Whatever happens (product malfunction or comet colliding with earth), KEEP TALKING!!
* * *
Over the next few weeks, I gulp, perspire, flounder, andfly by the seat of my pants through a variety of guest presentations, extolling the virtues of owning exercise bikes and Elvis commemorative plates. I tell myself to give it time, and I may yet become the next Lorraine Kelly.
But that was before the nylon, foldaway-bag fiasco, which firmly puts paid to any aspirations I may have of reporting showbiz gossip from a breakfast sofa.
It hadworked so well in the bedroom mirror that morning, but of course, come the live show, it all goes horribly wrong …
‘This handy, nylon bag folds away to next to nothing. Its clever three-in-one design allows the bag togrow, so to speak, by unzipping the compartments, like this. Ahem … likethis…’ At first I try the softly, softly approach, then yank it hard, the nylon bunching up as the zip’steeth refuse to let go. ‘It has a drawstring for added security,’ I say, dry-mouthed, grabbing nervously at the toggle, which promptly comes off in my hand.
I stare at it, memories of my last tussle with a toggle flashing disturbingly across my mind: it was during a pre-flight safety demo, in front of a captive audience of around three hundred passengers. ‘Pull the toggle as shown,’ the cabinservice director had announced into the microphone. Distracted by the rare sighting of an oh-so-dreamy passenger in business class, I yanked it too hard, and the jacket inflated with a loud hiss, leaving me standing in the aisle, looking like Mr Blobby.
‘Do not inflate your lifejacket until you are outside the aircraft.’ Cue mass, hysterical laughter.
Meanwhile, back in the studio, youcan hear a bead drop. The cameraman’s head rises slowly from behind the lens. The floor manager is gesticulating wildly with her clipboard, mouthing, ‘Go onnnn!’
Say something,tolls a voice in my head …anything.But it’s of no use; my brain and mouth refuse to communicate with one another. Initially, fear spreads through me; then, all at once, another, louder voice cuts through the mentalchaos, calmly saying,Why have you allowed yourself to be sidetracked into this wow-factor world of easy payments and on-air testimonials? This is ludicrous. An actress is what you want to be, not Sir Alan Sugar’s next business partner.
I march back along the corridor, heels clacking decisively along the tiled floor, eyes focused straight ahead. I can almost hear the laughter echoing behindme from the Barbie and Ken lookalikes on the gallery wall.
Wheredidthey find her?
She’s obviously never been to a tanning studio in her life.
And those teeth! Has she never heard of veneers?
She couldn’t sell hair extensions to Kim Kardashian even if she tried.
No, I do not belong to their world.
I’ve had enough of appearing calm when zips get stuck, buttons pop off,lids refuse to open, and garden fairy lights fuse. Despite not having a job to go to, I need to come up with a convincing get-out plan pretty damn quick, as I’m down to demonstrate hand-held turbo steamers the day after tomorrow.
As I enter the green room, there’s Prue from Production pacing up and down, one hand on her hip, the other clasping her mobile to her ear.
‘What happened, Emily?’she says tetchily, snapping the phone shut and ushering me into the ladies’ dressing room. My stomach clenches. ‘I accept things go wrong sometimes, but we expect our presenters to carry on regardless, not freeze up.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Prue. In fact I’ve decided that …’
‘Sales were very poor, I’m afraid. The client’s been on the phone already. He’s not very happy, as you can wellimagine.’
‘Of course. I really feel that I’m not …’
‘We can’t run the risk of losing valuable business in this way.’
‘Quite. I’m just not cut out …’
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve decided to take you off the Turbo Steam Cleaner slot – in fact, I won’t be assigning you to any more presentations in the future.’ Voice softening, she continues, ‘Many actors find theysimply aren’t suited to this type of work, so don’t lose any sleep over it, will you?’
Oh no, Prue, I won’t. In fact, had you come up for air and listened to what I had to say for just one moment, I would have told you that I’d already decided that you’d have to find someone else to promote your turbo steam cleaners, rotary choppers, and electrical foot warmers because I QUIT!
The glasslift delivers me to the steel atrium of Homeworld TV. I sign out and return my pass to the uniformed receptionist, with a self-assured air, head held high.
As I stride along Southwark Street, it starts to rain. I don’t have an umbrella, but I don’t care. And I don’t care that I’ve just been fired either, because I feel free, free to carry on looking for what it is Ireallywant. Okay, so thepresentation was a bit of a train crash, but it’s given me a TV credit for my CV, it’s paid off my Visa bill, and they say failure is the key to success, right?
The old me would have skulked back to Beryl’s, retreated to the sofa in my pj’s, and binged on chocolate and old episodes ofFriends. The new me sweeps into Carluccio’s, orders spaghetti carbonara, a glass of house red, and toaststhe future.
The old me wouldn’t have eaten alone in a restaurant, because people would think I was lonely and sad. The new me doesn’t care what people think and is happy to be alone.
