Читать книгу Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother - Claudia Carroll - Страница 11

I should fill you in a bit. Relations between me and my stepfamily are as follows: they can’t abide the sight of me and for my part…just when I think I’ve come to the very bottom of their meanness, turns out there’s a whole underground garage of mean to discover as well.

First up there’s Maggie; eldest stepsister, thirty-three years of age and still living at home. Honest to God, if you handed this one a winning lottery ticket in the morning, she’d still whinge and moan about having to drive all the way into town to collect the oversized novelty cheque. A woman with all the charm of an undertaker and the allure of a corpse, her philosophy of life can be summarised thus: ambition leads to expectation which inevitably leads to failure which ultimately leads to disappointment, so the best thing you can possibly do with yourself is not try. Just get up, go to work, come home, then spend all your free time, nights, weekends, bank holidays, the whole shebang, crashed out on the sofa in front of the telly, with the remote control balanced on your belly. Low expectations = a happy life.

Don’t ask me how she does it, but the woman actually manages to radiate sourness. In fact, as a teenager, I used to reckon that the ninth circle of hell would be like a fortnight in Lanzarote compared with a bare ten minutes in Maggie’s company. And that the only reason she didn’t actually worship the devil was because she didn’t need to; more than likely, he worshipped her.

Oh, and just as an aside, in all my years, I’ve only ever seen her wearing one of two things; either a polyester navy suit for work or else a succession of slobby tracksuits for maximum comfort while watching TV. Which for some reason, permanently seem to have egg stains on them, but I digress.

She works for the Inland Revenue as a tax commissioner; probably the only career I can think of where a horrible personality like hers would be a bonus. In fact, I was hauled in last year for a ‘random’ tax audit; all deeply unpleasant and I’d nearly take my oath that she had something to do with it. Wouldn’t put it past her. Be exactly the kind of thing she’d do just for the laugh.

I also happen to know for a fact that behind my back she calls me Cinderella Rockefeller, which is absolutely fine by me. Behind her back, I call her Queen Kong. Then there’s Sharon, thirty-two years of age and also still living at home. Works as a ‘Food Preparation and Hygiene Manager’ at Smiley Burger (don’t ask). Honestly, it’s like the pair of them just settled down without bothering to find anyone to actually settle down with. Like, God forbid, actual boyfriends. The best way to describe Sharon is that she’s PRO Coronation Street/eating TV microwave dinners straight off the plastic tray and ANTI exercise/non-smokers/ anyone who dares speak to her during her favourite soaps. For this girl, every day is a bad hair day. Plus her weight problem is so permanently out of hand that I often think she must be terrified to go near water, in case she’s clobbered by a bottle of champagne and officially launched by the Minister for the Marine. Nor, I might add, are any of the tensions in that house helped by my stepmother Joan, who refers to the pair of them as ‘the elder disappointment’ and ‘the younger disappointment’. To their faces.

I don’t even blame Dad for remarrying and allowing a whole new stepfamily to torpedo into our lives; I knew how desperately lonely he was, how much he missed Mum and how worried he was about me growing up without a stable female presence at home. When Mum died I was too young to remember her and for years didn’t fully understand the enormity of her loss. Even now, I find it hard to accept; come on, dead of ovarian cancer at the age of thirty-eight? But back then, as a scraped-faced, grubby tomboy, permanently up a tree, all I knew was that suddenly it was me and Dad against the world. And, in my childish, innocent way, I thought he and I were rubbing along just fine; we were happy, we were holding it together. OK, so maybe a ten-year-old shouldn’t necessarily be cooking spaghetti hoops on toast for her dad’s dinner five nights a week, or doing all the cleaning while all her pals were out on the road playing, but it didn’t bother me. I’d have done anything to make Dad happy and stop him from missing Mum. I can even see what attracted him to Joan, to begin with at least. Years later, he told me it was a combination of aching loneliness and heartbreak at seeing a little child desperately struggling to step into her mum’s shoes and somehow keep the show on the road. Then along came this attractive widow; glamorous in a blonde, brassy, busty sort of way, with two daughters just a few years older than me.

Joan, I should tell you, is one of those women with the hair permanently set, the nails always done and never off a sun bed, even in the depths of winter. She looks a bit like how you’d imagine Barbie’s granny might look and can’t even put out bins without lipstick on (by the way, I’m NOT making that up).

With a chronic habit of talking everything up as well. Like when she first met Dad, she’d introduce him as ‘Senior Manager of a Drinking Emporium’. Whereas, in actual fact, he was a humble barman. How they first met in fact: she used to go into the Swiss Cottage pub where he worked for the Tuesday poker night games, only she’d insist on telling everyone she played ‘bridge, not poker’.

I’m not even sure how long Dad was seeing her for before they got married; all I knew was that one miserable, wet day, when I was about ten, he took me to the zoo for a treat, to meet his new ‘friend’ Joan and her two daughters. That in itself was unusual and immediately set alarm bells ringing; because he never took a day off work, ever. Poor guileless Dad, thinking we’d all get along famously and would end up one big happy family.

I was the only one who actually enjoyed the zoo; to the twelve-and thirteen-year-old Sharon and Maggie everything was either ‘stupid’ or else ‘babyish’. By which of course, they meant that I was stupid and babyish. I can still remember the two of them ganging up on me behind the reptile house to slag me off for not wearing a bra. Then, in that snide, psychological way of bullying that girls have, they said I was so immature, I probably still believed in Santa Claus.

Which, right up until that moment, I had.

I can date my childhood ending back to that very day.

Nor did things improve after Dad remarried. Turned out Joan’s first husband had been a chronic alcoholic who’d left her with even less money than we had, which of course meant that right after the wedding, she and the Banger sisters all came to live with us in our tiny corporation house. Me, Sharon and Maggie all under the one roof? A recipe for nuclear fission if ever there was one.

So Christ alone knows what tales they’ve told the film crew about me. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a Jessie doll somewhere in the house with pins and needles stuck in it. But if it comes to it, I’ve a few choice anecdotes I could regale them with myself. The innumerable petty tortures they’d inflict on me were worthy of the Gestapo; like using my maths homework as a litter tray for their cat, or else, a particular favourite of theirs, hiding my underwear so I’d have to go to school either wearing swimming togs underneath my uniform or else nothing. Then the two of them would gleefully tell the other kids in the playground, so they’d all point at me, roar laughing and call me Panti-free. I’m not kidding, the nickname stuck right up until sixth year.

And there was never anyone to defend me, only myself, as Dad was always off working morning, noon and night, seven days a week, to support the whole lot of us. Bless him; in the days after he remarried I think he honestly believed we were a reasonably happy, if slightly dysfunctional family. Mainly because I didn’t tell him a quarter of what went on behind his back, on the grounds that it would only upset him. It wouldn’t be fair and hadn’t the poor man been through enough already?

Then one fateful day, not long after they first moved in, Maggie made a devastating discovery: we had no cable TV in the house. I’ll never forget her turning round to me and sneering, ‘So, what did your mother die of anyway? Boredom?’

Well, that was it. Break point. I lunged at her, punched her smack in the jaw and even managed to pull out a fistful of her wiry hair before Joan pulled us apart. There was murder, but I was actually quite proud of my scrappy behaviour, considering that Maggie was then and is now about four stone heavier than me.

Then, the same year I turned eighteen, three life-altering events happened in quick succession. I finally left school, got a place on a media training course in college and, just when I thought my life was finally turning a corner for the better, my darling dad, my wonderful, loving, long-suffering dad, suffered a massive coronary attack when he was in work and died instantly. It was Christmas Eve and he was only fifty-two years old.

So that was it for me. Toughened and hardened, I got the hell out of that house, or the Sandhurst of emotional emptiness, as I like to call it, moved into a flat with Hannah and now only ever see my stepfamily on 24 December, at Dad’s anniversary mass in our old, local parish church, purely for the sake of his memory and nothing else.

I try to get through it as best I can by treating it as a penance for all my sins throughout the year. I’ve even tried my best to drag Sam along with me for moral support/ back-up in case a catfight breaks out, but he always seems to have something else on. Mind you, I think the real reason is that he’s too terrified to leave his Bentley parked outside the church in case it gets stolen. Our corporation estate = not posh and I happen to know for a fact that Sam refers to it as ‘the land of the ten-year-old Toyota’.

It’s astonishing; even ten short minutes of tortuous small talk with my stepfamily on the church steps inevitably descends into a row. Honest to God, it’s like Christmas Eve with the Sopranos. It’s eleven years now since Dad passed away and they’ve never as much as invited me back to the house – to my house – for a cup of tea and a Hob Nob after the anniversary mass.

Well, you know what? Good luck to them. Whatever crap they’ve told the TV crew about me, I’ll do what I always do: laugh, smile and deal with it. And in the meantime, I choose to take the mature, adult approach; complete and utter denial of their very existence. Those people are firmly part of my past and I have nothing whatsoever to do with any of them. End of story.

The ‘At home’ part of the interview thankfully wraps up as soon as Katie cops that there’s just no drawing me out on the painful subject of my stepfamily, so the documentary crew pack up and get ready to tail me for the day’s feature presentation…me actually doing a bit of work for a change. Now, technically, I’m not really supposed to know what each week’s dare is; the idea is that when I’m told live on camera, the audience see me react looking shocked/terrified/ready to bolt for the hills/whatever. But the thing is, half the time you’d need to be a right eejit not to cop on to what’s coming your way.

So when the production office call me and tell me to be at the Mondello Park racing track in an hour, I’m guessing the dare won’t involve tightrope walking over the River Liffey. Which, by the way, I did have to do once and of course, much to everyone’s amusement fell into the gakky, slimy, rat-infested water below.

Anyway, my point is, working in TV is brilliant, but glamorous it ain’t.

‘Are you driving yourself, Jessie?’ Katie calls over to me as the crew clamber into the unit minivan, just as we’re all getting ready to leave my front garden and hit the road. Next thing, I can physically see her getting a ‘light bulb over the head’ eureka moment. ‘Oh, wait now, I’ve a fabulous idea! Why don’t we get a shot of you driving through the gates on your way to work? Where do you keep your car anyway? Do you park it in the garage? I’m sure you must drive something zippy and fabulous!’

Please, please, please dear lovely God, please don’t let them ask me to open up the garage door and see that it’s empty.

‘Actually…emmmm…I’m afraid…the thing is…well, you see, there’s a bit of a problem with my car…’ Stolen car story, remember the stolen car story…

‘In for a service, is it?’

Oh wait now, that’s miles better.

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s, emm, in for a service.’

Phew.

So Jessie Would goes out live on Saturday at 7 p.m. for thirty minutes with one commercial break; classic family-friendly, tea-time TV. The format is simple. Emma is in studio in front of a live audience, and does a lot of interacting with them, getting them to bet on whether I’ll actually manage to do the dare or whether I’ll fall flat on my face, then giving out sponsored prizes if they guess right. It can be pretty tricky to predict; my success rate would be about fifty-fifty. But then in the sage words of Liz Walsh, Head of Television and, I think, a fan of the show, seeing as how she’s the one who keeps on recommissioning it, it’s not about my succeeding or failing on each weekly dare, it’s about making a complete tit of myself every week, live to the nation. She reckons the secret of lowest common denominator TV is that it should always appeal to a kid of about twelve and then you’re laughing.

There’s not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for Liz Walsh. She’s an incredible woman and has been almost like a Simon Cowell-esque figure in my life. Tough as an old boot but with solid gold instincts that can’t be bought or sold. In fact, when I graduated from doing the late-night weather report, then spent the next few years doing random reporting from places where no one else could be arsed going, she was the one who first spotted me and decided I was ripe to groom for bigger and better things. Like so much else in my life though, this was as a result of pure chance and not being afraid to make an eejit of myself on a regular basis. Example: one time I was sent to cover the winter solstice at Newgrange and a giant granite crater, which had happily held up for thousands of years, chose that exact moment to fall on top of me, knocking me to the ground to much hilarity and sniggering from the background crew. I was fine, just a bit concussed, but did what I always do: got back on my feet, brushed myself down and laughed it off. Course, three days later, the clip had nearly eight thousand hits on YouTube and when I saw it back I had to admit, it was one of those laugh-in-spite-of-your-self, slapstick Buster Keaton-type moments. It even made it onto the annual Channel Six blooper show.

Funny thing was, the audience seemed to get a big kick out of the hapless, accident-prone side of me, so from those humble origins, Liz moved me to a ‘dare’ slot on Emma’s talk show and it all snowballed from there. But no matter what challenge Jessie Would throws up at me week after week, her wise words are forever ringing in my ears. ‘Fall on your face and get covered in as much shite as you possibly can, then haul yourself up and laugh it all off. Remember, that’s all they really want to see.’

And so we pull into the Mondello Park race track and, as it’s only a few hours to transmission time, hit the ground running. The Channel Six location crew are all here to set up for the live show while Katie and the A Day in the Life crew are still trailing me, so we’ve the surreal situation of one film unit filming another. Anyway, I get busy with the training instructor who fills me in on what’s ahead.

The gist of it is as follows: their resident Jeremy Clarkson will do four laps of the circuit in one of those Formula Sheane cars where you sit uncomfortably in a single-seat racer with your bum approximately three inches away from the ground, then I have to try and beat his time. All with not one, but two cameras pointing at me. It’s all very Monaco Grand Prix looking, chequered flags, the whole works and everyone here keeps referring to it as a ‘time attack’. Anyway, that’s the doddley part. The high blood pressure bit right after any dare is when I’m biked back into Channel Six at speed, clinging on to the driver for dear life, then race into studio while the commercial break is being aired, still panting and dripping with sweat. Whereupon a graceful, elegant Emma will interview me about the whole experience, the highs, the lows etc. Then we show footage of me doing the dare, looking petrified and to keep Liz happy, hopefully all caked in mud and crap. Then the ta-daa moment when Emma reveals how many of the audience thought I’d actually make it versus how many thought I’d end up in the A&E. Cue everyone going home with a prize, roll credits and administer Valium to myself and Emma. All done and dusted just in time for the Lotto draw. Before we go through the safety instructions, I slip off into a locker room to change into the scarlet red jumpsuit and safety helmet they’ve kitted me out with, but just as I’m standing semi-naked in my bra and knickers, the door behind me opens.

‘Jessie?’

I look up to see Katie, microphone in hand, camera at her shoulder, peering around the door.

‘Oooh, don’t you look fabulous! Just wondered if you could tell us what’s going through your head right now?’

I think it’s at this point of the day, that she officially starts to grate on my nerves.

Mercedes is sponsoring the whole stunt, so there’s a couple of be-suited bigwigs grouped formally on the track behind me, looking tense and nervous and I wouldn’t blame them either. The stake for them is high; according to the instructor, there’s a fifty per cent chance that I’ll crash, in which case they’re looking at writing off two hundred and fifty grand worth of car as it literally goes up in smoke in front of their eyes. There’s also the slightly lesser concern that I could end up hospitalised, paralysed or worse, but to be honest, judging by the tense, fraught looks on their faces, I’m guessing the car is worth far, far more to them than I am.

Seven p.m. Show time. A hand signal from the floor manager and we’re off. The professional driver, who I think has done stunts on movies and everything, takes to the track first and, in a nano second, is off and away, four frenzied laps at a breakneck, dizzying speed. I nearly get whiplash on my neck just following him. His time recorded, he’s out of the race car in a single leap and then it’s over to me.

Much waving and thumbs up from the crew as I lock the helmet on then clamber in through the window, giving the crew a delightful shot of my big, scarlet arse. Then, I’m not joking, Katie’s over, microphone in hand, ‘So tell us, Jessie, how are you feeling right now?’

Like smacking you across the head, is what I want to say, but lucky for her, I can’t talk properly with the crash helmet on. A second later, a chequered flag is waved in front of the dashboard, a few people start cheering and I’m away.

Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been doing this lark for almost three years now and my survival mechanism is this: when doing anything extreme or life-threatening, the trick is to completely focus your thoughts elsewhere and just let your body take over on auto-pilot. Never fails me. Because there’s something about extreme situations which provides solace and absolutely concentrates the mind.

Lap one whooshes by but my thoughts are miles away. In fact, all I’m thinking about is the shagging Visa bill, still lying unopened on the fireplace at home, like an undeton-ated time bomb. And so I make a firm decision right here and right now…I will reform my spendthrift ways and go on an economy drive…no more ridiculously expensive nights out, Sam will just have to get used to sitting on the sofa watching DVDs with me at home…Lap two comes round and now I’m thinking I’ll ban all trips to fancy hair salons as well, I’ll just do a Nice and Easy home colour instead. Lap three rockets past…hmmmmmm…brainwave…I could just buy a bike and cycle everywhere and hide my shame by telling everyone I’m being eco friendly…and by the final lap I’m wondering if I could be really cheeky and maybe talk to my agent about getting some kind of endorsement or sponsorship deal that might supplement my income a bit…hmmmm…worth a try…

In what feels like the blink of an eye, it’s all over. Suddenly, I’m being helped out of the car, dizzy and disorientated, with legs like jelly.

‘Amazing, bloody fantastic, good girl, Jessie!’ says the floor manager, steadying me on my feet and guiding me towards the camera, so all of this can be relayed back to studio, live. I’m not joking, I’m so woozy and light-headed from the whole thing, he actually has to prop me up.

The next few seconds are a blur; I’m desperately trying to catch my breath while Katie’s shoving a microphone under my nose to ask, ‘What was going through your mind on the course?’ and in the background, the mafia guys from Mercedes are rushing over, shaking my hand and congratulating me. Apparently I was doing 140 miles per hour at one stage. What’s weird is that I never even felt a thing.

And that’s when it happens. Out from the ranks of people swarming around me, a chunky-looking, balding guy steps out, aged about sixty-plus and built like a rugby player with a neck about the same width as his head. In a honeyed northern accent, he introduces himself as the head of Mercedes Ireland then grabs me by the shoulders to steady me.

‘Jessie, we’re all very proud of you…’

I nod and manage a watery smile but I’m actually praying the floor manager will cut him off and let me outta here. We’re under massive time pressure here, so whatever he wants to say, he has approximately four seconds to say it in. It’s not unusual for the sponsors to step in after a dare to plug their wares, but what they never think about is that there’s a motorbike driver standing by waiting to whisk me into studio for the rest of the show.

‘And to congratulate you on completing the course successfully and in such a fantastic time, we have a wee surprise for you,’ says baldie man. ‘Bring her round here, boys.’

Camera rolling, everyone looking at him, suddenly the roaring in my ears has stopped.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Being driven around the edge of the track is the most stunning, most amazing sports car I have ever seen. A two-seater hard-top Mercedes convertible, brand new, showroom condition, in a sleek black metallic colour with the softest-looking cream leather seats. So, so sexy and gorgeous and fab that I want to fall down on my knees, to howl and weep at its beauty.

That’s when my eye falls in disbelief down to the registration plate: Jessie 1.

‘Yes, Jessie, it’s your lucky day!’says baldie man. ‘We would like to invite you to be a brand ambassador for Mercedes and are offering you full use of this car, free, gratis, for one year! Absolutely no strings attached. Tax and insurance included; sure we’ll even throw in free petrol for you! Now whaddya say to that, you jammy wee girl?’

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. All at once, I’m gobsmacked, stunned and…interested. Well, it’s a nobrainer really, isn’t it? This is incredible. This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. OK, so it mightn’t solve all my financial woes, but it’s a bloody good start. I mean, come on, a free car for a whole year?

I think it must have been all the adrenaline pumping through my body after the stunt, but before I know what I’m doing, I’ve thrown my arms around baldie man, squealing, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

I think I may have even kissed him but I can’t be too sure.

First sign that something’s amiss: Are the looks the crew semaphore to each other as I’m helped up onto the motorbike and get ready to leave. Normally there’s cheering and messing from the camera and sound guys as I’m biked back to the industrial estate where the Channel Six studio is, especially when a dare has gone well. But this time, there’s total silence from them, to a man. Which is, to say the least, a bit weird.

I clamber up onto the back of the bike, clinging to the driver so tightly I might crack one of his ribs, and we’re off. As we zoom back to studio, which takes all of about three minutes at the speed we’re going at, I do my best to put it out of my head. Come on, I just got offered the use of a free Merc for a year. Chances are the lads are just a bit jealous, that’s all. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be? So why are they acting like I just ran over a small child? I can’t quite put my finger on how to describe their expressions. Disbelief? Shock? No. It was actually disgust.

Second sign that something’s amiss: Normally, when we get back into studio, the stage manager already has the doors open for me so I can race through, leg it into studio, then plonk down on the sofa beside Emma for the postmortem chat and to get the official ‘result’ of the dare. All in the space of time it takes for the commercial break to go out. But this time, something’s wrong. I sense it immediately. Instead of the usual high-octane panic, the stage manager meets me at the studio door, and in a low, flustered voice, says into her walkie-talkie, ‘Yes, she’s just arrived. OK, I understand. I’ll tell her now.’

‘Tell me what?’ I manage to pant, breathlessly.

‘You’re not going back into the studio. Emma will handle the rest of the show. You’re to go straight up to Liz Walsh’s office. Now. She’s says it’s urgent.’

‘But that’s ridiculous, I have a show to finish…’

‘Come on, Jessie, don’t make this hard on yourself…’ She looks red-faced, mortified and is actually blushing to her hairline. As though I’m some kind of embarrassment that it’s fallen to her lot to deal with.

‘For God’s sake, will you let me past? There’s no time for this; I have to get to the studio, they’re all waiting in there…’

‘I’m afraid it’s a no,’ she insists a bit more firmly this time. ‘I’m sorry but my instructions are very clear; I’m not to let you in, under any circumstances. Now will you please just go? Liz is already in her office waiting for you.’ As if to ram the point home, she even stands legs astride, blocking the studio door. Like a bouncer in a nightclub.

Third sign that something’s amiss: I’m completely winded and now my head’s reeling. As I stagger down the deserted corridor to Liz’s office I can see a TV monitor on in the background, with the show just coming out from the ad break. Emma’s looking a bit frazzled, which is most unusual for her, and she announces in a wobbly voice that there’s been a slight technical hitch and that I won’t be coming back into studio after all.

A slight technical hitch? But there’s no technical hitch! ‘No! No, I’m here, just outside the door, ready to finish the gig! Why the fuck won’t they let me in?!’ I scream at the TV monitor with sheer frustration, can’t help myself. I’d kick the shagging thing only it’s hanging about three feet from the ceiling. Right now, I’m starting to feel like I’m stuck in a horror movie, where I’m screeching away and no one can hear. What the hell is happening? Why won’t they let me finish the gig?

I can hear Emma telling the audience that I did actually manage to beat the professional driver’s time and the good news is that everyone in the audience who bet on me to win is going home tonight with a voucher for two people to the Multiplex cinema in Dundrum, valid for three whole months of free movies. Her voice is reverberating loud and clear the whole way down the empty corridor and it’s beyond weird to be hearing it from outside of the studio. Then I hear the audience cheering and stomping their feet, deafening and thunderous, all while I continue to stumble on, head pounding, sweat sticking to me, still in my racing gear with a helmet tucked under my arm.

This is turning into a nightmare. The door to Liz’s office is open and she’s already standing there, waiting for me, hands on hips, like in a western. Unheard of. Normally, on the rare occasions when you’re summoned to this office, you’re left outside making small talk with her assistant for at least a good twenty minutes.

So in I reel, nauseous with tension, almost ready to pass out. Liz is tiny, smart, sassy and I’d ordinarily describe her as the coolest, calmest woman I know. But right now, the look on her face would stop a clock.

‘Close the door and sit down,’ she all but barks at me.

‘Liz, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is…’ Bloody hell, I’m actually stammering. Heart pounding, mouth dry as a bone. Doing 140 miles an hour around a race track was a breeze compared to this. My heart is twisting with the worry and I swear to God, I’ve lost the feeling in my legs.

Mercifully, there’s never a preamble with Liz. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you or didn’t you just accept the use of a free sports car? Live on air? In front of six hundred and fifty thousand viewers?’

‘Well…yes, but…’

‘You are presumably aware that it’s an unwritten rule and an absolute no-no for a presenter to accept a freebie of any kind whatsoever?’

‘Emm…as a matter of fact, no, I wasn’t. But…’

‘I’m afraid I can’t accept your ignorance of the basics as any kind of excuse, Jessie,’ she barks, snapping open a bottle of water and knocking back a gulp. ‘After all your years of working here, you’re honestly telling me you didn’t realise you can’t just shamelessly use your profile to go around accepting free commercial handouts? Have you the slightest idea how it looks? How compromising it is for you and for the show? And, by extension, for me?’

‘But Liz, that guy just sprang it on me!’ I almost yell at her, my chest about to burst with anxiety. ‘I found myself saying yes before I barely knew what I was doing…’

‘In the last fifteen minutes, the phone lines have not stopped hopping, with a lot of people understandably furious about a national TV personality accepting such an extravagant gift while the rest of the country is in the throes of recession. The press department is in meltdown and the director general has just been on to read me the riot act about your stupid, thoughtless, selfish behaviour.’

‘But I didn’t know!’

Now, there’s a horrible pause and suddenly I feel like I’m locked into a death dance.

‘I’ve championed this show,’ Liz eventually says, more sorrowfully now which is actually far, far worse than if she yelled at me. ‘And God knows, I’ve championed you. Because no matter what we throw at you, you do it and come up trumps. You’re a looker, you’re virtually unembarrassable which is a huge asset in this game and you’re completely at ease in front of a camera. Most of all though, you’ve got something that can’t be bought or sold; the likeability factor. In spite of crap reviews saying that this programme has all the tension of an ancient piece of knicker elastic. In spite of my bosses saying Jessie Would was a carnival of frivolities that had had its day. That’s the exact phrase they used, you know. I fought like hell for this show and this is how you repay me.’

‘But…but…Come on, Liz, surely to God we can fix this! Can’t I just put out a press release saying it was a horrible, stupid mistake and that I’m really mortified and then…just give them their car back?’ I’m feeling a tiny bud of hope now. Because there’s no problem that’s unfixable, is there? And it’s not like I’ve ever messed up before. Never. Not once.

‘Jessie, you don’t realise. They’re lusting for blood like barbarians out there. I can’t be seen not to take immediate and decisive action over this.’

‘Come on, Liz…Everyone’s allowed to slip up once, aren’t they?’

‘Not on live TV they’re not.’

And like that, hope is guillotined. Now it’s like despair is circulating instead of air.

‘But I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong! Please Liz, please. Let’s just consider my wrists slapped…’ I’m actually begging her now, my voice faint and croaky with tension.

‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

‘So I took a risk on this one and it blew up in my face. But you’re always encouraging me to take risks. I mean, that’s what makes me good!’

‘No, Jessie. That’s what makes you fired.’