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She was having the time of her life, sitting on the sofa that should have been occupied by Katie – a woman who could hold her own in a political interview, who could coax the best out of a difficult interviewee, who would never have asked why anorexia was popular – as though it was football or dog racing.

Mike and Keera signed off the show, Keera doing her little wave and a giggle – one of the newspapers had commented on it and she had now decided it was her ‘signature pay-off’.

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the morning meeting where a post-mortem was being held. Keera had sent her apologies: she had a photo shoot for OK! magazine and they wanted to get her straight after the programme to talk about her marvellous new job.

The editor was swinging on his chair and looking casually out of the window as the rest of the group responsible for putting out the show waited silently for Richard’s arrival.

‘Richard,’ said the editor, pushing his fringe to one side, ‘the scripts today were a disgrace.’

Richard shot Mike a filthy look. Mike stared back innocently. ‘No worse than normal, I thought.’

‘No worse than normal? Well, bloody pull your finger out. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be the premier breakfast station in the land, and we have scripts that are no worse than normal?’

‘I was taking the piss. Which particular scripts are you talking about? Take me through one and I’ll attempt to defend it.’

‘Show me one that was good and I’ll allow you to.’

The two men faced each other.

There was a silence, then Richard finally said, ‘Well, shall we get on with the rest of it?’

‘I want a word with you later about dealing with the talent, too,’ said Simon.

‘Great. Something to look forward to.’

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Richard had done his twelve-hour shift and was wondering if they were going to feel more and more like twenty-four hour-shifts now that he had lost the one person who had made the exceptionally long nights a little less gruelling. He used to drive home, but he’d been so knackered one morning that he’d dropped off at the wheel and disappeared down a hole in the road. He was lucky he’d not taken out two of the workmen – fortunately they had decided to brew up and were sitting on a low wall a few feet from the scene. Now he took the tube. If he slept, he’d wake up at Ealing Broadway and could take a cab back to Acton.

He was on his way down the steps at the station, when his mobile rang. It was Katie. ‘Hello. Can you speak?’

‘I’ll be on the tube in a moment. How are you?’

‘Getting over it, I think. Still can’t quite believe it, obviously. It feels weird not to see the sunrise every day. But I miss you – well, you and the others I got on with. I don’t miss the awful bear-baiting in the morning meeting. Or the money. Joke.’

‘I assume you’ve seen the papers?’ Richard grasped the elephant in the room by the scruff of its neck.

‘Yup. Anyone say anything interesting when they saw them?’

‘Well, nobody said much to me, but they know better. Obviously. Mike said he’d read them later.’

‘Oh,’ said Katie, sounding disappointed. ‘And the beautiful Keera?’

‘She loved it. Particularly the bit about your new projects. She asked in a concerned way whether we thought you’d be all right. Like she cared. As for me, I thought you looked very nice with Hercules. His hair is perhaps a little shinier than yours, but your nose was definitely wetter.’

‘Look, I’m staying with Mum and Dad for a bit before coming back to London. Can you keep your ears peeled for anything you think might be useful?’

‘Like how to make a small bomb to put under the sofa?’

‘Mm. But it would have to be a Heat-reader-seeking device. I still hold out vague hopes of presenting with Mike again. Actually, I’m going to phone him now. He generally has his ear to the ground. He might know if there’s anything out there.’

Richard grunted, wished her luck and clicked off the phone.

Katie found Mike sympathetic.

‘I sent you a couple of texts. Did you get them?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘They’ll probably come through in a lump when I least need them. Like some of my friends. Anyway, what did they say?’

‘Oh, just the usual. Sorry to hear you were dumped on. How I’m having to try bloody hard to get it to work with Keera. She’s not like you. You’re a joy to present with, but my hands are tied. I can hardly walk off like some child who’s had his ice-cream stolen. Much as I’d like to. But listen, I was at the BBC the other day and I mentioned your name to the chaps and chapesses I’m working with on a new show that’s right up your street. It’s a sort of Pop Idol meets Woody Allen. They choose ten people, out of a cast of thousands, to become directors. They get to produce a ten-minute short with all the help they can possibly need and at least one famous soap star will act in their masterpiece. They’re looking for two presenters … one in the studio to link everything together, and the other on location to speak to everyone involved – chat to the would-be directors, the soap stars, et cetera et cetera. I suggested you should be the one doing the location stuff.’

‘God, that would be fantastic! And what a great concept! Should be perfect. A few golden nuggets among the dross at the beginning, then ten people who’ll never be heard of again after they’ve sold their soul to the television devil. How long would it be for and when does it start?’

‘They’re still in the early stages. A few months before they get all the contestants and check them out. It won’t happen until July at the earliest. But I’ve been pushing for you, so fingers crossed.’

For a nanosecond the conversation perked Katie up. Then she remembered the rather pressing problem of her enormous mortgage. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. She looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. She had put a bottle of wine in the fridge for a sharpener while she made calls round her mates in the business to see if there was any voiceover work she could do.

But she hadn’t been particularly clever in her choice of friends over the last few years. They were loyal, intelligent and fun. They knew marvellous facts. They could tell her whether it was true that earwigs were the only insects that suckled their young, the origin of the word kiss, the best way to get to Ikea, how to operate her mobile phone. But they were not very useful if you’d been sacked. ‘The trouble is, Hercules,’ she commented, as she circumnavigated the golden rug, ‘that I’d prefer to eat my own head than spend an hour talking about a piece of jewellery on QVC. But I may, at some stage, be grateful for an offer.’

She poured a glass of wine.

‘And there’s the distinct possibility they wouldn’t employ me anyway because I know next to nothing about lampshades and cubic zirconia. Do you think I should retrain as a carpet-maker and specialize in dog rugs?’

Hercules farted. Sniffed under his tail. Put his ears down and walked over to his basket.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_98d2d1eb-6043-5e1e-8fd6-cb8fc1fc0078)

Mike let himself quietly out of his house. His trophy wife was sleeping, her hands covered with moisturizer and encased in white cotton gloves. The Patterdale terrier they had bought at vast expense from a breeder in Devon looked up expectantly as he was collected from his bean bag on the landing. Mike tied a red spotted handkerchief round Buster’s neck, and tiptoed down the stairs. He had taken the precaution of parking the car away from the house – not that Sandra would have woken up. She was always exhausted from the four hours’ exercise she did every day and the lack of food that kept her in sparkling bony condition.

He opened the passenger door and Buster took up his position on the velvet cushion Mike kept under the carpet in the boot. He didn’t want to have to make up any excuses to Sandra about what it was for. And, anyway, it smelled unmistakably of dog. ‘All right, boy?’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go and make mischief.’

The next morning Keera was ultra-solicitous. ‘Are you all right, Mike? You look knackered.’

‘The dog kept me up. I may have to take him to the vet today.’

‘Oh dear. How old is he?’

‘Only six. I don’t think it’s terminal.’

Richard, the producer, was leaning over a researcher’s desk. ‘That reminds me about the man who goes to the vet with his dog because it’s got a cough. And the vet says, “I’m going to have to put him down.” And the bloke says, “But he’s only got a cough.” “I know,” says the vet. “But he’s heavy.”’

The researcher laughed.

‘That’s not funny,’ said Keera, ‘not when Mike’s dog isn’t very well. How would you like it if your mum was ill and we all made jokes about it?’

‘Oh, lighten up, Keera. Mike just said he didn’t think it was serious. And, anyway, the vet only put the dog on the floor.’

‘No, he didn’t. You said he put him down.’

Richard looked at her. ‘Yeah. Right. Hadn’t you better get to Makeup?’