Chapter 4
Rose’s temporary replacement is called Zach Russo. He looks different in the flesh. When I did my homework (because obviously I did my homework), the profile picture on the US office’s ‘Leadership’ page showed a man who was dark-haired and handsome, with generous lips and high cheekbones. He gave the impression he’d been asked to cross his arms and smile by the photographer, in a bid to make him look relaxed. It had the opposite effect.
The picture I saw was obviously taken several years ago, because now his thick, wavy hair is infused with salty grey. Also, what was not previously evident is just how tall he is – six foot three at a guess – and, how can I put this? He’s buff. Leo cringes when I use this word because he thinks I’m trying to sound ‘down with the kids’, but there isn’t a better description of his sturdy-but-lean torso, muscular shoulders and well-honed biceps.
Given he’s come direct from LA, I shouldn’t be surprised. I tend to go there once a year and you’ll never catch anyone in the US office scoffing Bacon Sizzler McCoys when they get the 3pm munchies. I suspect that, without the pre-flight spray tan and crash diet I feel compelled to go on before every visit, I’d be turned away at Customs.
In Zach Russo’s case, though his broad frame can almost certainly be attributed to genetics, it also suggests a dedication to working out that – in principle – I find unappealing. I tend to like men intellectual enough to have a squidge in their belly. The juxtaposition between Zach’s six-pack and the dad bod Brendan had during most of our marriage couldn’t be more pronounced. Nevertheless, physically, it’s impossible to look at him and not appreciate the view.
‘Lisa Darling,’ I say, as we shake hands. ‘Sorry to be late. I had an emergency to deal with.’
I don’t go into further detail, even though I have a spring in my step after finding a new mummy for the last of Alan’s babies – an eight-year-old girl whose goldfish died last week (of natural causes, not neglect. I did check).
‘Zach Russo,’ he replies, distracted by something on his phone.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet before we get into anything more formal. I thought it would be beneficial given how much we’ll be seeing of each other. I had a very good relationship with Rose Riley, who you’re standing in for. It would be great if we could foster a similar level of co-operation.’
He’s still looking at the phone, but eventually tears his eyes away.
‘I agree.’
‘Great! So have you been to the UK before?’
‘Many times.’
‘Worked for MotionMax+ long?’
‘Two years.’
‘And before then?’
‘ABC.’
‘Ah,’ I reply, as if I didn’t already know this. I have, in fact, approached my research to Zach Russo’s background like a rookie detective trying to solve the clues to a murder. His credentials are impressive – confusingly so. He’s over-qualified for this job, which is at least one and possibly two steps down from the position he held in the US. Also, when I quietly asked my opposite number over there about him, she was far from reassuring.
‘He has his fans but it’s not a universally held opinion,’ she’d said.
‘What made you decide to move this side of the Pond?’ I ask, noticing that his leg is tapping up and down impatiently. ‘We don’t get as much sun here as in LA. I hope someone’s warned you that—’
‘Sorry, I need to wrap this up by 9.30,’ he says.
This meeting was supposed to be for an hour. He’s looking at his watch now. It’s expensive, the sort of thing advertised in the pages of Sunday supplements, aimed at overpaid executives who once dreamt of being James Bond, but had to make do with a career in accountancy. ‘I read your email so shall we just cut to the chase?’
He’s clearly bored already and I haven’t even started.
‘That’s fine,’ I say curtly. ‘ I’m busy too.’
I can’t help feeling that this is very unlike any greeting I usually encountered at the American office, where they’re all open arms, brilliant white smiles and, ‘Heeey Lisa, how’s it hanging?’
‘As I said in my email, I thought it would be useful ahead of the meeting next week to bring you up to speed on those projects that are furthest along. One in particular – Our Girl In Milan – is ready to be green-lit. Rose was involved in the development all the way along and she was fully on board.’
His eyes pinch at the sides. ‘Yes. I read about that one.’
The monthly content planning meeting is when my department updates internal stakeholders on our current projects, so they can have their input. The dream scenario is that everyone around the table is happy, give or take a few suggestions, meaning we can see it all the way through from development to screen.
It rarely happens like that. Questions are asked, objections raised, further work requested, all of which is part of the process. Yet there have been extreme but by no means unheard of cases when someone has put a spanner in the works when it’s literally days from the start of production. It’s a risk with every project. But if Rose were still here, Our Girl in Milan would be getting the green light next week, so the last thing I want is her stand-in getting any ideas.
‘As you read in my email, the concept will follow a young British model all the way from her discovery as an unknown teenager – where viewers will see her plucked from obscurity on the street – to her first runway show in Italy.’
‘Hmm. I read that.’
‘We’re billing it as perfect for fans of Emily in Paris and—’
‘That was dramedy.’
‘Exactly the point,’ I say. ‘There’s a gap in Factual Entertainment. The tone will be fun and colourful. It is a great financial proposition and has excellent long-term prospects. We’re the perfect home for it. Everyone thinks so. Two other streaming services were chomping at the bit for this.’
‘Huh,’ he says, ponderously. Then he puts his elbows on the desk and presses his forefingers together, drawing attention to his muscular forearms, which flex when he releases them, and sits back in his chair.
‘Let me rewind just a moment,’ he says. ‘Is the purpose of this meeting for you to illicit some kind of guarantee that I’ll nod this through next week, no questions asked?’
Frankly, that would be ideal. Not that I can say it out loud.
‘I wouldn’t expect you to do that, obviously,’ I laugh lightly, as warmth spreads to the tips of my ears.
‘Okay, good,’ he says, nodding. ‘Because if I do have concerns, I obviously need to voice them.’
I feel my spine tighten. ‘Well, obviously . I was simply asking you to bear in mind that this particular project is . . . well, it’s really far along,’ I say, hoping to emphasise what a massive pain in the arse, not to mention waste of money and time, we’d face in the event of major problems now. ‘It would make life very difficult for all concerned at this stage if—’
‘But it hasn’t yet been green-lit?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Then it’s still all to play for. And I might as well tell you: I do have concerns.’
My expression darkens. I strongly suspect his only genuine ‘concern’ is that I’ve had the audacity to approach him privately about this. But what was I supposed to do? Allow him to sweep in at the last minute and smash up my sandcastle?
‘I see,’ I say, gritting my teeth. ‘Well, I hope you realise, I was not suggesting anything other than . . . pragmatism.’
‘Right,’ he drawls, but it’s not the kind of ‘right’ that suggests he’s buying this. ‘I can understand why you wouldn’t want any nasty surprises at the content planning meeting. Equally, I’m not pushing this through just because it’d be inconvenient for you. Assuming that’s what you’re asking me to do?’
Heat blooms on my chest. Fucking perimenopause.
‘I don’t believe I said that,’ I say, coolly. At some point, we seem to have become engaged in a staring contest, one I’m determined to win. ‘I simply wanted to give you the opportunity to see what I’m working on – the projects Rose was involved in – so that you have a chance to . . . take it all in before we’re in front of a wider audience.’
He looks me directly in the eye, apparently equally determined. ‘Consider it taken in.’
‘Look. Mr Russo—’
‘My name’s Zach,’ he says. ‘I think we can use first names if we’re going to be working together, don’t you? Unless you’d prefer Ms Darling ?’
‘Lisa’s fine,’ I say with a wave of dread. Do I really have to work with this guy? Even for six months? I don’t like him. At all. I want Rose back.
He crosses his arms and looks down at his phone again as I register how he smells. The aftershave isn’t overpowering. In fact, I don’t even know if it is aftershave. I can’t put my finger on any of the top notes beyond saying that it’s masculine and soft all at once. I look away briefly and when I glance back, he’s standing up and putting his jacket on.
‘I gotta cut this short, I’m afraid,’ he says. This isn’t just short, this is ridiculous.
‘But I haven’t told you about—’
‘I know. I apologise. I did read your email . . . with interest,’ he says, heading towards the door. As he’s about to leave, he turns around. ‘I’m sorry if you were hoping for a yes man, Lisa. But I’m not one of them.’
‘Clearly not,’ I reply, with a saccharine smile, deciding I’ll move my drink-free night to tomorrow instead.