know,” said Stan. “Would the show work in an hour-long format? And with regards to new presenters, shouldn’t we get some figures on the appetite for this type of change? I don’t want to mess up the formula. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Of course, Roxie had an answer for that. “We could always make some pilot shows, just to see if the idea works,” she said smoothly.
“Youth is the way forward,” philosophised Brian, sitting back in his leather chair and giving them all an even better look at his belly, which was straining against the buttons of his Charvet shirt.
He hadn’t been able to afford handmade French shirts before Declutter had been so successful and transformed Beech’s bottom line, Abby thought furiously.
“Definitely. Youth makes television magic,” he added. “No of-fence, Abby.”
“None taken,” she said from between gritted teeth.
“Presenters are getting younger and younger,” Roxie put in.
“Youth is where it’s at,” Brian repeated pompously. Everyone nodded sagely.
Abby glared at them. Youth? What did they know about youth? Brian was a childless man in his early fifties with thinning hair, and the nearest he got to exercise was propping up the bar after he’d watched a soccer match. Stan was a skinny single guy on the wrong side of thirty-five with a forty-a-day Benson & Hedges habit, a fondness for junk food, and the unhealthy pallor of someone whose arteries were furring up at the speed of a Formula One racing car. Flora had recently celebrated her fortieth birthday with a big, booze-fuelled party and had dramatically insisted that everyone wear black to mourn for her lost youth.
Being young was just a memory for all of them, yet they were able to pontificate to her about age. Only Roxie, who was twenty-five, max, and, with the hubris of youth, probably thought that old age happened to other people, could claim to understand youth culture.
After some discussion about casting new talent, during which Abby sat with a fixed smile on her face, the meeting ended.
“Great to meet you,” Roxie said to Abby. “I love your work.”
“Thanks,” Abby said mechanically. She was too shattered to say anything else. She made her way to the ladies’ room across the hall, and Flora followed her.
“I know it’s tough,” said Flora, when she emerged from the cubicle to wash her hands, “but Roxie has a point, Abby. Youth is in.”
“I know that,” said Abby, somehow managing to hide how desperately hurt she was.
“We’d all hate you to be upset. You’re our friend, Abby—that goes beyond TV.”
“Course I’m not upset.” Abby’s hands shook as she took out her make-up pouch. She daren’t try to use her lipliner. Her face, pale and haggard with shock, stared back at her. Her new chestnut streaks looked ridiculously harsh against her pale face. Her previous all tawny tint had suited her colouring better.
Flora was watching her. Somehow, Abby recovered.
“This is a job, after all, and job descriptions change. I’m a professional, Flora. You should know that,” she said.
“Sorry.” Flora gave Abby’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I forgot. They don’t call you the most down-to-earth presenter on the box for nothing.”
Abby did her best to look down-to-earth, even though she felt like lying down on the tiled floor of the ladies, drumming her heels and screaming about the unfairness of everything.
“You know, I wasn’t sure I liked Roxie at first, to be honest with you,” Flora was saying, redoing her plait, “but she has some great ideas and she’s all right behind that tough exterior.”
“Yeah, for sure.” Abby zipped up her handbag. “Must fly, Flora. I’ll talk to you soon, OK?”
She managed to leave the building without meeting Brian or Roxie.
“Oh, Abby,” sang Livia as Abby rushed past reception, “Mr. Redmond was looking for you.”
“Can’t stop. Sorry, Livia,” said Abby politely. She could not face Brian
Of course, Roxie had an answer for that. “We could always make some pilot shows, just to see if the idea works,” she said smoothly.
“Youth is the way forward,” philosophised Brian, sitting back in his leather chair and giving them all an even better look at his belly, which was straining against the buttons of his Charvet shirt.
He hadn’t been able to afford handmade French shirts before Declutter had been so successful and transformed Beech’s bottom line, Abby thought furiously.
“Definitely. Youth makes television magic,” he added. “No of-fence, Abby.”
“None taken,” she said from between gritted teeth.
“Presenters are getting younger and younger,” Roxie put in.
“Youth is where it’s at,” Brian repeated pompously. Everyone nodded sagely.
Abby glared at them. Youth? What did they know about youth? Brian was a childless man in his early fifties with thinning hair, and the nearest he got to exercise was propping up the bar after he’d watched a soccer match. Stan was a skinny single guy on the wrong side of thirty-five with a forty-a-day Benson & Hedges habit, a fondness for junk food, and the unhealthy pallor of someone whose arteries were furring up at the speed of a Formula One racing car. Flora had recently celebrated her fortieth birthday with a big, booze-fuelled party and had dramatically insisted that everyone wear black to mourn for her lost youth.
Being young was just a memory for all of them, yet they were able to pontificate to her about age. Only Roxie, who was twenty-five, max, and, with the hubris of youth, probably thought that old age happened to other people, could claim to understand youth culture.
After some discussion about casting new talent, during which Abby sat with a fixed smile on her face, the meeting ended.
“Great to meet you,” Roxie said to Abby. “I love your work.”
“Thanks,” Abby said mechanically. She was too shattered to say anything else. She made her way to the ladies’ room across the hall, and Flora followed her.
“I know it’s tough,” said Flora, when she emerged from the cubicle to wash her hands, “but Roxie has a point, Abby. Youth is in.”
“I know that,” said Abby, somehow managing to hide how desperately hurt she was.
“We’d all hate you to be upset. You’re our friend, Abby—that goes beyond TV.”
“Course I’m not upset.” Abby’s hands shook as she took out her make-up pouch. She daren’t try to use her lipliner. Her face, pale and haggard with shock, stared back at her. Her new chestnut streaks looked ridiculously harsh against her pale face. Her previous all tawny tint had suited her colouring better.
Flora was watching her. Somehow, Abby recovered.
“This is a job, after all, and job descriptions change. I’m a professional, Flora. You should know that,” she said.
“Sorry.” Flora gave Abby’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I forgot. They don’t call you the most down-to-earth presenter on the box for nothing.”
Abby did her best to look down-to-earth, even though she felt like lying down on the tiled floor of the ladies, drumming her heels and screaming about the unfairness of everything.
“You know, I wasn’t sure I liked Roxie at first, to be honest with you,” Flora was saying, redoing her plait, “but she has some great ideas and she’s all right behind that tough exterior.”
“Yeah, for sure.” Abby zipped up her handbag. “Must fly, Flora. I’ll talk to you soon, OK?”
She managed to leave the building without meeting Brian or Roxie.
“Oh, Abby,” sang Livia as Abby rushed past reception, “Mr. Redmond was looking for you.”
“Can’t stop. Sorry, Livia,” said Abby politely. She could not face Brian
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