‘I think the viewers need someone to get behind, someone they like, someone they can care about,’ I explain. ‘Like this guy, for example, is sharp, funny, genuine. Intelligent too. He feels real. Viewers could actually root for him.’
Simon tilts his head like he’s considering it – am I finally getting through to him? Am I making him see that we need to give people someone they want to tune into, rather than someone they love to hate?
‘What’s Mr Perfect’s name?’ Tara asks. ‘I’ll look out for him, in case he replies. Did you give him a card?’
‘The speed-dating organiser did,’ I reply. ‘His name is Lockie.’
There’s a pause. Then they all burst out laughing.
‘What?’ I dare to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know. You know when you can just tell that people are laughing at you, not with you?
‘You’re joking,’ Jamila says. ‘Right?’
‘I’m not,’ I reply, confused. ‘What’s so funny?’
And right on cue, the door swings open, and of fucking course, in he strolls. Lockie.
He’s dressed a little more casually today, in a dark green, muscle-hugging Ralph Lauren jumper and a pair of black trousers. He’s carrying an iPad and a smoothie. Of course he’s one of the smoothie lot.
My stomach drops.
‘Well, well,’ Simon says, grinning. ‘Speak of the devil. Cleo’s just been telling us that she met the most perfect man last night. And that man… was you.’
Lockie’s grin widens. He looks positively flattered.
‘Oh, really?’ he says, glancing at me. ‘I’m perfect, eh?’
I wonder if my face is as red as it feels. I feel so hot you could fry an egg on my face – which is a funny coincidence because, boy, do I feel stupid right now.
‘That’s… not exactly what I said,’ I mutter, trying to will the embarrassment away.
‘Close enough,’ Jamila says unhelpfully. ‘I can’t believe you thought Lockie was there to date. Didn’t anyone tell you he’s joining you in casting?’
Oh, no. Oh, God, no.
Lockie drops into the chair opposite me, in such a cool-guy way, leaning back like he owns the place.
‘Cleo is just joking around,’ Lockie says. ‘We met last night, had a good chat.’
I narrow my eyes at him. Obviously I didn’t know who he was but… did he know me? Was he messing with me?
‘All right,’ Simon says, clapping his hands together, moving us along. ‘Let’s talk plans. New season, new angle. Cleo reckons we need more “real” people – whatever that means. Lockie? Give us your expert opinion, for the love of God.’
‘We need top-tier influencers. Micro-celebs. People who’ll bring their followings and stir up drama,’ Lockie replies. He doesn’t even hesitate.
‘How can you be so sure?’ I shoot back, quicker than I should.
‘Because Lockie used to work onMade in Yorkshire,’ Simon answers for him.
Oh, fab, Leeds’s answer toThe Only Way is EssexandGeordie Shore. Made in Yorkshire, a show known for ‘scripted reality’, aka manufactured storylines. It’s the worst one for it.
‘We’re abandoning reality?’ I check, irked.
‘No, we’re embracing storylines,’ Simon continues. ‘That’s what Lockie is here to do. Craft storylines.’
‘But that’s not genuine,’ I protest.
‘It is actually,’ Lockie pipes up. ‘I just… guide the facts. Present them in the most entertaining way. Audiences want fireworks, not dull authenticity. I don’t make anyone do or say anything they wouldn’t normally do, I just help them get to their own conclusions – and act on them – much quicker. At a better pace for TV.’
