Free Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man by Claudia Carroll Page B

head of television to discuss the sharply falling ratings on
Celtic Tigers
and, even more worryingly, the consequential drop in advertising revenue.
    â€˜The Axeman cometh,’ Dave Bruton whispers to me as we all file into the television centre’s very scary-looking boardroom for a last-minute emergency summit meeting. All the department heads have been hastily summoned; everyone’s just had to drop everything. And by everyone, I really mean everyone. Scripting, design, wardrobe, make-up: they’re all sittinground the table, with the same bewildered look of ‘what’s about to happen?’
    The meeting is chaired by one Philip Burke, the head of television, a man so important he’s actually my boss’s boss.
    I’ve never met him before, although I know him by reputation as someone tough and uncompromising, slightly to the right of Attila the Hun. He’s young to be doing such a huge job, no more than late thirties I’m guessing, slightly grey around the temples and with that washed-out, exhausted look all television executives seem to develop after a couple of years at the top. He’s not handsome, he’s not ugly, he’s somewhere in between … Pugly. If he was played by a Hollywood actor it would have to be … Sean Penn.
    I also note with interest that he’s single.
    It’s almost like a reflex action with me now. Whenever I meet any semi-attractive man, my eye will instantly fall to the ring finger of their left hand to clock whether or not there’s a wedding band. Which, in this case, there isn’t. Well, can you blame a girl for keeping her options open?
    He shoots straight from the hip. ‘OK, people. Bad news and worse news. Which do you want first?’
    There’s a long silence. After all, there’s direct and then there’s stealth-missile direct. Eventually someone pipes up, ‘Let’s get the bad news out of the way, then.’
    Philip Burke picks up a computer printout ratingssheet. ‘The episode of
Celtic Tigers
broadcast last Saturday night attracted a viewership of fewer than four hundred thousand; that’s an overall drop of
thirty per cent
on last month’s Nielsen ratings. Not to put too fine a point on it, this trend is not good enough and can’t be allowed to continue. Any ideas why this is happening?’
    Sharon Quinn, head of marketing, pipes up. ‘Well, Philip, we’ve recently experienced a lot of fundamental shifts in our audience demographic—’
    â€˜Coupled with the overall crappiness of the show, you mean,’ he cuts right across her.
    More surprised looks. We’re not really used to straight talkers round here.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he goes on, not raising his voice and being all the more effective for it, ‘but aside from the Angelus and reruns of
The Little House on the Prairie
, this is now our lowest-rated programme. Did any of you people actually bother to watch Saturday night’s transmission? One character comes out of a coma and half an hour later is engaged to his ex-wife’s identical twin sister? Have you people lost all grip on reality?’
    God, he’s
really
scary …
    â€˜Excuse me, Philip,’ Sharon retorts defensively. ‘I agree with you that some of the plotlines are a tad far-fetched, but surely you accept that that’s a conceit of soap opera? It’s probably the only medium wherecharacters can walk out of showers and we can claim the last few years have all been one big dream. All drama is about suspension of disbelief.’
    â€˜Not a good enough argument,’ says Philip. ‘Which one of you is Amelia Lockwood?’
    I gingerly put my hand up.
    â€˜Oh, there you are, hi,’ he says, as if he hadn’t really noticed me before. ‘OK, I know you’re only babysitting the show till Jayne Lawler gets back, but as deputy producer, what are your thoughts?’
    He’s looking at me