzzy brain sorted through the Rolodex of Very Important People, Important People and Other People.

People. What a weird word. Pee-pull. Pull-pee. Imp-potent pee-pull.

She closed her eyes.

‘To sleep. Perchance to dream.’ What a weird word. Perchance. Perch-aunts. Puh.

She woke up a few hours later, suddenly aware that the answerphone was going mad. She turned over on the sofa, feeling woozy and peculiar. She had twenty-four messages. The news was obviously out.

She would stay in.

The intercom buzzed. Katie went to pick up its phone, chewing her lip. ‘Yes,’ she said gruffly.

‘Katie Fisher?’

‘Sorry, she’s still on holiday.’

‘When will she be back?’

‘I don’t know. She may be out of the country for a while.’

‘Are you a friend?’

‘House-sitting. Must go. I’ve got a … got a – got a lithp,’ she said limply. She hung up.

So, the press had wasted no time. They were outside her front door. At least one of them, anyway. Wanting to see her depressed and miserable having been booted off the sofa to make way for a younger woman the size and shape of a whippet.

She felt wretched and ugly.

She drank one and a half litres of water and ate some chocolate Brazils she’d found at the back of a cupboard, left over from Christmas. She did three sit-ups and phoned Jim.

‘Jim Break.’

‘It’s Katie again.’

‘I assume you’ve heard my message that they’ve released a statement?’

‘I’ve got twenty-four calls on my phone that I’ve no intention of listening to at this stage. Where did you say my career was going from here?’

‘I told them what we’d agreed. Other projects. When they asked what they were I said there were a number in the pipeline and that we couldn’t discuss them until they were further along the production route.’

‘So, basically they know I’ve got nothing to go to?’