Chapter 51
Petey
Ten minutes into my pitch, Indira hadn’t lit a single cigarette.
“…then, when the couples think they understand the rules, we pull the rug out from under them completely with something I like to call ‘The One-Armed Budget.’ Instead of the ten grand they think they’re getting to renovate their bathrooms, we pull out a slot machine.
They pull the lever, whatever it lands on, that’s how much they’re working with. ”
Indira sat opposite me in the Monkey Ginger offices, leaning across her desk, face resting on one hand. She looked bored. It was terrifying.
“So, let me get this right,” Indira said. “At the end of this, we’re left trying to flog six really ugly, poorly renovated flats?” Put like that, it didn’t sound great. “With the country in a housing crisis?”
Indira’s face scrunched. This was a bad sign.
“Wait, it gets better. So, the couples can all sabotage each other—”
“Listen, Petey Boy.” She closed my laptop and slid it across her desk towards me. “I don’t want to make programmes like this anymore.”
“Huh?”
“I want to make programmes that do less harm. Narrowboat holidays with ageing national treasures, that kind of thing. Film the Women’s Institute Cookbook being cooked by women from the Women’s Institute. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t. She’d lost the plot.
“Gentle television,” she said. “This type of show—shows that exploit people or pit them against one another—it isn’t for me anymore. It’s not the kind of energy I want to put out into the world.”
What the hell had Karma done to her at that retreat? I sat upright. This was potentially a massive problem.
“Wait, what about The Love Manor?” I said, terrified of the answer.
“I won’t be pitching a second season to Channel Three.”
“But… what about William? He’s relying on that show for the income, for the estate.”
“Look, I’m sorry for your boyfriend. If Channel Three is willing to cough up two hundred grand for the format, they can have it. But I won’t be making it. I’m sorry, Petey.”
The room seemed to tilt. The Love Manor was my only logical route back to William. What now?
“You need to tell him,” I said.
“William? Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Petey. I know none of this is what you wanted to hear.”
I walked out of Indira’s offices into a rainy summer’s day in London’s Soho.
I felt empty. As I drifted along a wet Brewer Street without an umbrella, past the boutiques and red telephone boxes, reality hit me like a flood.
I’d violated William’s trust for a pitch I couldn’t use, I’d run away to sell an idea Indira didn’t want, and now the one show that could have taken me home to Buckford was cancelled.
I’d lost everything. William hadn’t called.
Maybe he was relieved I’d gone? I’d spent the past few days replaying the fight—the look on his face when he’d said he was disappointed.
Still, it had been gutless to run away. Now I had no William, no prospects, no opportunities, and nothing on the horizon except lunch with my parents on Sunday.
The answer, clearly, was drink. At least I was in London.
I pulled out my phone and messaged the Brent Boys group chat.
Petey Boy: Heading to Miss Timmy’s for cocktails and a fat slice of occasion cake. Get. Your. Arses. There.
Jumaane: Will be with you in ten. xxx
Sunny: Will be shitfaced with you in twenty. xx
Nick: Drinking while gay? I’m in. xx