CHAPTER 1
Daisy
This wasn’texactlywhat I pictured when I dreamt of success.
“Two minutes!” Simon, our esteemed producer, bellows through the studio.
I step onto the mock bathroom set, my heels skidding on the aggressively waxed floor.
Props havereallyoutdone themselves this time. Towels fluffed to the density of small clouds. Artisanal soaps carved into tiny, useless swans. And the pièce de résistance: toilet paper infused with gold and stamped with inspirational quotes.
With a huff, I yank at the hem of my pleated skirt—obnoxiously plastered with the Union Jack like I’m Britain’s most patriotic stripper.
It doesn’t budge. Useless.
“Kelly,” I call out to Wardrobe. She’s glued to her phone, likely scrolling for memes that capture her deep hatred for everyoneon set. “Did you boil wash this? It’s at least two inches shorter than yesterday. It’s basically a belt.”
“New stock,” she mutters, not looking up. “Simon’s orders.”
Fucking Simon. A man who operates under the belief that TV ratings are directly proportional to the amount of visible thigh.
He’s not wrong, probably, but still—fuck him.
At this length, all it would take is a sneeze and the audience gets a free peep show to what my mum insists on calling my “delicate bits.”
“Kelly,” I try again, summoning what little dignity remains. “I’m not sure this barely clothed host thing screams sophistication.”
Finally meeting my gaze, she deadpans, “It’s BritShop, not the BBC.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right.
I catch my reflection in the nearest mirror, attempting to smooth down the rebellious curl that has abandoned my braid. It springs back, nature’s tiny reminder that I am not, in fact, in control of anything.
But this is it. My shot at escaping the graveyard shift and stepping into the golden glow of daytime TV.
Three years of 3 a.m. slots, convincing randy pensioners that a professional-grade hedge trimmer is an absolute must-have at that hour. Let’s be honest—they’re not tuning in for the gardening tips.
They’re just hoping for a cheeky glimpse of my “considerably distracting assets,” as one dedicated viewer so eloquently put it in a handwritten letter, complete with lovingly detailed diagrams. Say what you will, but that’s an old-school commitment to perversion that deserves some respect.
I’d be offended if his penmanship hadn’t been so impeccable.
Professionally, I’m known as the woman who put the sexy in pruning shears. Try sticking that on a CV and see where it gets you.
Today’s different, though. I’m trading in my graveyard-shift purgatory for the harsh, unforgiving glare of daytime television. Instead of flogging power tools to perverts, I’m promoting luxury bathroom accessories to respectable housewives.
“One minute!”
My stomach lurches. This isnothow I pictured my big break.
In those romantic fantasies I conjured up on the graveyard shifts, I imagined gliding onto set with the poise of Amal Clooney at a human rights summit. Instead, I’m running on fumes and pure desperation, after been yanked out of bed three hours ago because Sharon,Queen of BritShop, called in sick.
Unprepared doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I might have scraped together an hour of sleep last night, if you count the thirty minutes I spent scowling into my pillow in silent rage.
Sixty minutes. That’s all I need to survive. No catastrophes. I can do this.
Except my eyes keep sliding to the bidet.
