It’s his bank balance. It is huge. Massive.
And he is powerful. Extremely so.
Two compelling aphrodisiacs. I am ashamed to be female when I see Hissing Sid surrounded by an entourage of young vixens, willing to lie back and think of the Bank of England. It disgusts me that these women, always attractive and often intelligent, are too lazy to think of anything more creative than sleeping with the boss to ensure a promotion.
I can sense his presence, and this isn’t entirely to do with his body odour and bad breath. A deathly hush has fallen. Hissing Sid is oozing his way across the open-plan office towards me. I brace myself for his visit by starting to breathe through my mouth.
I force myself to look up. Nigel is leaning over my desk. He has no perception of personal body space and does not seem to understand that I don’t want to be close to him. Could his mother? I think of dead fish in a fishmonger’s window.
‘A word, if you please,’ he sprays. He mistakenly believes that the fake Dickensian language is distinguished. Flapping my arms, encouraging the air between us to circulate as quickly as possible, I follow him back to his office. As Controller of Entertainment and Comedy (a position he secured by uniquely blending bullying, bullshitting and – much as it pains me to admit it – a genuine business acumen) Bale has three offices. The executive office on the sixth floor, which is bigger than my flat, heaves with mahogany and teak, deep shag-pile carpets (literally), and numerous pictures of Bale with celebs. It doesn’t work for me – I still don’t think he is interesting, I still think he is offensive. This office is straight out of a set from Dynasty. This man is blissfully unaware that New Romantics are passé and even their retro revival has been and gone. His second office is a pied à terre in Chelsea. I shudder to think what kinds of contracts are negotiated there. I’ve never visited. The third office is the one on our floor, which he is currently leading me to. Again, huge – this time very modern and open. Not so that we are encouraged to drop in on him (no one wants to) but so that he can terrify us through constant surveillance.
Although visiting Bale’s office is unpleasant, at least I am one of the few heterosexual women in TV6 who is safe from his advances. He obviously asked me to sleep with him when we first met, but I refused. He quickly became distracted by a far prettier but less fastidious PA. By the time she received her P45 (following her justified but failed attempt to bring a sexual harassment case to court) I’d proved that I was actually quite good at my job. Lascivious Bale is, but stupid he is not. He realized that actively pursuing me as a lay was unlikely to be successful and would certainly limit my productivity. More concerned with the bottom line than any bottom, he’s since left me more or less alone. He occasionally takes the odd pot shot, when he’s had one or two dozen too many. He leers at me or sprays his spittle in my direction, but a friendly hint that Mandy in Comedy finds him really attractive is usually enough to distract him.
Bale nods towards the leather chair that is strategically positioned to be four inches lower than his. It’s a ham-fisted attempt at intimidation. I sigh; this man is a parody. I sit down and wait.
He waits too.
Silently.
Then he grins. It’s the cruellest smile I’ve ever seen and it totally fails to ignite his eyes. I wonder if he is going to sack me. I feel a bead of sweat run down my back. It’s cold. If he calls me Jocasta this is serious.
‘Jocasta, I want an idea.’ He bangs his fist on the desk. I force myself not to jump. I know we are at war. But then, I always am. His gesture is unnecessary but I understand his motivation. He knows, as well as I do, that every eye on the floor is turned towards us. He likes to appear passionate; it’s very new millennium.
‘We’re in trouble, Cas.’ Because he calls me Cas, I realize that we may be in trouble but I am not. He needs me. I allow myself to relax enough to take in what he is saying. He flings the channel’s weekend viewing figures over the desk. I don’t pick them up to examine them. I don’t have to. I checked them this morning at 7.30 a.m. They are terrible.
Not content with being one of the youngest executive producers at ITV and managing some of the strongest shows for a main commercial channel, two years ago I decided I needed new challenges. I took a leap of faith and joined a consortium led by a group of guys with enough venture capital and balls to bid for the franchise of a new channel. Our team won the bid for TV6 by insisting that instead of being yet another publisher broadcaster, filling airtime with programmes shipped in from the US, we would produce new programmes. I had visions of producing challenging, dynamic, informative and startling programmes. I threw away my six-figure salary, company Porsche, obscene expense account, private healthcare, pension and gym membership, and moved to TV6. To be clear, this was not an act of altruism. My end goal was not to educate and entertain the great British public. I just thought that this novel approach would generate huge viewing figures, that the channel would be an unprecedented success and that I’d get more material rewards than I’ve ever had before. The added benefit, the incalculable advantage, would be that I would have control. A smaller pond to swim in perhaps, but I’d certainly be a much bigger fish. A shark.
I’d honestly believed that the public wanted new programming. New thoughts, new ideas. It pains me to admit that this was a misjudgement on my part. It’s unusual that I miscalculate human nature and it’s unprecedented that my miscalculation is rosy. It appears that the general public is very happy with repeats of Different Strokes and Fame. Channels that, three years ago, looked as though they’d never sail are beginning to race in the white waters. It could be that I am on the Titanic.
‘The competition are whipping our ass. Have you seen their Internet policy? They’re not fucking around.’ He throws a competitive annual report in my direction. I’ve read it. ‘And they are capturing the youth market.’ He throws another annual report my way. Again, I’ve seen it.’ Youth is the name of the game. We should go after that.’
‘What and be a “me too”?’ I comment scathingly. I notice that the slats in the blinds in Bale’s office are damaged. I briefly wonder who he’s fucked up against them. Bale ignores my put-down.
‘Let’s employ some designers with trendy jeans. We could get the girl on reception to serve our clients vodka and Red Bull.’ He looks at me hopefully. My eye falls on his desk. He has a mug with a dozen identical, yellow, sharp pencils. All this in the digital age. Oblivious, he carries on. ‘They could listen to trance music and send their friends text messages. They could wear blades to work.’
‘And that would help with the schedule, would it?’
‘It would bring fresh ideas.’
‘Bale, we are too old. Even the lads and ladettes we know are aspiring to “me-time” and their own pads. We can’t do anything for the teen market.’