His inhales visibly at the mention of my mother. She despises him with the sort of passion most people reserve for military dictators and Monday mornings. I’m sure he can already imagine the conversation, in which she’ll accuse him of expectingeveryone else to drop everything for his convenience. I sometimes think I’m the only one who doesn’t hate him.
Or maybe it’s just that my mum feels the need to remind me what terrible taste in men I’ve got. Which I absolutely can’t dispute, especially when I compare her experience with mine. She met my dad when she 15. They became sweethearts at 17. While she claims they’ve had their ‘ups and downs’ over the decades, it’s clear that she can’t work out why my generation – with our startling divorce statistics – has made such hash of something that used to be so straightforward.
Chapter 19
Calvin and Daisy are having a discussion about an approach from a production company that she’s picked up. They have an idea for a new show that has piqued her interest.
‘It’s calledHaunted Supermarkets,’ she says.
‘Right,’ says Calvin carefully, looking hesitant. ‘Are theremanyhaunted supermarkets?’
From the look on her face, she can’t believe he even has to ask.
‘Loads! There’s one grocery store in a village in Iceland where staff are regularly assaulted by flying potatoes. Also, in a Sainsbury’s in Exeter, they’ve had several sightings of this weird creature. It’s meant to be part lizard, part dog, a sort of poodle.’
‘A loodle?’ Calvin grins.
I snort, unable to stop myself. Daisy crosses her arms.
I straighten my face. ‘Do they have a presenter lined up?’
‘Yes, actually. They wanted someone big and thought a recognisable face from the eighties would be good, ideally a bit of a heartthrob.’
‘Interesting,’ I say idly, focusing on my emails.
‘Have you heard of a band called A-ha?’ she asks.
I stop typing and look up. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, they had a lead singer who apparently lots of people fancied back in the day.’
‘Morten Harket?’ I say, astonished and impressed. ‘Have they got him?I used to have a poster of him on my bedroom wall that I’d got from the middle ofSmash Hits.’
‘Well, no. They’ve gotHarten Morket. He’s in a tribute band – a really successful one though. You’d hardly tell them apart. Look.’
She spins around her computer and shows an image of what I can only describe as a Lidl version of Norway’s best-known musical export. He’s wearing all the same clothes as in the ‘Take On Me’ video. Leather jacket. Tight white T-shirt. Unfortunately, this guy also has a dad bod and his luxuriant bouffant hair looks as though it could disappear in a strong breeze.
‘Is he actually Norwegian?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s from Rhyl,’ she confesses, then clearly registers my expression. ‘Oh, you don’t like it, do you?’
I decide not to break it to her publicly that it’s the worst idea since we were approached about aLove Island-style dating show set in the Arctic Circle, in which contestants wore expedition gear and balaclavas. They were apparently oblivious to the fact that skimpy swimwear was the whole point.
‘Maybe we should have a meeting about it later?’ I say diplomatically, as I pick up my folder and laptop and head towards Krishna’s office.
Andrea looks up from her typing as I’m en route. ‘Good luck. You can do it,’ she says, as if encouraging one of the girls in a lacrosse team.
‘Thanks, Andrea.’
‘Oh, and Lisa?’ She glances over her shoulder and leans into me, quietening her voice. ‘Might be worth unbuttoning your blouse a little.’
‘Andrea,’ I hiss, ‘this is the 21st century. I’m not showing my cleavage.’
She tuts and mutters something about woke snowflakes, before returning to her work. Even if I were willing to stoop to such a level, I can’t envisage a scenario in which Krishna Chowdhury would be remotely interested in anything other thanthe subject up for discussion. I once read an interview which said he’d grown up in a traditional Indian household and had been expected to go into medicine. His diversion into television had been an act of rebellion and was the driving force behind both his personal ambition and that of the company. Even though his family are fully reconciled with his choices these days, there’s clearly still a part of him that wants to prove himself. And he does it in spades.
Krishna is a born leader and a driven workaholic with an eye for spotting brilliant, popular shows that audiences love. That’s not to say he hasn’t worked on one or two turkeys over the years, of course – we all have – but his judgement is second to none.
I step inside his office, closing the door behind me. It has the same expensive, over-designed air as the rest of this place, but a patterned rug makes the room look a little less clinical. There’s also a picture on the wall of Krishna at his daughter’s decadent, vibrant wedding, looking as proud as punch.
