I find myself talking to Annabelle’s behind, as she crouches down on the floor, head under the table.
‘Ignore Annabelle – she’s off camera. Justkeep talking!’ orders The Voice.
With unprecedented enthusiasm I jabber, ‘Notice the … the … scalloped, gold-reaf lim … erm, gold-leaf rim – of the jug. This is, erm …complementedby the bowl.’
‘Personalise!’
‘… I have one just like this on my dressing table at home. The lovely, floral design symbolises love. In the Victorian era flowers spoke a secret language …’
Annabelle triumphantlyholds up the misplaced information card, calmly resumes her seat, adjusts her skirt, flashes her gleaming smile to camera two – and proceeds to cut me off mid-flow. ‘Well, that’s item number 1653, the Victorian pitcher and bowl at an unbelievable price of £24.99. Ooh, I’m hearing the phone lines are very busy, so hurry to avoid disappointment. Now, Emily,’ she says, moving over to the mockfireplace. ‘Tell us about this charming Victorian fire-screen.’
Oh shit. Nobody mentioned anything about standing up and moving about. Guess I just follow her lead. Look relaxed, natural. No sudden, jerky movements. The camera tails me, past the fake bookcase and plastic aspidistra, to the hearth. Ignore it. Look natural. Pretend you’re having a chat over the garden fence. Personalise. Romanticise.Be Natural.
‘This is typical of the kind of fire-screen you would have found in the front parlour of a Victorian home. I have one just like this that hides a nasty electric heater. The design is hand-painted (is there no end to my lies?), and notice the stunning scroll design,’ I gush, stooping to indicate this feature, whilst ever so subtly showing off my new, stick-on nails. I think I’mstarting to get the hang of this now. The key is to stay calm and cool, be persuasive, yet not too pushy – none of that hard-sell stuff. P-R-N, P-R-N …
‘Tell us, Emily, how is thisdistressedeffectachieved?’
Straightening up, I feel a sudden twang.
‘Hmm?’ I say in a high-pitched tone, glued to the spot.
Annabelle is looking at me quizzically. I see her mouth moving, but her wordsare washing over me. Yep, the inevitable has happened, and I am about to disgrace myself in front of the entire British Shopping TV nation. The transmitter, which is attached to my ancient, washed-out knickers, is now hanging by a thread, dangerously dangling somewhere around the knee area, like a bungee jumper about to plummet to the ground at any moment.
Panic surges through me. I haven’ta clue what Annabelle means by adistressed effect, but one thing I know for sure: several thousand viewers will suffer the distressed effect if the elastic snaps. Oh, shame! Oh, earth-swallow-me-up shame! The phone lines will be jammed with complaints, and I will be a national laughing stock. Just when I thought I’d broken into the glamorous, lucrative world of television, my career, just likemy knickers, is in tatters before it’s begun. Oh, God, oh, God, why am I such a calamity?
Meanwhile Annabelle is chuntering on and on, and I nod intelligently, trying to hide the fact that I am experiencing a major technical hitch. Dear Lord, when will this be over?
At last she wraps up the half hour with, ‘Well, I’m afraid we’ve run out of time for this, our first Victorian special … (and probably our last,I almost hear her say). Coming up next is Tracey with herPampering for Pets Hour. My thanks to Emily, and to you, the viewers at home for joining us. Bye for now. Byee.’
‘Well done!’ says Annabelle with an unconvincing smile. As she turns her attention to the crew, I seize the opportunity of hoisting up my knickers through my dress. Scary George appears out of the shadows,and I am unceremoniously unplugged. Now what? How do I make it out of the studio and along the corridor to the safety of the loo, without shedding my last scrap of dignity?
‘I’ve got another presentation in studio three in fifteen minutes,’ says Annabelle, consulting her watch. ‘Would you like me to take you back to the green room?’
‘No! I mean, I’ll be – fine. Thanks,’ I say in a falselybright tone.
She looks at me expectantly. I rootle in my bag, pretending to look for my Oyster card. Please just go,please.
‘Well,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders, ‘maybe see you again some time. Don’t forget to hand in your pass to security.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, pausing mid-rummage to give her a little wave. ‘And … thank you.’
I look round and survey the scene. A couple ofcameramen are winding up cables, whilst a studio assistant is setting up forDes’s DIY Show.I seize my chance, and keeping my knees tightly together, shuffle out into the long, long, brightly lit corridor, past the photo gallery of perfectly groomed presenters, their twinkling-toothed smiles beaming down at me.
Never has the sight of the little skirted figure on the loo door been so welcome.
Phew! I’ve made it. Safe inside, I let the offending briefs drop and hastily chuck them in the bin.
I travel home in a shameful, knickerless state, promising myself that when that pay cheque finally arrives, it’s off to M&S for me.
* * *
Should any of you be considering a career as a presenter, here are some of Emily’s handy, on-camera tips for ladies:
Wear trousers or a skirt– something with afirmwaistband.
If you simplymustwear that floaty littleMonsoonnumber, NEW knickers with REINFORCED elastic obligatory.
NEVER use words likeunbreakable, shatterprooforsturdy –you’re asking for trouble.
