by Sue Watson
“Oh, no! My viewers don’t want to watch an inarticulate, aggressive, psycho cage-fighter...”
“No, not the psycho cage-fighter – he’s a sweetie. I was talking about the Pageant Queen. She makes Honey Boo Boo look like Snow White.”
“Honey who? Oh. don’t bother – as long as you know who she is, you can tweet that I do. I can’t keep up, Georgina, there is so much going on in the world and online. One minute, I think I know the latest bands, the coolest models, the highest technology...then suddenly, the rug’s pulled from under me and I’m like an OAP at a rap convention.” I rubbed my temples.
“Don’t ever think I don’t appreciate how you have transformed me in cyberspace.” I said to Georgina, seriously. “Which reminds me, I popped a little thank-you from ‘Crème de la Mer’ on your desk.”
“Tanya, you shouldn’t. I’m just doing my job, but thank you – it’s lovely of you to do that,” she said, with a big smile.
“Actually it’s a bribe... Don’t ever leave me for another presenter,” I squeezed her arm affectionately.
My ‘online presence’ was fabulous through Georgina. She gave me a youth and vitality I didn’t really have. She’d tweet that I was at parties or trendy ‘gigs’, when I was really tucked up in bed with a cup of lavender tea. As I chewed on a celery stick and slurped a big glass of Chablis, she’d tweet photos of ‘my delicious, healthy home-made suppers’ (which she’d found online somewhere). My hip but healthy life was so bloody convincing that Donna was in talks with a publisher for me to write my own ‘Hip, Healthy and Hot’ cookbook. When she was being me online, Georgina used youthful words, implying that I was down with the kids, giving me a whole new persona who not only had an amazing social life, cooked fabulous meals and always had ‘friends round’ – but also apparently found time for ‘great sex with Nathan – or at @NathanWells’ as he was known on Twitter. I’d look at my Facebook or Twitter timeline sometimes and be amazed and almost envious at the crazy, loved-up, youthful forty-something I virtually seemed to be. I managed the odd tweet myself, once Georgina had shown me how, and she was always careful not to contradict anything I had shared within the Twittersphere.
I patted my face with the warm flannels Georgina had ready for me, (they prepared my skin for the La Mer moisturiser, which promised to ‘penetrate deeply, renew and energize.’)
“I’ve checked your online diary and booked your Prada dip-dye highlights with Guido Palau for Wednesday,” she said, referring to her perfect notes, “then you have a manicure with Marian Newman...”
I stopped patting the flannels and looked at her in the mirror: “What? Georgina... You’ve booked Kate Moss’s manicurist – for me?” She nodded. I gave a little cry of pleasure.
“How in hell did you get that?” I was holding the flannels so tight they were dripping.
“She’s here for Fashion Week. I told her you were a fan and she was cool. She says it’s all about nail tips... and it’s only burgundy this season.”
“That’s fantastic Georgina, thank you,” I carried on patting and spotted that my nails were neither ‘tipped’ nor burgundy. I wondered how I would survive pink and ‘tipless’ until my nail communion with ‘La Newman’.
“Now, I’ve taken the liberty of booking you in for a Fresh Lift Facial too. Hope that’s OK, Tanya? Its Jet Peel 3 system uses a non-invasive water jet to deep clean and exfoliate then...”
“Oh, keep talking Georgina, I feel ten years younger already...” I unscrewed the moisturiser and gently applied it, imagining the Fresh Lift Facial in all its Jet Peel glory -whatever that was.
“Then prescription serums are pushed deep into the skin for maximum effect and voila, Tanya Travis is 21 again. Let me know if anything crops up and I can change any of the appointments – except of course Marian. Lady Gaga has her on speed-dial and she could be whisked away anywhere at any time.”
“Sweetie, I’d cancel my own show before I’d cancel Marian Newman, manicurist to the stars.” I breathed, standing up.
Georgina handed me my blouse and I began to dress for the show.
“Oh yes and I have tweeted, blogged and updated your Facebook status, Tanya.”
“Oh great, what am I?”
“Happy,” she smiled, “but nervous (serious face) for the amazing guests who’ve been through such a lot and are here to talk about it on today’s show... And you’ve been tweeting all morning about how ‘awesome’ they are.”
“Awesome – I like that word, makes me sound young.” I smiled, fastening my blouse buttons and taking my skirt from her outstretched hand. She smiled back and gave me a little wink.
“Is my blog interesting today?”
“Oh yes, you are contemplating the old nature-versus-nurture chestnut.”
“Ah, that old thing...great,” I smiled.
“Yeah, but don’t worry, you’ve updated it of course to look at current findings on parental influences. You were saying the other day you wanted the show to go more upmarket?”
“Absolutely.”
“So, Tanya you are considering behaviour-genetic designs, augmented with direct measures of potential environmental influences...”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Hope that’s not too obvious.”
“Well, no. Not really...”
“Good, because you go on to suggest that current findings provide more sophisticated and less deterministic explanations than earlier theory and research on parenting did.”
“Ooh, do I? How fabulous.”
I didn’t quite know what to add to that so I took a huge gulp of steaming latte, to stop myself saying something silly.
“Tanya, it is rather ‘in-depth’ but I think it will pitch you to a new, potentially more intellectual, sophisticated viewer. I can alter the blog if you’d rather look at studies distinguishing among children with different genetically influenced predispositions in terms of their responses to different environmental conditions?”
“Oh no I think what you said before is all – just gorgeous.”
“And of course, I’ve multi-platformed it and shared links with all the networks.”
“Absolutely.”
The daily, pre-show ritual was now complete – my face creamed, my suit on and my second coffee drunk, we set off down the hall to hair and make-up.
At this point, Judith the Producer joined our race along the corridor. All frizzy hair and waving arms, Judith pounded the corridor in sync with me, while trying to link my elbow. Georgina fell discreetly behind by a few steps.
“I see from the running order that Georgina’s just given me that you’re going against my wishes and putting the post-op tranny on first?” I said, trying but not succeeding to soften the irritation in my voice.
Judith rolled her eyes; “I know Tanya, I’m so sorry but Ray’s screaming for a tranny.”
“Not for the first time.”
“Yeah,” she said with an uncomfortable giggle. “I know you think we need to get mad mother-in-law, then psycho Sid, the sex-addict cage-fighter and the tranny before ending with the Pageant Queen and pushy mother, but...”
“Exactly – that’s exactly what I want. So why is Ray insisting it’s the other way round? The cage-fighter is a one-stop shop – Christ, he’s a psycho and a drug dealer who’s made at least five young women pregnant!” I shivered. “How many issues can there be in one contributor? It’s bordering on abuse, the tranny isn’t a story and we’re not offering him any advice, we’re just looking at a big butch man dressed up as a woman, it’s not a bloody freak show! Ray has no idea... What the fuck’s he doing getting involved again?” I levelled a glare at Judith.
“Tanya. Erm... I wasn’t trying to overrule you or anything,” Judith’s hands were wringing, face pleading, hair frazzled. “It’s just that we’re getting pressure from the fourth floor to make everything sharp, current – you know, Tanya?”
“I know,” I softened. “But current? What do you mean by current, Judith?” I affected my amused,
Paxman-style incredulous eyebrow raise. Despite my confident stance, a twinge of worry was creating a well in my stomach: she hadn’t answered me.
“Judith, are you trying to tell me something? That the powers that be aren’t utterly delighted with my award-winning show? Is someone, somewhere implying I’m not ‘current’?” I spat. I stopped walking and stared straight at her.
“No, noooo... Not at all Tanya, they love you and the show and...”
“I should think so. Please remind them that I’m the official ‘Daytime Darling’... and I have the award to prove it.”
She nodded, smiling weakly.
“So what do you mean exactly by ‘making it current’, Judith?’
“Well...I don’t...know...It’s just the fourth floor...”
“Ah, the mysterious ‘fourth floor’. Spoken of like a living, breathing thing. The lift never stops there and some have been known to visit and never to return,” I said sarcastically.
“Yeah. It is a bit like something from The Twilight Zone,” she agreed, nodding vigorously now. I decided to let her off. The new running order was fine, who was I kidding? It was a freak show, however we presented it, despite my best efforts to make it less like one.
“Never mind, Judith. Let’s allow Ray to have his little way, I need to choose my battles. Now, how was your weekend?”
“Good, yeah.” She said, with a sigh of relief. “Rain was home from uni.”
“Oh that’s nice. Did you do anything special?”
“Yeah, we lit a fire in the garden.”
“Great. I bet Om enjoyed that?”
“Yeah. You know Om, he loves fire.”
“Mmm, he’s always enjoyed lighting stuff with Mum’s lighter hasn’t he? I bet he enjoyed his big brother coming home too?”
“Yeah. It was good to be together again as a family.”
“All sitting round the fire.”
“Yeah.”
“Chanting?”
“A bit...yeah.”
She grabbed a couple of bottles of water from a trolley handing one to me. I took it and opened the door to Make-Up, Judith gesturing for me to go first. Georgina gave me a smile and a little wave and slipped off down the corridor. Georgina never came into the make-up room with me, it was too fraught. She once upset Sally-Make-Up by suggesting that a slightly ‘less fussy’ hair style would make me look years younger. Sally could barely contain her anger as she pulled and heaved my bob into a more natural, face-framing shape as directed by Georgina. I was headsore by the time she’d finished, but that day everyone said how lovely my hair was and how much younger I looked. Sally hated her after that.
“Look Judith, I’m not having a go at you,” I said, feeling guilty as we walked in. She was a sweetheart really, all she wanted was happy kids, world peace and enough tofu to go round.
“I know when Ray gets a bloody bee in his boxers you all have to jump,” I started, about to embark on one of my famous Ray diatribes, “I mean Ray’s such a weak, bullying, sordid little tosser...”
“Aah!” she said, like she was in pain, staring at me to stop. “Here’s Ray... I mean hi Ray...”
“Hey girlies, how are we this fine morning?” Ray waddled in, all short, fat and sweaty, in his trademark ill-fitting suit. He was rubbing his hands together nervously.
“Hey Tanya, how’s today’s show shaping up? Have you got something super scratchy for me today?”
“Yes I’ve got something very scratchy, Ray,” I stepped forward, air-kissing him on both cheeks. “In fact just thinking about it is making me come over all itchy,” I smiled, knowing he was too busy hearing his own voice to spot the sarcasm in mine.
“Now Raymondo, I have it on good authority you’ve been fingering my running order, you naughty boy,” I said, waggling my finger at him.
“Oh Tanya, I am but flesh and blood and can’t keep my fingers off your tight little running order,” he replied, clasping both of my hands in his. They were sweaty as usual and I didn’t know where they’d been (though I could make an educated guess). I was desperate to pull away and run to the bathroom to scrub, but that might have seemed rude.
“Well Raymondo,” I continued, giving him the eye, “you should ask a lady before you go rifling through her show.”
“Oh Tanya, forgive. But as ever I am being sat on heavily from above...”
“Not the dreaded fourth floor again, Ray... What on earth are they asking of you now?” I said, mock surprise on my face.
“The fourth floor are asking for street-fighting, bitch-slapping-Jerry-Springer style action” he said, rubbing his sweaty palms along my hand.
“How much more do they want? I sold my soul to the fourth floor 15 years ago Ray- I already do street-fighting and bitch-slapping. Is it not enough for them, do they think I’m Jerry Springer?” I snapped.
He laughed nervously.
“No of course not...they know exactly who you are, you’re Tanya Travis, Darling of Daytime.” There was an awkward pause. “Well, onwards and upwards!” he said abruptly, letting go of my hands and making for the door. “I need to catch a train to the Big Smoke, I’m off to see Dickie at The Ivy. He has big plans for Daytime and I’ve got a throbbing head, my arteries are clogged – and I’m not sure if my ticker can take it.” With that, he left, shaking his head like he had the world on his shoulders as he left the room.
“What was that about?” I said to Judith.
“Something about Dickie and his throbbing ticker?”
“No, the bit about being sat on by the fourth floor?”
“I don’t know, Tan. Just crazy Ray-speak,” she carried on marking her script and studiously ignoring me.
“And who’s Dickie? And why is he throbbing? Or was that one of Ray’s euphemisms?”
Sally Make-Up giggled.
“Dickie’s about to take over as the new head of the channel. I saw an interview in the Guardian and man, he’s one tough dude,” Judith looked up from behind a hundred years of hair.
‘Have you ever tried Frizz-Ease, Judith?’ I wanted to ask, but managed to keep my mouth shut, whilst manoeuvring myself into the make-up chair and trying to blank my mind. Sally Make-Up pushed a button so I could lie back, but being prostrate didn’t help. My rising pre-show panic had begun and the last thing I’d needed was Ray going on about new talent and Dickie’s ‘throbbing’. I’d now have to fit in another thorough hand-washing session before rehearsal, thanks to Ray. In the meantime, I slathered my hands in Sanihand, my favourite brand of cooling, antibacterial gel. Inhaling the sharp, lemony scent and breathing deeply, I counted to ten.
“What are we doing with this bloody freak show?” I sighed. “What happened to our plans for a Book of the Month, Judith?” Sally Make-Up let me rant on as she began my transformation into glossy Goddess of Daytime. “What happened to the treatments we offered up about Mum of the Month, Perfect Partners, Children of pissing Courage, Judith?” I snapped, from under Sally Make-Up’s skilled fingers; “What has happened to all those lovely plans we had for our show? What are the fucking fourth floor doing about them?”
Judith looked at me with a pained expression, twisting one of her many rings round and round.
“The fourth floor don’t seem to be interested at the moment...”
“But we worked so hard on that. Judith, you are bowing under the weight of Ray and God forbid, I don’t mean that in the physical sense.”
“Oh no, that would be too freaky,” she muttered, under her hair.
“I suppose it’s all about ratings these days, Tanya,” Judith continued. “We need viewers, if we don’t have them we won’t have a programme.”
“I check the ratings from the previous day as soon as they come out. I check them every morning when I come in. There’s no ratings problem, Judith.” I knew in my heart there was nothing to worry about but...
“You’re right, Tan, we do have good ratings but the fourth floor don’t want us to be worthy do-gooders when the satellite channels are doing live
STD tests on teenagers and sex addicts.”
“Ooh no, Judith! Perish the thought that we may actually be making a difference here. I don’t flatter myself that my show could even begin to compete with a swab of streptococcus taken from a teenager’s genitals live on air.”
She bit her lip and I made a mental note to ask Donna to arrange a schmooze meeting with Ray. I suspected that Donna had intelligence on Ray Potter and wasn’t afraid to use it. She had something on everyone and he’d no doubt roll over like a puppy once he got a whiff of Shalimar (Donna’s signature scent) and the sound of her size-seven killer heels approaching. She’d do her job, scare the hell out of him with unreasonable demands and find out exactly where those bodies were buried.
Sally was dabbing my face with something cool and wet that smelt of roses while Judith regaled me with background on the day’s guests. She talked convictions, fighting, sexting, sex-changing, slapping, jacking up and blow jobs whilst I relaxed into Sally’s cool hands. Asking me to look up as she did every morning, Sally applied lower eyeliner while I counted the squares on the tiled ceiling, stopping as always at 24. And in the low bubble of chatter and thick, sweet smell of cleanser I felt a fizz of happiness.
“It’s now exactly 22 minutes to rehearsal and I’m channelling Oprah,” I announced, sitting up. Sally smiled like an indulgent parent, finishing with a soft fluff of tickly powder to set my camera face. This ritual was followed by the blow-drying of the hair, like watching a magician at work as she pulled and straightened and shone, turning my dreary, dyed, coarse curls into a gleaming straight, caramel-highlighted bob.
Stepping back to admire her work, Sally smiled, searching for my reaction in the mirror.
“Thank you, my love. You have performed yet another miracle,” I squeezed her arm, turning my head left and right, amazed as always at the daily transformation. “I don’t know how long you can hold up this forty-something face but you’re doing a great job, Sally.”
“Is that incorrigible sex-bomb Tanya Travis in the building?” It was 8.30am, two hours exactly until transmission and Tim the Floor Manager’s camp voice emerged through the radio chatter, on cue and as always, right on time. I nodded, smiling with my eyes and looking in the mirror, my hair moving like a short, shiny curtain, my lips quivering with sugar-pink gloss. I stood up and swept through the make-up room.
