Chapter 3
I finally dispatch the kids to their respective schools then catch the tram to Salford Quays. I’m waiting at the station as a notification appears on my phone informing me that I haven’t logged my breakfast yet – the one I haven’t had time to eat – followed by another one pointing out that I have 14 incomplete tasks on my personal list and a full day of meetings ahead of me. A final ping arrives from Asana Rebel, inviting me to take a relaxing meditation. There isn’t an option that says, ‘Are you taking the piss?’, so I swipe it away and get on.
I have a phone full of apps like this. They each represent a crucial ball in the great juggling act that is my life, even if there are times when they feel more bossy than helpful. I’m not complaining about how things are, by the way – the fact that I seem to spend my life organising not merely myself but everyone around me.
This is my modus operandi; it’s how I’ve always been. Former school milk monitor. Brownies Sixer. Head girl at secondary school. I did well academically not because I’m some genius, but because I had a system. Every piece of revision was neatly filed and colour-coded, so that by the time I came to my exams, it would have been harder to fail than not. But even I have limits. And these days I have so much ‘on’ that I occasionally feel less like a well-oiled machine than a wonky shopping trolley whose wheels are threatening to come off.
I step off the tram into one of those bright, cool mornings, the kind where shards of thin sunlight bounce off the waterfront. Media City might be a couple of decades old and now home to more than a few of the BBC’s and ITV’s flagship programmes. But it still feels young and buzzy, an energy that’s in keeping with its industrious history. The site sprawls alongside the Manchester Ship Canal and is surrounded by docks that had been operating for centuries. It was through here that the city was once supplied with tea, fruit and oil, raw cotton, grain and timber. But there are no ships now.
Instead, the old stone walls are surrounded a complex of office and residential blocks, purpose-built TV studios and state-of-the-art production centres. In the midst of all this is the UK headquarters of MotionMax+, where I work as Factual Entertainment Commissioner.
It’s my role to find new, unscripted programmes about everything from DIY to dating, alongside fly-on-the-wall documentaries and ‘social experiments’ like The One , which was our twist on the ‘hot people on a desert island’ show (every channel must have one – it’s the law). Five years ago, this division had a portfolio of nine shows a year. Now, it’s twenty-four. All of this means my job is constantly expanding, which on the one hand means I’m vastly overworked, but on the other is great because, at its heart, I love what I do.
I glance at my watch and peep through the window of Liberica coffee shop, where three baristas are behind the counter, with not much of a queue. Deciding I need a caffeine kick before my first meeting, I step inside and get a notification on my Drinkaware app asking me if I’ll commit to a wine-free day. I click on the tick and stand in line as a text arrives from my boss Andrea.
Did you manage to arrange a meeting with Rose’s replacement?
I bristle at the description. ‘Replacement’ sounds permanent and this is only going to be for a few months.
Yes, I’m seeing her temporary stand-in this morning.
Oh good. Fill me in on how it goes, will you?
She knows as well as I do how important our working relationship is with Scheduling, the department Rose worked in before her diagnosis and subsequent leave last week.
It is her job to create the final transmission calendar that goes out to viewers and as such her role and mine are entirely interdependent, with constructive co-operation the name of the game. But not only is her judgement impeccable, she loves the same kind of show as me: joyful, escapist, emotional watches which make viewers want to binge until it’s coming out of their ears.
I have no idea what to expect from her understudy – who I learnt only yesterday is on a transfer from the US office. I’m about to reply to Andrea when I realise that I’m no further down the line, thanks to the fact that two baristas are busy comparing manicures, while the other is making such a meal out of his cappuccino foam you’d think it was a Turner Prize entry. There was a time in my life when I wouldn’t have said anything. When I’d have reacted to an unconvincing ‘Sorry about your wait,’ with the standard British response – i.e. waving away their apology and reassuring them all that I can see they’re absolutely rushed off their feet.
But I’ve reached an age when, British or not, I just don’t have time for this sort of thing.
‘Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt but is anyone available to serve?’ I ask. I am pulling my most pathetically apologetic expression, but the glance they exchange still suggests they think I’m a snotty cow. At least I’m finally served though.
Coffee in hand, I dash across the piazza, making several turns until I reach the entrance of our building and push through the revolving doors. Teddy, the security guard, is on jovial form as ever. He’s an ex-marine, even though he looks like Santa Claus and is such a big softy that it’s hard to imagine him ever killing anything other than a sausage roll.
‘Morning, Lisa, and no I don’t want a hamster,’ he says, chuckling at his own joke.
‘Ha! Are you sure , Teddy?’ I smile. ‘I bet you’d provide a very loving home.’
‘Yeah, and my wife would never speak to me again.’
If only Brendan had been so considerate.
I take the lift up to the fourth floor. MotionMax+ has a swanky workplace by anyone’s definition, bright and mostly open-plan, with glass doors on the meeting rooms and thoughtful modern art chosen by someone who knows about this stuff. If I was being cynical I’d say it’s also designed for a company that’s conspicuous about looking after its ‘people’, hence the bowls of fresh fruit, well-stocked fridge and soothing meditation room (designed for yoga but mainly used as an extra storeroom).
My workspace sits amidst a quadrangle of desks, all of which are occupied by 8am, to my perpetual dismay. I hate being last in. It might be totally within the company’s family- friendly policy and it means I can do the school drop-off first. But I can’t shake the idea that it makes me look like a part-timer when I’m anything but. I can’t remember the last evening I didn’t spend at home catching up on work.
‘Morning all,’ I say, taking off my coat.
Daisy looks up from her computer. She’s 25 and peach-skinned, with a dress sense that is eclectic to put it mildly. Some days she turns up looking like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink – all floral fabrics and oversized glasses – on others, the look is closer to Gru from Despicable Me , in dark, tent-like ensembles. Today is a Molly day, hence the lace dress, fuzzy cardigan and DMs.
‘Before you say anything, I can’t have a hamster.’
I tut and take a seat. ‘This is getting silly. You’re the second person to say that and I didn’t even ask.’
‘I know but I’m so easily persuaded,’ she says. ‘My landlady had an Ann Summers party the other week. Have you heard of them?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘She insisted my flatmate and I went. I won’t even tell you what they ended up selling me . . .’
‘I can’t help thinking I’d have better luck selling nine vibrators than nine hamsters. Just let me know if you’ve any friends who might be interested, okay? I’ve only got one left.’
‘Oh, I will,’ she says eagerly, going back to the computer she’s no doubt been burning up since arriving at 6.30am. Daisy is very keen. In that sense, she reminds me of myself at the start of my career, always willing to go the extra mile, refusing to shy away from hard work and determined to hit on the next big idea. But that’s where the comparison starts and finishes. Because, despite poor Daisy’s best efforts, she hasn’t yet come close.
‘Did you try out the air fryer recipe for fish tacos, Daisy?’ Her face brightens at the sight of Calvin, our intern, who appears from the staff kitchen dunking the bag in his mint tea up and down. He’s slightly younger than she is, very tall and slim, with light brown skin and an immaculate haircut with short dreads on top and a fade around the sides.
‘Yes and they were amazing!’ she replies. ‘The flat was a bit smelly mind, but they were almost as good as the halloumi popcorn . . .’
If ever I needed proof of how much things have changed since I was in my twenties, it’s the amount of time these two spend discussing their air fryers.
I realise they’re both broke – in Daisy’s case she’s saving up for the deposit on a flat, which is likely to take her until 2065. But I’d love one – ideally both – of them to come in one morning and tell me they went out, got drunk, shagged someone they regretted and stumbled home at six in the morning with a hangover the size of Pluto.
That doesn’t seem to be how twenty-somethings roll these days. If Daisy really wants to push the boat out, she’ll go home on a Friday night to a glass of Blossom Hill, her cat and some knitting. When I was 25, this would’ve made me tragic, but it’s somehow become entirely normal.
But then, we used to regularly go to the pub over the road when I was at the BBC and have a half a lager with various journalists, who’d then roll back to work, presumably half-cut and primed to resume an afternoon of newsgathering. Nobody batted an eyelid.
I don’t say any of this, of course. All it would do is make me look very old.
‘Oh, is that the time?’ I mutter, realising my meeting should have started a minute ago. I grab the coffee, my bag and laptop before heading to the stairs and taking a couple of flights up. I’m almost at the meeting room when my phone rings and I recognise the name flashing up as Jacob’s fencing coach. I silence the call when a text arrives a moment later.
Hi Lisa, my sister is about to buy a hamster from Pets R Us for her little girl’s birthday. Did you say you had some? She’s in the shop now so if you’ve got any left, can you let me know? Like now.