I raise an eyebrow as we drift forwards. ‘The part?’
He replies with a ‘hmm,’ more murmur than word, before we are swept apart again.
MotionMax+ has taken two tables and Andrea – fragrant in flowing cerise chiffon – is seated between Zach and Krishna, opposite me. She is in her element at this kind of event and likes to, in her words, ‘work the room’. This networking is all for professional reasons, of course, though she does seem mysteriously drawn to handsome, recently retired television doctors and Nigel Farage-lookalikes and once put on an unedifying display at a broadcasting dinner when she was seated next to the Culture Secretary.
She certainly enjoys sitting between Zach and Krishna, judging by the way she keeps playfully slapping the latter’s arm and saying, ‘Ooh you are terrible,’ even though he looks completely bewildered as to what he’s supposed to have said.
The awards are handed out after the meal, with a glamorous actor called Joanna Collins as host. A former model and a household name in the 1970s, she disappeared from the spotlight entirely until she was recently cast in the lead role in a gritty – and highly successful – cop show.
There are one or two surprises: Best Cinematography for a drama that many critics snootily said looked as if it was filmed on an iPhone, and Best Make Up & Hair Design for a woman that both Andrea and I had been convinced had retired to Goa to run a yoga retreat.
Before we know it, it’s our category. I can feel tension radiating from Jamila next to me and when I glance at her, there are pricks of sweat on her brow. Instinctively, I slide my handonto hers on the table and give it a fortifying squeeze, which she reciprocates automatically.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to a much-anticipated part of the show,’ says Joanna Collins ‘. . . for Best Entertainment Production Team.’
They’re up against some of the big guns –The Apprentice,The Masked Singer,Cake Ninjas– so are very much the outsider. But still, I have a good feeling. Everyone loves an underdog, after all.
The nominees are read out one by one, each followed by a five-second trailer. I am vaguely aware of Andrea opposite, crossing both fingers demonstratively as Krishna gives a statesmanlike nod of support. Zach, meanwhile . . . well, I can barely look at Zach, even if Iknowhis gaze is fixed on me.
‘And the winner is . . .’
The eternal silence is filled by a drum roll tumbling through my head.
‘Cake Ninjas!’
I feel Jamila deflate before I even get a chance to look at her and see the tremble she’s fighting on her lip.
She dips her head to mine. ‘I don’t think I’ve mastered the “brave loser” face yet,’ she confesses.
‘Good,’ I say firmly. ‘Because this is the last time you’ll ever have to use it. Leave a space on your mantelpiece for next year. Just you wait.’ A wave of gratitude brightens her sad face.
‘Thanks, Lisa,’ she says. It’s only when she squeezes my hand that I realise I hadn’t let go. ‘Foreverything.’
Chapter 31
There’s a scramble to the ladies’ immediately after the ceremony so I wait a little while, making all the right noises about Jamila’s team’s loss – namely that awards are meaningless (which is obviously not what I’d be saying if she’d won). When I finally make a break for it, I’m crossing the beautiful art-deco foyer of the hotel, when I lock eyes with a familiar face.
Martin O’Donoghue, the producer ofOur Girl in Milan, is one of those men who looks uncomfortable in a tux, though maybe it’s just the bow tie, which makes his wide neck almost disappear. There’s a strange moment, a bit like seeing someone in a supermarket you don’t really want to chat to, when we both consider pretending we haven’t seen the other.
I’m not sure which one of us decides to be grown up first, but we wave simultaneously and head semi-reluctantly towards each other.
‘Good to see you, Martin.’
‘And you, Lisa.’
He’s a decent man and a good producer. But my unease isn’t merely because the last time I spoke to him it was to say we weren’t going ahead with his show. It’s because the project that’s now dominating my time in its place –My Teenage Bombsite– is not exactly running smoothly. At least it hasn’t been this week. There have been several disagreements between the two production companies, first over the wording of the ‘treatment’ – the two-page summary of the concept – then over whether the title should be adjusted toMy Teenager’s Bombsite,My TeenBombsite, or something else that has no reference to bombsites at all in case it is misconstrued as a programme about terrorism.
‘Listen I’m sorry about, you know . . . not being able to proceed,’ I say, feeling like it’s better to mention the elephant in the room straight away.
‘Hey, it’s fine,’ he reassures me. ‘We all know what this business is like. We’re over it.’
I nod, gratefully. ‘And are YouTime treating you well?’
‘Very,’ he says. ‘I’ll admit I was unhappy after that last phone call we had. We were so close to the wire. But now . . . well, we’re philosophical. Who knows – maybe one day you and I can makesomethingwork.’
We chat for a little while, before I excuse myself and finally make it to the bathroom, where I take the opportunity while still in the cubicle to perform a task that’s become increasingly imperative as the night has worn on. My multiway bra started out as taut as a parachute harness, but over the course of the evening, the straps have loosened. As a result, the scaffolding that originally kept my breasts in the optimum position has now allowed them to droop by a good three inches, offering absolutely nothing in the way of support.
I tighten them up and look in my clutch bag for some hair pins to fix each side in place, but it seems I haven’t brought any. After experimenting with a variety of fruitless solutions, I decide to whip down the top of my dress, wrestle off the bra and secure both sides with a small knot. I’m in a state of slight dishevelment by the time I’ve redressed, but at least those four years as a Girl Guide didn’t go to waste.
