wandered in the area near Putney Bridge, before a traffic warden redirected her. ‘Wrong bridge, love,’ he said. ‘Wandsworth Bridge, that’s the one.’
So it was a flustered and hideously late Hetty who eventually trotted into the studios and was nearly knocked over in the flurry of activity.
‘Ten minutes!’ she heard a gruff male voice call. ‘Back on set by four forty-five or we’re mincemeat!’
A squat man in tight denim jeans, belly overhanging his belt, pushed past her. Under one arm was a clipboard with pink typewritten sheets, in the other a biro; another pen was stuck behind one ear, under his headphones. A microphone extended under his chin. He stopped, pushed a button on the pack attached to his belt, listened, then barked, ‘I mean it!’ before walking on.
Suddenly she was grabbed by a whirling figure – wild black hair, red velvet trouser suit, flashing teeth: Rosa, who hugged her vigorously and planted a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Mwah, mwah! Hello! It’s great you could make it. Did you find us all right?’ The energetic life-force did not pause for an answer. ‘Your timing’s perfect. We’ve just broken for tea. Come and meet everyone.’
Hetty was half carried along a corridor to a cramped area with banked seats and Formica tables littered with ketchup and vinegar bottles. The air crackled with voices and the hiss of steam urns. Condensation misted the windows, but the smell of baking was cosily welcoming. The canteen was packed with what she took to be the crew – men with half a day’s growth of beard, wolfing sandwiches and pastries as if half starved, mugs of tea in their hands; young girls sipping black coffee or Diet Coke. Everyone smoked. In the far corner a family of four were huddled with dazed expressions, teacups untouched. ‘Our guests,’ Rosa said, in a stage whisper. ‘You needn’t bother with them, it’ll be another bunch next week.’
She propelled Hetty round the room. ‘Mike, Gerry, Phil – cameramen. Dave does sound, he’s a genius. Bob you’ve already met, he’s the floor manager. Daisy, Sue, Kate – researchers. The makeup ladies are busy with the next guests upstairs, editors are in the gallery checking the tapes – have I missed anyone?’ She clapped her hands and obtained a moment’s silence. ‘This is Hetty, and she’s coming to work for us.’
‘Hi, Hetty.’
‘Hello, how’re ya doin’?’
‘Welcome on board.’
The buzz rose to its former volume as each returned to his or her previous conversation.
‘Grab a cup of tea, or whatever, and we’ll sit in that corner,’ Rosa ordered.
Hetty obeyed meekly, but muttered a protest: ‘I haven’t agreed to come yet. Why did you tell them that?’
‘Because I need you, that’s why.’ Rosa glanced up. ‘And you need a job, right? So you could do worse than start here. We’ve had to sack a couple of youngsters who were misbehaving. Prompting the guests about what to say and adding a few improbable sexual details of their own. Can’t have that. A mature person like you, Hetty, even a beginner, who I can trust would be ideal. Not that I can offer you much.’
‘I’m not a complete beginner,’ said Hetty huffily. The Eurostar with Clarissa suddenly seemed more tempting.
‘That’s what I’ve told ’em. You won’t let me down.’ Rosa drank her tea quickly. ‘Yerrch! That’s hot. I’ve burnt my tongue.’
‘What does the job consist of?’
‘Mostly fixing up the guests. Phone calls, loads of persuasion. Then you take care of them while they’re here, don’t let ’em get cold feet. Keep telling ’em how wonderful they are, and how their problems will be resolved by their appearing on the telly. Natch. The programme’s called Tell Me All . It’s a sort of true confessions-cum-agony-aunt set-up. Daytime TV.’ She rolled her eyes, as if that explained everything. ‘Got to fill the airwaves somehow, and we aim to produce programmes of integrity and quality. Anyway, the
So it was a flustered and hideously late Hetty who eventually trotted into the studios and was nearly knocked over in the flurry of activity.
‘Ten minutes!’ she heard a gruff male voice call. ‘Back on set by four forty-five or we’re mincemeat!’
A squat man in tight denim jeans, belly overhanging his belt, pushed past her. Under one arm was a clipboard with pink typewritten sheets, in the other a biro; another pen was stuck behind one ear, under his headphones. A microphone extended under his chin. He stopped, pushed a button on the pack attached to his belt, listened, then barked, ‘I mean it!’ before walking on.
Suddenly she was grabbed by a whirling figure – wild black hair, red velvet trouser suit, flashing teeth: Rosa, who hugged her vigorously and planted a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Mwah, mwah! Hello! It’s great you could make it. Did you find us all right?’ The energetic life-force did not pause for an answer. ‘Your timing’s perfect. We’ve just broken for tea. Come and meet everyone.’
Hetty was half carried along a corridor to a cramped area with banked seats and Formica tables littered with ketchup and vinegar bottles. The air crackled with voices and the hiss of steam urns. Condensation misted the windows, but the smell of baking was cosily welcoming. The canteen was packed with what she took to be the crew – men with half a day’s growth of beard, wolfing sandwiches and pastries as if half starved, mugs of tea in their hands; young girls sipping black coffee or Diet Coke. Everyone smoked. In the far corner a family of four were huddled with dazed expressions, teacups untouched. ‘Our guests,’ Rosa said, in a stage whisper. ‘You needn’t bother with them, it’ll be another bunch next week.’
She propelled Hetty round the room. ‘Mike, Gerry, Phil – cameramen. Dave does sound, he’s a genius. Bob you’ve already met, he’s the floor manager. Daisy, Sue, Kate – researchers. The makeup ladies are busy with the next guests upstairs, editors are in the gallery checking the tapes – have I missed anyone?’ She clapped her hands and obtained a moment’s silence. ‘This is Hetty, and she’s coming to work for us.’
‘Hi, Hetty.’
‘Hello, how’re ya doin’?’
‘Welcome on board.’
The buzz rose to its former volume as each returned to his or her previous conversation.
‘Grab a cup of tea, or whatever, and we’ll sit in that corner,’ Rosa ordered.
Hetty obeyed meekly, but muttered a protest: ‘I haven’t agreed to come yet. Why did you tell them that?’
‘Because I need you, that’s why.’ Rosa glanced up. ‘And you need a job, right? So you could do worse than start here. We’ve had to sack a couple of youngsters who were misbehaving. Prompting the guests about what to say and adding a few improbable sexual details of their own. Can’t have that. A mature person like you, Hetty, even a beginner, who I can trust would be ideal. Not that I can offer you much.’
‘I’m not a complete beginner,’ said Hetty huffily. The Eurostar with Clarissa suddenly seemed more tempting.
‘That’s what I’ve told ’em. You won’t let me down.’ Rosa drank her tea quickly. ‘Yerrch! That’s hot. I’ve burnt my tongue.’
‘What does the job consist of?’
‘Mostly fixing up the guests. Phone calls, loads of persuasion. Then you take care of them while they’re here, don’t let ’em get cold feet. Keep telling ’em how wonderful they are, and how their problems will be resolved by their appearing on the telly. Natch. The programme’s called Tell Me All . It’s a sort of true confessions-cum-agony-aunt set-up. Daytime TV.’ She rolled her eyes, as if that explained everything. ‘Got to fill the airwaves somehow, and we aim to produce programmes of integrity and quality. Anyway, the
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