Chapter 45
We have a presenter for My Teenage Bombsite . And I’m starting to believe we could have something seriously good on our hands.
She is called Nia Sumarni and, after studying her showreel then meeting her in person, I’m sort of blown away by her. The fact that she’s gorgeous helps, but she’s also funny, sharp and has that same big sister quality that made audiences love Davina McCall when she first appeared on our screens. I can already tell she will be brilliant with a line-up of hapless teenagers and their filthy living quarters.
By the time it’s the middle of the week and I’m back in the office, I’m feeling pretty optimistic about the show, which is good because Andrea is trying to pin down a date for the next monthly scheduling meeting. She sent an email this morning asking for everyone’s availability at either 4pm or 5pm on Friday. There is currently a 50/50 split between the two, which prompted Julian Mullins to respond:
‘Might I suggest 4.30 as a compromise, Andrea?’
Her response, which I read while sitting in the coffee shop opposite the office, arrives less than ten seconds later.
‘ABSOLUTELY INSPIRED IDEA! This is why we need minds like yours in this company, Julian!’ You’d think he’d just discovered a cure for cancer.
I’m still tutting at my phone as Daisy walks in.
She’s wearing a brown A-line skirt, a humungous matching jacket and Doc Martens. Nobody my age would attempt to get away with something like this, but oddly – with the addition of a frilly cream blouse and a spray of tiny gold cuffs running up one ear – she manages not to look like a giant Christmas pudding. In fact, it strikes me that she could easily pass as the uber-cool curator in a New York art gallery.
‘Are you reading through one of my stupid ideas?’ she says dolefully, obviously having caught me pulling faces at Andrea’s nonsense.
‘What? No! And stop putting yourself down. Now what can I get you?’
‘No, I’ll go,’ she insists. ‘It me who asked for the meeting.’
‘Daisy. Please,’ I say, standing up, conscious that she’ll be saving for the deposit on that flat until she’s eighty at this rate. ‘I’ll put them on expenses if you feel that strongly.’
She sits down obediently and tells me she’d like a turmeric matcha latte please. Whatever floats your boat, I suppose.
I buy the drinks and when I bring them to the table, she’s twiddling with the sleeve on the brown jacket anxiously.
‘What’s all this about?’ I ask.
I have been aware for the last week or so that Daisy has not been her usual effervescent self. I’d partly put this down to Calvin and the fact that things are going so well with his new girlfriend that she’s invited him to join her for the weekend at her family home in Devon. But this, it seems, is the least of Daisy’s worries.
‘I’m here to hand in my notice,’ she says.
‘What? Oh Daisy . . .’ I say, shocked, but not entirely. Working in TV can feel a little like a merry-go-round and I’ve seen some of the perks Netflix offer their staff if you’re prepared to move to London. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m not sure yet. My plan is to sign up for a temping agency. I don’t really know. My thought process hasn’t got that far.’
‘You mean you haven’t got somewhere to go? Why on earth are you leaving then?’
She looks down at her hands and gives a long sigh. ‘Because I am absolutely awful at this job.’
‘No, you’re not!’ I tut.
She shakes her head. ‘That’s kind of you, Lisa. I never expected anything less. But it’s just not true. I just don’t think I’m cut out to work in TV.’
‘Well, I disagree. I remember you telling me at your interview that this was your dream job. That it was all you’d ever wanted to do.’
She shrugs. ‘That was true.’
‘So tell me, what was it that made you want to work in this industry?’
‘I just loved television. I was like Mike TV from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ,’ she grins.
I laugh. ‘What did you used to watch?
‘Oh . . . too many to name. But do you remember The Secret Life of Four-Year-Olds ? I was only a kid myself but I adored that.’
‘It was a brilliant show.’
I admired the format myself, a fly-on-the-wall documentary in which experts in psychology watched children at play in a nursery and gave commentary and analysis on their behaviour.
‘I think it was that that made me want to do this for a living. Despite what my parents thought.’
‘They didn’t think it was a good idea?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Thing is, I did quite well at school.’ I already know this is an understatement. I’ve seen all the A stars she got at A levels. ‘Then when I got into Oxford, they assumed I’d follow a similar sort of path to them.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Dad’s a human rights lawyer. Mum’s a nuclear physicist. I think they think our line of work is a bit silly.’
I cough into my americano. ‘Maybe they’ve got a point.’
‘Well, I disagree,’ she says, indignantly. ‘Because we make people happy . We bring them joy. Personally, I think that’s no small feat.’
I lower my coffee cup. ‘Well then. If you feel that strongly, why on earth would you be giving it up?’
‘Because I’ve tried to develop more ideas this year than I can count and not one of them has come to fruition. I just haven’t got what it takes, Lisa.’
I consider saying all the right things that would make her feel better. But if there’s one thing Daisy’s qualifications prove, it’s that she’s not stupid. So I tell her – gently – what I really think.
‘You’re right, of course. You haven’t come up with a concept that would be workable . . . yet. But do you know how hard it is to get a TV programme made, Daisy? I must have seen about 10,000 proposals in the last decade and commissioned only about 500 of them. All the rest ended up in the trash. Some of those ideas were terrible. Some were fantastic but we just didn’t have the slots or money. I don’t know anyone else who works harder thank you, Daisy. Except possibly me. And the ideas you’re coming up with are . . . all right, I’ll say it. Some of them are a bit bonkers.’
She winces.
‘But that’s one of the reasons why eventually I think you’re going to come up with a hit. If everyone around here all thought in the same way, Daisy, what a seriously boring content we’d be producing. You’re a true original.’
‘But doesn’t that just mean my judgement is way off?’
‘It means that, right now, you’ve got the imagination but not the experience. Stay the course and that will come. I promise.’
She takes a long inhale that suggests she clearly wasn’t expecting this.
‘Listen, Daisy. Whatever you decide to do – whether you stay or go – I would ask one thing of you.’
She swallows self-consciously and looks up at me. ‘What’s that?’ she asks.
‘Don’t give up on yourself. Because I haven’t.’