‘The fact that thisisa wannabe is only one problem with it,’ he continues. He’s not talking to the rest of the room now, only me. There’s something about those inky eyes of his that have a deeply unsettling effect. You feel as if you’re captured by them, as if he’s got an invisible lasso around your waist and he isn’t going to let you go anywhere.
‘Given that one of MotionMax+’s stated strategies for the next 12 months has been to try to reach a young adult audience, I can see the thinking behind this,’ he concedes. ‘Nevertheless, it’spreciselyin that context that I feel like this concept is a little . . . off.’
‘Off?’ I repeat, as if we’re discussing an out-of-date chicken madras.
‘Yes,’ he says, unapologetically. ‘You’re talking about plucking some girl from the street and telling her you’ll make her dreams come true, if only she can squeeze into that size-zero dress and never eat a brownie again. I don’t feel comfortable with glamorising an industry that is well known for manipulating vulnerable young women.’
I let out a huff of disbelief, then realise that several people around the table appear to be murmuring their agreement.
‘Look. I would be the first person to agree with you if there was anythingmanipulativeabout this show,’ I leap in. ‘I feel qualified to say that, not merely as someone who has beeninvolved in it from the start, but also as someone who once was herself . . .’
‘A model?’ asks Giles from Legal, clearly impressed.
‘A young woman,’ I say.
I cross my arms, awaiting Zach’s comeback. Surely the only trump card available to him at this point is thathe too was once a young woman. Anything’s possible these days, of course, but it still seems unlikely.
As he says nothing, I continue. ‘Also, since when was it our job to moralise? We’re here toentertain. And I am confident that this has huge appeal. Any teenager would love it.’
‘That’s what concerns me.’
‘Oh yes, how awful to create something popular.’ A slam dunk.
But annoyingly, whilemyadrenalin is fizzing, he seems completely unruffled.
‘I’ve seen the trailer for it. The girl in question . . . she’s, what, 17? Must have a BMI of 15, 16 tops.’
‘She’s 19 actually,’ I say, even though I have literally no idea if this is true or not. All I know is that I have to stop this shit show, or at least work out how and why he’s doing this.
At that point – finally – the penny drops. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now. It’s obvious what’s going on here. This guy doesn’t want to just keep Rose’s job ticking over. He wants the position for good. And he’s not going to get that without making a name for himself. What other possible reason could there be for what’s going on here?
He’s still banging on about this when I drift into my own head, roll up my sleeves, consider everything Rose is going through – and glower at him.
Not on my watch,mate. No. Fucking. Way.
‘This is all very noble of you,’ I say, coolly, in the first gap in conversation. Now I understand what’s going on here, the glovesare well and truly off. ‘However, I’m not sure it’s appropriate that anyone in this group to pull the plug on a show based on their assessment of a woman’s body shape.’
Giles, who is nearing retirement and permanently terrified that he’ll say or do something that isn’t politically correct, says: ‘Hear hear’.
Andrea’s brows knit together. ‘Well, none of this is ideal at this stage, of course. But I can see where you’re coming from, Zach.’
I turn and glare at her, trying to work out if I’m hallucinating this. Five minutes ago, she thought this programme was ‘very exciting’. On Tuesday, we had a conversation about the potential for foreign rights. She has backed this whole concept from its inception. Now, the moment she’s sitting in front of some smooth-talker from LA, New York or wherever, she starts batting her eyelids and can ‘see where he’s coming from’.
‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ she says gently, as if she’s withholding a lollipop from a small child. ‘I know how much work you’ve put into this, but there are some good points being made here. Are you getting them all down?’
She nods at my notepad, where my Spider-Man pen has stopped flashing. I haven’t written a single thing in the last ten minutes. Right now, I feel like drawing a cock and balls on the paper then holding it up to say: ‘Yes. Here is a summary of my notes so far.’
Instead, I start attempting to write. Only now, the bloody thing has run out of ink and despite the dozen or so angry circles I draw on the side of my pad, nothing appears to be happening.
‘I’ll take notes.’
Zach reaches into the pocket of the jacket on the back of his chair and pulls out a pen.
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that,’ Andrea leaps in.
‘It’s fine,’ he says, clicking the end of it.
He looks up at me, apparently waiting for me to comment. ‘You were saying?’
