Page 21 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

She listened as David ran through the agenda – last week’s viewing figures, audience feedback, which programmes were being filmed this week – and then seized her opportunity as soon as he said, ‘Anyone got any new programme ideas?’

‘I have,’ she said quickly before she could change her mind. She felt her cheeks reddening as all eyes in the room focused on her.

‘Let’s hear it then,’ said David, giving her an encouraging smile.

‘I wondered about a series of programmes where people face their fears. For example, someone who’s scared of heights could do what I did this weekend; I went down Gaping Gill. It’s a huge hole in the ground in North Yorkshire – a hundred metres deep.’

She hesitated, unsure if she should give them another example and decided that she would. ‘Maybe someone with arachnophobia could spend a day at the zoo working with the tarantulas. Or…’

‘Oh, puh-lease,’ said Leona. ‘Same old, same old.’

‘All ideas are welcome,’ said David firmly. ‘It’s a good one, Jo, though there might have been something similar on TV already. Anyone else? Come on, people. We need more ideas.’

‘I could organise a brainstorm?’ said Leona.

‘Thought shower,’ said Caroline. ‘We don’t say brainstorm at Pop! Productions. But an ideas meeting is a fantastic idea. Thanks, Leona. Can you sort that?’

Jo dropped her eyes to her Filofax and kept them there for the remainder of the meeting. She hadn’t expected her boss to immediately start pitching her idea to the channels; she wasn’t that naïve. But she had thought there might at least be some discussion about it.

*

‘She said what?’ said Kate.

‘“Same old, same old”. David – he’s my boss – reminded her that all ideas are welcome, but he always says that and I still feel like an idiot if I pitch something they don’t like.’

They were in the George, Hebbleswick’s most traditional pub. Jo needed cheering up and had been relieved when Kate had said she could meet that evening; it was the first time that she’d seen her new friend since the day they’d met as Kate was always busy. Always dating. Evening after evening. Jo wasn’t sure how she managed it. Still, they were here now, and Jo was tucking into her favourite dinner, steak pie and mash with a generous helping of gravy – best comfort food ever – whilst Kate had another green salad. Was that all she ever ate?

‘It hasn’t been the same since she joined the team,’ Jo said. ‘She talks about me behind my back. I never get invited any more for a drink after work.’

‘She sounds awful.’ Kate sliced an already tiny tomato into quarters. ‘Just ignore her.’

‘That’s easier said than done. Perhaps I’ve never fitted in at Pop! – I’m not really cut out to work in the media. I’m not trendy enough.’

‘Nonsense. You’re fine, Jo. Don’t do yourself down.’

Jo nodded but she didn’t believe that for a second. She thought of her colleagues – of how they hurried around talking loudly on their mobiles, giving off an air of self-importance, an assurance, a confidence that Jo had never had – and she wondered, not for the first time, how on earth she’d she ended up working in television. It wasn’t the place for a mouse like her.

It was Si who’d encouraged her to apply for that first position in a small TV company on the outskirts of Manchester. Jo had been quite happy doing her old job, working for a small firm of solicitors, but he’d wanted his new fiancée to have a more impressive-sounding job than that.

‘They want someone “highly organised”,’ he’d said. ‘That’s you, Joanne. No previous media experience necessary. It’s ideal.’

‘But I’m happy at Smythes,’ she’d told him.

‘You can stay there forever.’ He’d grimaced, as if he’d stepped in something nasty. It had been clear that he’d looked down on her current workplace, but she couldn’t for the life of her think why. ‘It’d be a step up from what you’re doing now. They don’t value you, Jo. They don’t see your potential. You’re just a typist to them.’

Just a typist? She shouldn’t have let him get away with that. Should have pointed out that she did so much more than typing letters. She practically ran that company. Mr Smythe had had tears in his eyes when she’d handed in her notice. Reluctantly handed in her notice. Si had harangued her for days about the telly job until she’d applied to keep him quiet. She’d never expected to actually get it.

And then, still not satisfied, a year or two later, he’d ‘encouraged’ her to apply for the post at Pop! Productions. ‘Production co-ordinator’, he’d said. ‘Surely that’s better than what you’re doing now? And it’s a bigger company too. Much more prestigious. Not quite the BBC, but still… you’ll get there eventually.’

Jo had never had any intention of applying to work at the BBC. It was far too big. Far too intimidating.

‘How’s your steak pie?’ said Kate.

‘Delicious. How’s your salad? Is that all you ever eat?’

Kate stuck her fork into an olive. ‘I’m trying ayurveda. Have you heard of it? You eat different things according to what type you are. I’m kapha. D’you know your type?’

‘Probably heifer,’ said Jo, tipping the last drops of gravy from the jug onto her mash.