‘I’ll have a word with the activities people,’ she said, ‘but they seem keen on distancing us from other reality shows by having them out and about. Otherwise it’s just Big Brother Does the Jungle in a cold place. It seems to be holding up well so far, ratings wise. As soon as we start the voting next week, the senior executives will probably have another look at it. I’m going to get a coffee–do you want anything?’
‘No, thanks. I’m whacked. I’m going to get straight off as soon as we’ve done the handover.’
Mark picked up his holdall and walked over to the desk to join the other overnighters as they ran through the storylines that were emerging. Page three’s Crystal was being flirty with Peter Philbin. Denise Trench was doing lots of ranting at columnist Paul Martin. Alex Neil, the outrageously gay designer, was getting very close to the DJ Steve Flyte, who appeared to be enjoying the proximity. Tanya Wilton was continuing to spill the beans about her fling with the politician to Flynn O’Mara, ‘astrologer to the stars’. Katie Fisher was falling over a lot. And Dave Beal, the alleged comedian, was still telling jokes that failed to raise a laugh.
Mark straightened up from where he was leaning on the desk. I also think it might be worth keeping an eye on Katie Fisher and Paul Martin. There might be something going on there.’ He turned to lob his plastic water cup into the bin and failed to notice Siobhan’s slight smirk.
Siobhan was a man’s woman. She dressed for men. She studied men. She hunted men. She hated women. She particularly hated successful women. It didn’t matter that to Mr and Mrs Average, as she thought of them, with their drudge-end jobs, she was successful in the exciting world of television. She was a bitter woman. She had chips on her shoulder. And they were well-nurtured chips.
Many years ago, when she had cherished dreams of being a presenter, she had been beaten to her ideal job of hosting Hello Britain! by Beatrice Shah. She had been covering holiday shifts, and had thought it was a done deal. After finding out that her position had been usurped, she had stormed into The Boss’s office to demand an explanation. He had looked surprised and said she had never been considered. That under no circumstances would she ever be considered after research had shown her to be out of touch with the viewers.
‘Out of touch with the viewers?’ she had shrieked. ‘What do they mean “out of touch”?’
‘Apparently you sound snotty, for want of a better word,’ he had said. The Boss was not an unkind man, but he hadn’t taken to Siobhan. She was too ballsy for his liking. He preferred a more emollient woman. She did an efficient job, but her predatory nature meant that some of his male staff had confessed they felt hounded.
‘Look, I’m sorry if you were under the impression that you were a shoo-in for the job. But I was told Simon had said there was no point in you applying for the post.’
Siobhan had gritted her teeth. Simon hadn’t told her. And she had been given the impression that she was a shoo-in for the job. And she knew exactly why he hadn’t seen fit to let her know. She had literally been sleeping with the enemy. What a fool. What a waste of her unquestionable talents. She wouldn’t have minded so much except that he was such a very inadequate lover, with an unattractive pouch of fat under his stomach and rather girly pink nipples. She curled her lip derisively. Lover! No love involved on either side. A business arrangement that had worked out well for him.
He would pay. She would make him pay.
A week later, she had gone into his office and told him she was pregnant. If an etiolated man could have been said to blanch, then he did.
‘I don’t know whether you and your wife,’ she imbued the word with venom, ‘would be prepared to bring up the child as your own?’ She let the sentence hover for a moment. ‘No. I thought not. Well, in that case, I suggest you hand me a cheque for the abortion at a private clinic. If you need the bill for your records, I will obviously supply it.’ She raised her eyebrows. She was hoping he wouldn’t demand proof, but if the worst came to the worst, she was fairly sure she could cobble something together.
He had been only too keen to write her a cheque–it seemed a small price to pay for the months of illicit sex he had been enjoying. Sex with attractive women had been in short supply. His wife–a woman of limited intelligence–had married him in haste after a threat of deportation. If he had been single, Simon would have been bragging to all and sundry that he had been bedding Siobhan Stamp…possibly even that she was pregnant with his super-sperm. He handed over the money and watched her departing figure with regret.
She had left the station, and reported from various windy locations up and down the country for smaller and smaller television companies. Her failure to be nice on the way up the presenting ladder had contributed to her descent and, eventually, with hatred in her heart, she had taken a job as a producer for a company called Wolf Days Productions. In the year that she had been there, she had made no friends. Her colleagues–mostly women–were either slightly scared of or loathed her.
They recognized a vulture when they saw one, even one in sheepskin clothing from Joseph.
She had, to her delight, managed to ensnare one man. She had been proud to announce her seduction of Nick Midhurst, one of the bosses. Keeping her claws sheathed, she had managed to charm him into her bed. Not for her the tenet of discretion being the better part of valour. That had been her downfall.
Nick had faced such a barrage of fury from his staff that he’d had a rethink and brought the blossoming romance to a swift end.
‘Very wise,’ said Adam, when informed. ‘Apparently she’s poisonous. Good worker, and very easy on the eye but, according to virtually everyone here, not the most pleasant of people.’
The company was a friendly one, and everyone was encouraged to air grievances to stop the backbiting that was endemic in the industry. There had been a steady stream of people going in to complain about their latest recruit.
She had seemed to accept the end of the affair with equanimity, and continued to work hard. But she had blotted her copybook irretrievably by trying surreptitiously to add Adam’s scalp to her belt. She had sent him a flurry of explicit texts, which he had shared with Nick. And that had sealed her fate. Her contract had not been renewed.
‘She has a circular bed and black satin sheets,’ revealed Nick, darkly, after she had cleared her desk.
‘Urk,’ said Adam, making a face. ‘Or was that pleasant?’
‘No. Very slippy. And you know…she’s not quite as beautiful without all the makeup. To be honest…sort of eel-like. And,’ he added, ‘she makes quite a lot of noise.’
Adam raised an eyebrow.
‘It begins with a miaow, then works up to a full-throated roar,’ he said.
‘Goodness,’ remarked Adam.
‘I have neighbours,’ said Nick. ‘Albeit a field away. I was worried they’d come round to see whether I was setting up a safari park.’
They left their office to find everyone breaking out bottles and biscuit barrels of celebration.
‘I hadn’t realized she was that unpopular,’ murmured Adam, taking a small plastic cup of champagne.
Siobhan, re-entering an hour later to collect a contacts book, had found a full-scale party going on. There had been a hideous silence as she stalked across the office, opened a drawer and extracted her property. She had nodded at the revellers, strode back across the office and slammed the door behind her.
There was an explosion of noise as it shut.
‘Phew,’ said Gemma, one of the young producers. ‘I thought for one awful moment that she was going to put some kind of evil spell on us.’
‘I know,’ said another producer, Rose. ‘She’ll no doubt be casting nasturtiums upon us as we speak.’
‘Aspersions, I think,’ muttered Adam.
‘That