Cathy Kelly - Best of Friends

Too hard on the people involved.

Very unsympathetic.

Difficult to get new guests once they’d seen the trauma caused.

She glanced at Stan, Brian and Flora, assuming they would agree with her. But the three of them were watching the show intensely and Flora was twirling her long black plait obsessively, her face rapt.

‘That’s the way to bigger ratings,’ said Roxie. ‘Not that I’m criticising what you’ve done up to now, but we’ve got to ratchet it up another level. Seventy per cent of TV shows have just two seasons in them, apart from the really successful concept quiz shows. We want to be in the winning thirty per cent with a show that runs and runs. Our new series is make-or-break time for us. We need to freshen it up.’

Abby sat rigidly in her chair, waiting for someone else to speak, to say, ‘No, that’s not what Declutter is about.’

But they were all nodding thoughtfully.

Abby felt the blood rush to her head. She never lost her temper at work but she felt perilously close to doing so now. They couldn’t possibly expect her to become such a TV bitch. She couldn’t do it – she wouldn’t do it.

‘I can’t behave like that, I can’t,’ she said fervently, standing up and staring at the three people round the table she thought were on her side. ‘People trust me; they know I’ve got their best interests at heart and that I want to help them simplify their lives. That’s what the show is about – helping people move on, not destroying them or laughing at them.’ This show was her baby; she’d made it what it was. She’d walk if they wanted to ruin it. ‘I’d leave before I’d act like a bitch to people.’

‘Abby, we understand that,’ said Roxie silkily. ‘Part of your charm is how gentle and kind you are.’

Abby grimaced. Roxie made kindness sound as much of an asset as herpes.

‘There’s no question of you leaving,’ insisted Brian. ‘You are Declutter, Abby.’

‘You make people feel warm and fuzzy inside, that’s great,’ added Roxie, ‘but we have to move on. We need a harder edge. Someone with a harder edge.’

As quickly as it had come, Abby’s anger departed and she stared stricken at Roxie.

‘My plan is to recruit one or two new presenters to work alongside you, Abby. You’ll be the host, of course, but we need fresh faces. I’m thinking young, maybe a male/female team,’ she said, addressing Stan and Flora now. ‘Abby will be the host and do the main links as well as being the primary de-junker, but we’ll have the added interest of two new people. We could do a whole house per show with more people. And,’ she ended triumphantly, ‘this is the biggest change, make the show an hour long. The advertisers would love us.’

She didn’t need to tell all of this to Brian, realised Abby with a sinking feeling. He was sitting back in his chair, watching his team’s reactions. He knew in advance what Roxie was talking about and he clearly agreed with her.

‘Think about it,’ Roxie continued. ‘We’ll be broadening the appeal of the show, we’ll be able to get some chemistry going with the two new leads, and we’ll have more airtime plus more advertising revenue. Think of three ad breaks instead of just one.’

Abby felt like Coyote watching the huge rock fall on his head while Road Runner whooped happily in the distance. She wouldn’t do bitchy, so they would find people who did – she’d walked right into the trap.

‘I don’t know,’ said Stan. ‘Would the show work in an hour-long format? And with regards to new presenters, shouldn’t we get some figures on the appetite for this type of change? I don’t want to mess up the formula. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’

Of course, Roxie had an answer for that. ‘We could always make some pilot shows, just to see if the idea works,’ she said smoothly.

‘Youth is the way forward,’ philosophised Brian, sitting back in his leather chair and giving them all an even better look at his belly, which was straining against the buttons of his Charvet shirt.

He hadn’t been able to afford handmade French shirts before Declutter had been so successful and transformed Beech’s bottom line, Abby thought furiously.

‘Definitely. Youth makes television magic,’ he added. ‘No offence, Abby.’

‘None taken,’ she said from between gritted teeth.

‘Presenters are getting younger and younger,’ Roxie put in.

‘Youth is where it’s at,’ Brian repeated pompously. Everyone nodded sagely.

Abby glared at them. Youth? What did they know about youth? Brian was a childless man in his early fifties with thinning hair, and the nearest he got to exercise was propping up the bar after he’d watched a soccer match. Stan was a skinny single guy on the wrong side of thirty-five with a forty-a-day Benson & Hedges habit, a fondness for junk food, and the unhealthy pallor of someone whose arteries were furring up at the speed of a Formula One racing car. Flora had recently celebrated her fortieth birthday with a big, booze-fuelled party and had dramatically insisted that everyone wore black to mourn for her lost youth.

Being young was just a memory for all of them, yet they were able to pontificate to her about age. Only Roxie, who was twenty-five, max, and, with the hubris of youth, probably thought that old age happened to other people, could claim to understand youth culture.

After some discussion about casting new talent, during which Abby sat with a fixed smile on her face, the meeting ended.

‘Great to meet you,’ Roxie said to Abby. ‘I love your work.’

‘Thanks,’ Abby said mechanically. She was too shattered to say anything else. She made her way to the ladies’ room across the hall, and Flora followed her.

‘I know it’s tough,’ said Flora, when she emerged from the cubicle to wash her hands, ‘but Roxie has a point, Abby. Youth is in.’

‘I know that,’ said Abby, somehow managing to hide how desperately hurt she was.

‘We’d all hate you to be upset. You’re our friend, Abby – that goes beyond TV.’

‘Course I’m not upset.’ Abby’s hands shook as she took out her make-up pouch. She daren’t try to use her lipliner. Her face, pale and haggard with shock, stared back at her. Her new chestnut streaks looked ridiculously harsh against her pale face. Her previous all tawny tint had suited her colouring better.

Flora was watching her. Somehow, Abby recovered.

‘This is a job, after all, and job descriptions change. I’m a professional, Flora. You should know that,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’ Flora gave Abby’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘I forgot. They don’t call you the most down-to-earth presenter on the box for nothing.’

Abby did her best to look down-to-earth, even though she felt like lying down on the tiled floor of the ladies, drumming her heels and screaming about the unfairness of everything.

‘You know, I wasn’t sure I liked Roxie at first, to be honest with you,’ Flora was saying, redoing her plait, ‘but she has some great ideas and she’s all right behind that tough exterior.’

‘Yeah, for sure.’ Abby zipped up her handbag. ‘Must fly, Flora. I’ll talk to you soon, OK?’

She managed to leave the building without meeting Brian or Roxie.

‘Oh, Abby,’ sang Livia as Abby rushed past reception, ‘Mr Redmond was looking for you.’

‘Can’t stop. Sorry, Livia,’ said Abby politely. She could not face Brian Redmond now. ‘Bye.’

She rushed to the car park, leather skirt creaking wildly. Only when she was in her car and past the security barrier did she allow herself to break into floods of tears.