“Horny nurse on reception.”
Indira smiled, weakly. “Did you come to pitch your show idea?”
“No! God no! That can wait until you’re all better, obviously.”
“You brought it with you, though.”
I tapped my laptop bag. “A good producer is always prepared.”
“I was dead on the lawn at one point yesterday,” she said, struggling to speak. “I’ve had six hours of surgery. You thought I might want to hear your pitch?”
“I’m sorry.” What had I been thinking? I felt awful for even mentioning it.
“Don’t be. That’s exactly the kind of bloodlessness that means you’ll go far in this business.”
I laughed.
“Listen, I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything. Name it.”
Indira waggled a hand, clearly struggling to find the strength to move it. I leant in, resting my hand on hers, being careful to avoid the catheters.
“Turn off the machine. I can’t go on.”
“What!” I pulled my hand back, horrified. “You’re joking?”
“Of course I’m fucking joking. I wanted to see what your limit was.”
If Indira was joking, she was going to be all right. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and flopped down into the visitor’s chair.
“Hey, Petey Boy,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck me, that was great television.”
I laughed, and she laughed, and she formed a fist with her hand and I gently bumped it.
“I need you to take charge of the edit.”
“What?”
“I’m going to be in here for a week. Then, fucking get this, old mad tits Lady Buckford is treating me to a two-week retreat at a place about half an hour up the road.”
“Sounds like a trap.”
“No, it’s really famous. Robbie Johnswagger and Cole Kennedy went there and both came out completely changed men.” Indira had worked with both troubled rockstars onMake Me a Pop Star—Cole as a contestant and Robbie as a judge. “Hey, get this. The retreat is run by a couple of those fox hunt saboteurs.”
“Are you sure you want to put your life in their hands?”
Indira smiled. “You know what the first thing I saw when I woke up after surgery was? My sister and my nephew, both in tears. Suraj possibly because he’d shoved quite a large Lego quite a long way up his nostril. A nurse had to fish it out. It was a whole thing. But they were scared, Petey Boy. That killed me. So I’m accepting this offer as the blessing that it is. Because… I’m fucking scared too.”
I said I understood but reminded her I wasn’t an editor. Indira said she had editors, she needed someone she trusted to oversee the edit. It was a huge responsibility—I wasn’t sure I was ready. But Indira’s voice was getting softer, weaker, harder tohear. I had exhausted her. There was no time to argue, I had to step up.
“OK,” I said. “When I get back to London, I’ll go into the Monkey Ginger offices?—”
“No. Everything you need is in the Old Coach House at Buckford. I want you to work from there.”
