Yes, thefucking bidet.
There it sits, gleaming under the studio lights. Smug. Shiny. Mocking me.
I can’t look away. My eyes are drawn to it, my mind spinning with memories I really don’t need to be reliving right now. Not when I’m supposed to be embodying Amal Clooney–level poise.
Right. Breathe. Focus. You’ve got this. Be professional.
“Look alive, Daisy,” Simon barks. “Stop gawking at the thing like you’ve never bloody seen one before!”
My ever-encouraging boss, ladies and gentlemen. He swipes a sweaty hand across his gut.
“Sorry, boss. Ready!” I chirp as the camera crew shuffles into place.
The red light on Camera One blinks.
Simon groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as if my mere existence has personally afflicted him with an ulcer. “For crying out loud, are you hungover? You look like shit.Michelle!Someone blot the sweat off her before I lose the will to live.”
I purse my lips, biting back the urge to inform Simon that, no, I am not hungover, thank you very much. Just profoundly exhausted and emotionally wrung out. There’s a difference.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just . . . getting into character.”
Michelle, our makeup artist, appears beside me, powder puff in hand.
“Stay still,” she says, smacking my face like she’s plastering a wall.
Out comes the lipstick—bright red, naturally. She slathers it on, then shoves a tissue at me. “Dab.”
I glance at my reflection and grimace. “Can we tone it down a bit? I’m selling bathroom fixtures, not starring in a burlesque show.”
“You’re not getting on that stage because you look like a housewife,” Simon bellows from across the room. “Now hurry the fuck up!”
Rude.
Michelle steps back to assess her handiwork, giving my face a final, aggressive pat. “All right, love. Best I can do. You’re ready.”
Correction: I amnotready.
What I am is a tangled mess of anxiety, coming undone every time I glance at that ridiculous bidet.
All the emotions I thought I’d successfully buried since last night are now clawing their way back up my throat, like bad wine.
I plaster on a smile so rigid it might as well be nailed in place.
Not now. Not in front of Simon, the crew, and the live-stream audience—hovering somewhere in the low thousands—who just tuned in hoping to upgrade their bathrooms.
“I am calm. I am Zen,” I mutter under my breath, attempting a last-minute energy realignment.
Simon glares at me like I’ve just pitched a BritShop special on used toilet brushes.
“Whatever existential crisis you’re having, bloody snap out of it. The commission on these smart bathrooms is the only reason you’re still employed, so I suggest you make people believe their very survival depends on owning one.”
I nod, my braid bouncing with a level of enthusiasm I don’t feel, and throw him a thumbs-up.
Whoever called working in TV glamorous has clearly never stood on a fake bathroom set, trying to convince Karen from Kent that her toilet is one step up from a medieval chamber pot compared to this £2,999 marvel with mood lighting and a heated seat.
Plus shipping. The shipping is where theyreallyfuck you.
The crew shuffles into place radiating their usual dead-inside energy. Pete, the cameraman, wears the hollow-eyed expression of a man who’s seen one too many “miracle” gadgets, each one carving a little slice off his soul.
