JR shut the door and sat down on one of the meeting-room sofas.
‘Have fun in Scotland, did you, Penfold?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh about it. Helen just—’
‘It’s okay, Penfold. I was there. I saw it. You don’t need to explain how funny it was to me.’
‘I’m so sorry if I messed up your show.’
‘God, it wasn’t your fault. You tried to tackle a naked Keith Ray to save the item; you were bloody heroic, Penfold. Leon was responsible – he should never have let Ray go on in that state.’
‘Well, I was supposed to look after him,’ I muttered, reluctant to let all the blame be placed at Leon’s feet.
‘Poppy, you’re a runner, you shouldn’t have been left in charge of a maniac like Keith Ray. Honestly, I was impressed with your efforts up there, Dangermouse.’
I glowed with pride. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him, but the fact that JR thought I’d done a good job was enough to leave me grinning like an idiot.
‘Shannon was out of her depth up there. If you ask me, they promote people too quickly around here; it leads to mistakes getting made.’
JR paced the room and I felt as though he was talking to himself rather than to me. Catching himself, he turned to me with a smile.
‘Hey, I should probably be nice to you, Penfold – you’ll probably be a channel commissioner in six months!’
He brushed against my arm as he took a seat next to me. The hairs on my arm tingled to attention, hyper-aware of his accidental touch.
‘Which is why, Penfold, I want you to come and help me on What Do They Know? I need an extra pair of hands and I’ve asked Dominic if it can be you. You were funny in that run-through.’
‘Wow, thanks.’
‘I’ve got a feeling you’re going places, Penfold,’ he said, holding my gaze that bit too long.
‘Well, I don’t know…’
‘So I’ll tell Dom you’re working for me for a few weeks? He wanted to send you back to Scotland but I doubt you’re particularly keen on that idea?’
‘No, no, I’d rather work with you,’ I said.
Did that sound ridiculously eager? I wondered if JR could hear my heart pounding in my chest.
‘Great,’ he said, putting a hand on my shoulder as he left. ‘Just make sure you swat up on your general knowledge, Dangermouse.’
Back in the post room, I couldn’t hide my excitement.
‘JR wants me to work on his pilot! Isn’t that great?’
David and Helen exchanged glances.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Helen, shaking her head.
‘Oh yeah, “nothing”,’ said David scornfully. ‘That’s like saying Mulholland Drive is a really one-dimensional film, pah!’
‘What? What is it?’
‘Look, it’s probably not that.’ Helen shot a look at David.
‘He’s got a reputation,’ said David.
‘A reputation for what?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Helen, running her hands through her short brown hair. ‘Just a couple o’… Well, ’e’s been known to like young blonde runners.’
‘Fancies himself as a bit of a lothario, does JR,’ added David. ‘RealiTV’s resident Casanova.’
‘’Ardly,’ said Helen, grimacing. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why folk fancy ’im.’
I was about to defend JR, to say he was actually quite charming, funny and undeniably attractive – but given what we were talking about, I thought better of it and stayed silent.
David and Helen thought they were telling me bad news, but I couldn’t help but feel excited by the fact that JR might be interested in me in more than just a work capacity. I had to admit that maybe I wasn’t just impressed by his abilities as a producer; I was impressed by him. I liked the way his dark, deep-set eyes seared into me whenever they settled upon me… I liked the fact that he was a proper grown-up man with proper grown-up stubble… And I liked the fact that he called me Dangermouse…
‘Poppy?’ Helen said.
‘Huh?’
‘Are you okay? You’ve got a funny look on your face.’
I quickly tried to stop my face from giving me away by knitting my eyebrows together in a frown and biting my bottom lip in a textbook ‘worried and concerned’ expression.
‘Look, don’t worry about JR, you’ll be fine,’ said Helen. ‘It was a long time ago, ’n’ it’s only a rumour.’
‘Just don’t stay late with him on your own,’ warned David.
I made a mental note to definitely try and stay late with him on my own.
STEP 17 – CONGRATULATE YOUR COLLEAGUES WHEN THEY DO A GOOD JOB
TO:
FROM:
SUBJECT: Car
ATTACHMENTS: Wing mirror pic
Poppy,
Can you come and explain to me two things. One – the attached picture of the hire car wing mirror. Hertz claim it was brand new. Two – I have a letter, fine and picture showing you stopping the hire car on a double-red line…
Not good.
D
RHIDIAN’S LITTLE CHART of success and failure had started out as a scrawl on a Post-it note, which he had taken a photo of and sent to me. Now the chart had taken on a rather more professional form: a typed-up A4 sheet pinned to the post room noticeboard. I would have taken it down, but yesterday Dominic had Blu-tacked the picture of my wing mirror smash onto the ‘Poppy’ column and I didn’t think I could interfere with it now it had been usurped by higher powers.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said to Helen. ‘It’s mean.’
‘Aw, come on, it’s just a bit o’ fun,’ said Helen, looking into a compact and applying heavy black kohl beneath each of her eyes.
‘I don’t mind among us, you know, but now it’s actually up there on the wall, anyone who comes in is going to see it and ask “oooh, what’s hedgehog-gate?”, and then the whole company knows about every disastrous moment of my pitiful career so far.’
‘Everyone in t’ company already knows about ’edgehog-gate, ’n’ actually,’ Helen picked up a black marker pen, ‘I’m gonna change that to a plus one. JR said you were a hero up there, trying to save the day by divin’ on top o’ Keith Ray.’
My irritation with the chart was slightly allayed by the news that JR had been telling people I was a hero. Perhaps in a few days I could just allow the wing mirror picture to ‘fall off’ and then I could slowly phase out people’s interest in the chart.
‘Rhidian’s just so bloody competitive, it’s not even funny. He obviously thinks he has something to prove,’ I said.
‘I don’t know if he does,’ said David, coming in with a plate of Bourbon biscuits he’d scrounged from the meeting room. ‘Did you hear what he did on Can Your Dog Do Your Job? yesterday?’
‘No, what?’ I asked.
‘She don’t need to ’ear ’bout every little thing Rhidian does,’ Helen said, giving David ‘don’t tell her’ eyes, which only served to make me more curious.
‘What did he do?’
‘He only went and saved the show,’ said David, ignoring Helen.
‘That’s a bit o’ an exaggeration,’ said Helen.
‘What happened?’ I asked again, taking a biscuit from David’s plate.
‘Well, they were doing an episode about fishing, seeing if this Dachshund had what it took to be a fisherman—’
‘What kinda fisherman?’ asked Helen. ‘I think “fisherman” is more a hobby than a job, unless it’s like in trawler boat at sea or somethin’?’
‘I don’t know.’ David looked annoyed at having his story interrupted. ‘It’s a stupid show. I think the dog had to learn how to do all kinds of fishing. Anyway, they were shooting on this riverbank in Wiltshire, learning about carp or something, when the dog suddenly decides to jump into the water. There’s actually quite a strong current, and he gets swept downstream into a bunch of swans. The swans go ment
al and the dog’s owner is screaming, and the production team all just stand there not knowing what to do. Then, out of nowhere, Rhidian leaps into the river, single-handedly wrestles these swans out the way, and rescues the dachshund. It was like a scene out of Indiana Jones or something.’
‘I don’t think anything remotely similar to that happens in Indiana Jones,’ I said.
‘’Ave you seen it?’ Helen asked David.
‘Yeah, the whole thing was caught on tape. Everyone upstairs is calling Rhidian “The Dog Rescuer”.’
‘Well, that’s not very inventive. Obi-Swan Kenobi, surely?’ I said. ‘Or Indiana Bones if you’re wedded to that comparison.’
Helen and David laughed, but the pleasure I derived from puns could not outweigh the crushing news that Rhidian was a hero – again. Who were RealiTV going to employ at the end of our placement: The Motorway Muppet or The Dog Rescuer?
‘Anyway, ’ow’s it all goin’ up on JR’s show? That’s great ’e asked you to work on it,’ Helen asked, tactfully changing the subject.
David was writing Obi-Swan Kenobi + 1 on Rhidian’s chart.
‘Hey, that’s my joke,’ I said grumpily. ‘And since when has every man and his dog started adding to that bloody chart?’
‘Poppy?’ said Helen. ‘So JR’s show?’
‘Um, yes, it’s good,’ I said, trying to ignore David and listen to Helen. ‘I’ve stayed in every night this week watching Newsnight on iPlayer so I don’t embarrass myself with my pitiful general knowledge again. Have you seen what’s happening in Syria? It’s awful.’
Just as I was about to expand on my newfound political opinions, with a swoosh of platinum-blonde hair, Mel from reception put her head round the door.
‘Can one of you cover reception for me at six? I want to leave early.’
‘Goin’ on another date wi’ Rhidian, are we?’ asked Helen.
‘None of your business,’ said Mel, looking incredibly pleased with herself.
‘Well, do yer want us to cover reception or not?’
‘We’re having drinks. Whatever, no biggie.’ Mel pouted. Then she noticed David’s addition to the chart on the wall. ‘Obi-Swan Kenobi. Very good. Rhids will like that.’
I suddenly felt a slight queasiness in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t that I cared if Rhidian was seeing someone – I couldn’t have cared less – but Mel? She was such a bitch. It made me think less of him that she would be his type. I mean, even that annoying make-up girl was preferable to stuck-up Mel.
Also, THAT WAS MY JOKE.
Mel swanned off back to reception. I finished the dregs of my overly oiled salad and gathered my things, ready to head back upstairs. JR was away today so the What Do They Know? team was pretty quiet. I was hoping I could leave work early tonight as I had finally got around to arranging drinks with Ian. I felt bad about being so slow in getting back to him, plus if I met up with him, it would get my mother off my back for at least a week or so. I could report that we’d discussed it at length and Ian had concluded I didn’t have the right qualifications for banking.
As I was about to leave the post room, Rhidian appeared.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘If it isn’t Obi-Swan Kenobi himself,’ said David, looking at me pointedly to see if I would challenge such purposeful plagiarism.
‘Oh guys, seriously, this whole thing has been blown way out of proportion, I wish people would stop talking about it,’ Rhidian said, pushing up the sleeves of his blue shirt to fetch post down from a pigeonhole. I noticed how dexterous his large, masculine hands were at flicking through the thick pile of letters.
‘Hardly,’ said David. ‘I’ve seen the tape: it was like Mr Darcy emerging from the lake, but instead of just looking all wet and gorgeous, he was saving a dog and wrestling a swan.’
Everyone stopped to look at David. He looked momentarily embarrassed at having been a little too descriptive.
‘Anyway…’ said Rhidian, breaking the awkward silence, ‘Poppy, I haven’t seen you since Scotland. You got back okay on the train?’
‘Yes. I managed to do something without you, unbelievable as it may sound,’ I said with a smile.
‘Well, well done you,’ Rhidian said, stooping down to my eye level and patting me on the head like a dog.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I said.
‘No, but seriously, I hear JR asked for you to work on What Do They Know? That’s great news.’
‘Yeah, she’s been in every night spodding up on ’er general knowledge,’ said Helen.
‘Well, look, we should go for drinks to celebrate. You never go out, Poppy,’ said Rhidian, turning back to look at me.
‘I do go out,’ I said.
‘Um, no you don’t,’ said Helen. ‘Come on, you’ve moved up t’ London, you should be out ont’ town seein’ your friends, datin’, dancin’, drinkin’ cocktails, ’aving a glorious, glamorous time.’ Helen was putting on a mock-girly voice.
I knew for a fact she didn’t do any of the above, and spent most of her free time playing on the Xbox with her boyfriend Randy, a supermarket designer from Texas.
Rhidian was looking at me intently, waiting for a response. This was probably another thing he thought he was winning at, with his compulsion to find competition in absolutely everything.
‘Actually, I have a date tonight,’ I found myself saying.
I caught Rhidian’s eye and there was a momentary flicker of something between us. Did he know I was lying?
‘Really? Who with?’ he asked.
‘Just this guy Ian I’ve been seeing,’ I said breezily, making to leave.
‘Woah! You can’t leave now,’ said Helen. ‘You ’aven’t told us this! Who’s Ian?’
‘Oh, just this guy who works in the City, not a media type. You wouldn’t know him. Anyway, bye.’
Ha, that will teach him, I thought as I sauntered out of the post room. How dare he assume I never go out or go on any dates? Anyway, when exactly would I have had time to go on any dates? When I wasn’t driving battle-axes up to Scotland or dive-bombing drunk celebrities, I’d been rather preoccupied, studiously swatting up on my general knowledge so that I could actually do a good job on a production for once. (Okay, so there was a bit of Girls and 30 Rock watching in between Newsnight, but still…) Besides, just because Rhidian was dating every floopy airhead out there, it didn’t mean I should be berated for being that bit more discerning.
Maybe I should try and go on some actual dates. Helen was right: I was twenty-two and single in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I shouldn’t be spending my evenings watching boxsets and old romantic films in the basement of my friend’s parents’ house. This new crush I’d developed on JR probably wasn’t helpful (considering he was my boss and ten years older than me) and I didn’t seem to be able to escape hearing about Rhidian’s blooming love life at every turn. I needed to get out more.
STEP 18 – IT’S IMPORTANT TO GET OUT OF THE OFFICE
FROM: NATALIE
TO: POPPY
Pen, R U seriously going out tonight? Why? New 30 Rock is on. What could be more exciting than me, Alec Baldwin + those Quality Street I found from last Xmas…? YOU’VE CHANGED, MY FRIEND.
PS Mum hinting she might have to start charging u rent… Would be mates’ rates – that OK? Sorry she is being money nazi at mo. Is even charging £2 to do my laundry!
I SENT A text to Ian telling him to meet me outside a trendy noodle bar on Dean Street called El Noodle. I’d overheard Mel talking about it on the phone, and though I’d be loath to admit it to her, she was probably far more knowledgable about the cool places to eat in Soho than I was. I’d heard her say the service was quite quick, so this way I got brownie points from Mum for having dinner with Ian, but could probably still be home in time to watch an episode of something with Nat.
I vaguely remembered Ian. We had been quite good friends as children. I think he must have been about nine and I’d been seven when we used to build dens together behind
his mum’s garage. We were pretty inventive when it came to building materials, using twigs, moss and whichever bits of my sister’s bedclothes I could sneak out of the house. Then Ian had been sent off to boarding school and I hadn’t seen much of him after that. I’d last encountered him a couple of years ago at my parents’ annual mulled wine and mince pies party, when we both happened to be in Dorset before Christmas. He’d meta-morphosed from a rather plump, permanently muddy little boy into a tall, skinny man, with the pallid complexion of someone who didn’t see a lot of sun. I had an ominous suspicion that my mother thought he might be my ‘Mr Darcy next door’, though I think this idea had come not from any compatibility-based observation, but from a practical conversation with Lorraine about ‘how easy it would be to pull down the fence between their two gardens to put up a marquee’.
After work I had swapped my flats for high-heeled suede boots and changed from a T-shirt and jumper into my favourite black silk blouse. I didn’t often go out on the town, so thought I might as well dress up. However, the evening air was beginning to feel close, as though it might rain, so I was already questioning my outfit choice.
As I arrived at El Noodle, I scoured the queue to see if Ian was already there. At the back, behind a gaggle of girls, I saw someone waving at me. It was Ian, looking as skinny and gaunt as ever – but sitting in a wheelchair. As I walked towards him, I racked my brain to see if Mum had told me about some horrific accident he’d been in that I wasn’t to mention, or whether in fact I’d misremembered all the den building and the ‘really tall’ bit, and perhaps he’d always been in a wheelchair.
‘Hi, Ian?’
‘Hi, Poppy.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were… how long have you… I’ve heard you have to queue for this place, is that okay? It looks like it’s moving quite quickly, but we can go somewhere else if you like? If you’re not fine?’ I blathered.
‘No, it’s fine, I like the look of this place. I don’t mind waiting,’ said Ian. ‘This is only a temporary addition to my look,’ he said, indicating the chair. ‘I’ve had a back operation so I can’t walk for a month.’
How to Get Ahead in Television Page 8
