Coming Up Next
A darkly comic novel about the fall and rise of a TV presenter. Written by an insider, it’s a page-turning account of life on the sofa and in front of the cameras.When Katie Fisher, morning TV presenter, returns from holiday it's to discover that she's literally yesterday's news. Publicly sacked from her job as anchor of Hello Britain! and replaced by a pert young thing, she does what any self-respecting thirty something would in these circumstances – she makes a dash for her parents and hits the bottle.But Katie, sooner or later, has to face the world, the photographers, and the backstage intrigue of morning television: the cut-throat, lecherous producers, the ambitious but vacant Keera, and Mike, her co-host, a trustworthy friend or just another one of the many back-stabbers? Humour is Katie's only weapon and, as things hit rock-bottom, it could provide a perfect solution to life after the sofa.Knowing, insightful and darkly comic, Penny Smith's novel is the insider's view of TV.
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Coming Up Next
PENNY SMITH
For Mum and Dad, and Mrs Windsor
Contents
In hindsight, the holiday had probably not been a good idea. Two weeks earlier, Katie Fisher had presented the Friday-morning programme, said, ‘Thanks for watching,’ to a nation in nightwear, and gone to collect her suitcase from the newsroom. Then, an unusual occurrence: she had been called in by the editor. He was normally too busy shouting at his minions to notice the presenters coming and going.
She had stepped breezily into his office and waited for him to say something. It was such a long time coming that, mentally, she started to take his clothes off. Yes, she thought. Unattractive underpants with his skinny little legs hanging out the bottom like spotty Twiglets. Possibly a fat pudenda, lightly sprinkled with ginger hairs. So, I have to make one choice to save the life of my brother. Lick the Twiglets. Or cut off my hand. No, too easy. Lick the Twiglets or …
‘Sorry?’ she asked.
‘I said,’ he put his fingers together, ‘that the annual research had thrown up some interesting information.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Well …’ He paused.
She got the impression he was enjoying this.
‘They seem to be having a few problems with your, erm, allegedly quirky sense of humour.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The viewers – and therefore the advertisers – appear to find your brand of humour unappetizing. Unappealing. Unfunny. Irritating.’
Katie had never been good at concealing what she thought. The viewers could always tell exactly how she felt about the celebrity she was interviewing, or the story she was telling. So Simon could see that she hadn’t been expecting what he’d just told her. And, yes, he was enjoying it. He didn’t like Katie. She had made it quite obvious that she thought he was repulsive, despite his considerable efforts when he had arrived at the breakfast-television station.
‘So, what do you want me to do about the fact that viewers have a problem?’
‘Nothing, really. I mean, it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the queen of the lame joke. The princess of puns. Top banana of the never-ending once-upon-a-story. The managing editor suggested I told you, in line with procedure. That’s all.’
In line with procedure? What was he talking about? ‘Well, thank you,’ she had said, after a pause, with a tight smile. ‘Thanks very much. In that case I’ll have a lovely holiday, shall I? Good. See you in a couple of weeks, then. And I’ll go via the humour-bypass surgeon and see if I can check in for a quick one. I’ve got BUPA, after all.’
On the plane, though, she had spent the entire flight worrying.
No matter which way she cut it, with a vodka and tonic or the next passenger’s roll and cheese (‘Are you sure you don’t mind? Just that I haven’t eaten since five this morning …’), it didn’t look good.
The advertisers ruled the airwaves. They wanted mothers with children – they craved mothers with children. If they didn’t get their mothers with children they were like King Kong after a back-sac-and-crack wax. They were hurt and angry. They wanted to be soothed. Unlike King Kong, they were more articulate. They’d be demanding changes. And while nobody editing or managing a show would fire the presenters just because the advertisers said so, they’d certainly have a quick look at them.
At thirty-five thousand feet, Katie couldn’t stop wondering if her career was coming off the rails. Four years of four a.m. starts and going to bed at eight p.m. Four years of relationships crashing on the rocks of her bedtime. And possibly, if she was honest, her bed. She had never used the excuse that she had a headache. There had been no need. The faint snoring usually gave away her terminal tiredness. She would be ready, waiting, willing and able in her rubber nurse’s outfit, with a Rabbit vibrator primed and ready to go, but if the foreplay lasted longer than five minutes, the Rabbit was the only thing still buzzing.
She wasn’t old, she thought. Strictly, yes, she was middle-aged, if you considered middle age to be halfway through life, but she didn’t look old. How she felt was a different matter: more Volvo than Ferrari, more bedsocks than stockings.
Had her jokes gone off?
Or had they only just noticed the smell?
She groaned out loud. Which seemed to upset the man in the aisle seat. She was feeling bloody-minded and did it again, with gusto.
He gave her a look, but no more.
That was the wonderful thing about travelling with the British: in general, they didn’t like to make a fuss.
If they sacked her, would she go quietly?
Right, she thought. I’ll think about this for half an hour and then I’ll enjoy my holiday. Do what Dad says: ‘Don’t worry about the things you can do something about. Just do something about them. Don’t worry about the things you can’t do anything about, because you can’t do anything about them.’
