Chapter 2 #2
Simon is of the opinion that it’s easier to get viewers to hate a contestant than it is to get them to love them.
‘I mean he’s perfect for the show, for mixing things up,’ I clarify. ‘But to have a villain, you need a hero…’
‘Okay, go on, tell us about your perfect hero,’ he says as he unwraps his bagel. The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable but it’s not worth me correcting him again.
‘I think the viewers need someone to get behind, someone they like, someone they can care about,’ I explain. ‘Like this guy, for example, is sharp, funny, genuine. Intelligent too. He feels real. Viewers could actually root for him.’
Simon tilts his head like he’s considering it – am I finally getting through to him? Am I making him see that we need to give people someone they want to tune into, rather than someone they love to hate?
‘What’s Mr Perfect’s name?’ Tara asks. ‘I’ll look out for him, in case he replies. Did you give him a card?’
‘The speed-dating organiser did,’ I reply. ‘His name is Lockie.’
There’s a pause. Then they all burst out laughing.
‘What?’ I dare to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know. You know when you can just tell that people are laughing at you, not with you?
‘You’re joking,’ Jamila says. ‘Right?’
‘I’m not,’ I reply, confused. ‘What’s so funny?’
And right on cue, the door swings open, and of fucking course, in he strolls. Lockie.
He’s dressed a little more casually today, in a dark green, muscle-hugging Ralph Lauren jumper and a pair of black trousers. He’s carrying an iPad and a smoothie. Of course he’s one of the smoothie lot.
My stomach drops.
‘Well, well,’ Simon says, grinning. ‘Speak of the devil. Cleo’s just been telling us that she met the most perfect man last night. And that man… was you.’
Lockie’s grin widens. He looks positively flattered.
‘Oh, really?’ he says, glancing at me. ‘I’m perfect, eh?’
I wonder if my face is as red as it feels. I feel so hot you could fry an egg on my face – which is a funny coincidence because, boy, do I feel stupid right now.
‘That’s… not exactly what I said,’ I mutter, trying to will the embarrassment away.
‘Close enough,’ Jamila says unhelpfully. ‘I can’t believe you thought Lockie was there to date. Didn’t anyone tell you he’s joining you in casting?’
Oh, no. Oh, God, no.
Lockie drops into the chair opposite me, in such a cool-guy way, leaning back like he owns the place.
‘Cleo is just joking around,’ Lockie says. ‘We met last night, had a good chat.’
I narrow my eyes at him. Obviously I didn’t know who he was but… did he know me? Was he messing with me?
‘All right,’ Simon says, clapping his hands together, moving us along. ‘Let’s talk plans. New season, new angle. Cleo reckons we need more “real” people – whatever that means. Lockie? Give us your expert opinion, for the love of God.’
‘We need top-tier influencers. Micro-celebs. People who’ll bring their followings and stir up drama,’ Lockie replies. He doesn’t even hesitate.
‘How can you be so sure?’ I shoot back, quicker than I should.
‘Because Lockie used to work on Made in Yorkshire,’ Simon answers for him.
Oh, fab, Leeds’s answer to The Only Way is Essex and Geordie Shore. Made in Yorkshire, a show known for ‘scripted reality’, aka manufactured storylines. It’s the worst one for it.
‘We’re abandoning reality?’ I check, irked.
‘No, we’re embracing storylines,’ Simon continues. ‘That’s what Lockie is here to do. Craft storylines.’
‘But that’s not genuine,’ I protest.
‘It is actually,’ Lockie pipes up. ‘I just… guide the facts. Present them in the most entertaining way. Audiences want fireworks, not dull authenticity. I don’t make anyone do or say anything they wouldn’t normally do, I just help them get to their own conclusions – and act on them – much quicker. At a better pace for TV.’
‘So, you manipulate them?’ I clarify. ‘That’s not ethical.’
‘No, how many millions of viewers we’ve lost, that’s what’s not ethical,’ Simon insists.
I mean, where to even begin with that one? A comment so dumb, it would actually kill my brain cells if I were to challenge it.
‘I’m telling you, people are sick of all the fake stuff, we shouldn’t be leaning into it, we should be pulling away from it,’ I insist.
‘In my experience—’ Lockie starts.
‘In your experience, everything is fake,’ I interrupt him. ‘Nothing is real.’
Simon waves a hand.
‘All right, kids, enough,’ he tells us. ‘Cleo, you find me your “real people”. Lockie, you get me influencers and celebs. Try all the usual channels for casting, plus anything else you can come up with, and then we’ll see who brings me the best contestants for the job. How about that?’
‘May the best man win,’ Lockie says, trying to sound like a good sport.
‘She will,’ I reply, backing myself.
And on that note the meeting moves on. Schedules, budgets, brand tie-ins. I barely hear any of it. I’m too busy trying not to burst into flames every time Lockie flashes that smug grin in my direction.
‘Okay, let’s leave these two to try to find a way to play nice,’ Simon tells Tara and Jamila. ‘Or not. Whatever gets the best results.’
They leave us alone, just the two of us, sitting at opposite sides of the meeting table, staring at each other like we’re facing off. How are we supposed to be working together and competing? How is that going to work? And what the hell is his problem, sitting over there, smiling?
‘What?’ he asks with a chuckle.
‘You know what,’ I reply.
‘I really don’t,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re just annoyed that I have better ideas than you…’
‘Okay, first of all, you don’t,’ I’m quick to remind him. ‘But what I’m talking about is last night. You knew who I was, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yeah, because I’m smart,’ he replies.
‘Then why did you act like it was a date?’ I ask.
‘I thought you were doing a bit,’ he tells me. ‘I thought you knew I was the new guy and you were messing with me. But now I know how much you fancy me, that you were flirting with me – Cleo, I’m flattered.’
‘Oh, get over yourself,’ I snap.
He laughs at me, which only annoys me more.
‘I thought you were just another bloke, show fodder, someone I could use for work – I wasn’t there to flirt,’ I insist.
‘And yet you ended up dancing with me,’ he reminds me. ‘Something to think about.’
He holds his hands in the air as he gets up from his seat.
‘I mean it,’ I tell him. ‘I am not interested in you at all – beyond professionally.’
‘That’s a start,’ he says, amused. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you. It’s going to be fun.’
Fun? Ha. It really isn’t.
As he strolls out, casual as he walked in, he hums the tune to ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ – the song we danced to last night.
Oh, it’s not going to be fun. It’s going to be infuriating. I don’t want to work with him, I want to murder him.
I guess I’m stuck with him – but I don’t think this office is big enough for both of us.