Storming, on the whole, was probably safer.
“Fuck off, Audrey,” called Jennifer Hallet when Audrey banged on her door.
“No.”
It was a little surprising to Audrey that the door opened immediately, rather than after a lot of frustrating back-and-forth. Jennifer looked like she’d slept so badly she’d crossed the line frominterestingly raddledtobabe, are you okay?“You understand we’re filming?”
“I’ve been on set. I know how much waiting around there is.”
Looking down, Jennifer scrutinised Audrey like she was an application from a prospective contestant with questionable credentials. “I suppose you’re why Grace is late?”
“Pretty sure Grace is why Grace is late.”
With the barest shrug of acknowledgment, Jennifer vanished into her trailer and sat down in front of a bank of monitors, each showing the feed from a different camera.
She hadn’t strictly been invited inside, but adjusting for the Jennifer factor, an open door combined with only being told to fuck offoncewas practically a welcome mat, so Audrey followed her in and then hovered behind her, just watching her work. If she’d come to say anything, it stayed unsaid while Jennifer switched from feed to feed, channel to channel, keeping her eyes on everything.
On one of the screens, Grace Forsythe was launching into her opening monologue. It was odd, seeing it tiny and silent. So odd that Audrey didn’t notice that Jennifer was holding up a headset.
“Since you’re here.”
And Audrey took it. She felt almost like she was in a dream, with the lights down and the screens glowing and Jennifer for once focusing on something that wasn’t swearing creatively.
“—traditional,” Grace Forsythe was saying in the ballroom, “but exceptional. For this week’s baketacular we want you to make your finest, fanciest, child-luring-into-the-woodsiest—”
Jennifer pushed a button. “Colin, get her to can the paedo talk.”
The way the microphones were arranged, it was hard to know what Colin was actually saying, but Grace Forsythe’s reply came through clearly enough. “It’s a fairy-tale reference, Jennifer; everybody will understand.”
“Just tell that glorified Fringe show we call a host to redo it.”
There was a little more from Colin. Then, “Finest, fanciest, Hansel-and-Gretel ensnaringest—really, Jennifer, I think we’re pandering—gingerbread house. It can be tall or short, classic or contemporary, as long as it has four walls, a roof, and stands up by itself. You have five hours, starting on three.Three, darlings.”
Jennifer Hallet slid her headset down for a moment. “I fucking hate it when she says that.”
Not wanting to be the only one getting audio, Audrey reciprocally de-headphoned. “Really? Isn’t it sort of iconic?”
“It’s so twee, though.” Jennifer gave an audible sigh and a visible shudder. “Starts on three: three. Every single episode. For eight fucking years.”
“Isn’t twee the point?” asked Audrey, slightly confused by this not-currently-raging version of Jennifer and not wanting to ruin it. “I mean, it’s supposed to be a comforting show.”
“There’s comforting, and there’s kicking off every week with a dad joke.” The look in Jennifer Hallet’s eyes was one of weirdlysincere pain. “But apparently that’s what the public demands. Because the public are a giant fucking nest of baby birds with their beaks open screaming for people to come and vomit entertainment into their lazy gaping mouths.”
This was beginning to sound more like the Jennifer Audrey knew. “Do you really have that much contempt for your audience?”
“Every week, we get at least one letter of complaint from somebody who burned themselves trying to make something they saw on the show. Or from somebody who put something they were allergic to in a cake and then ate the cake, and now think it’s my fault that they’re feeling poorly. So no, I don’t think I have too much contempt for my audience. I think I show them too much fucking respect.”
“Isn’t that a small and unrepresentative minority?” suggested Audrey, not really expecting the suggestion to be taken.
“True. Then there’s the hipsters who watch ironically but never miss an episode. And the housewives who watch because they want to fuck the one with the nice arms. And their husbands who watch because they want to fuck the one with the nice tits. And the kids who watch because they don’t realise their parents are only watching because they want to fuck some of the contestants.”
“That feels reduc—”
“And then of course there’s people like you. Who watch because you sodesperatelywant to believe that this chocolate-box fantasy we’re spinning out of sugar and bullshit is real.”
Jennifer had said some pretty vile things to, about, or just generallyaroundAudrey, but for some reason, this one landed harder. She could feel herself beginning to tear up, which was absurd. More than absurd, it was humiliating. “Nice things exist,” she said.
“Quite the philosopher, aren’t you,” replied Jennifer, thoughher tone was less acerbic than Audrey might have expected. It was almost defensive. Without waiting to see if Audrey had a response, Jennifer slipped her headphones on like they were armour.
