Darn It!

DARN IT!

Christine Murray

Copyright © 2012

All Rights Reserved.

Kindle edition

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Christine Murray asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Darn It!

Nicki winced at the unmistakeable sound of fabric ripping. A piece of her skirt had got caught in the side of her seat, and hadn’t moved with her as she stood up to get off the bus. Her skirt, which she had thought would look so great in work, was now ruined. How was she going to manage to get through the day looking a state?

The fact that her skirt had torn so easily wasn’t surprising. Lately she didn’t have much money, and the little she did have was spent on making sure that Katie was taken care of. After her precious daughter, there was precious little left to put towards her work wardrobe, so she bought the cheapest clothes she could afford. They crumpled easily, weren’t very warm, and they tore at the slightest bit of pressure. But it would have been nice if it had happened on the way home from work rather than on the way there.

It had already been a nightmare of a morning. Katie had been over with her father the night before, and she was always a little bit unsettled after his visits. She’d been clingy at the child-minder’s house that morning; Nicki had to peel off her daughter’s limbs off one by one like a mollusc off a rock and had arrived – tearful and late – at the bus stop. She was almost afraid to glance at her watch in case it confirmed her fear that she was going to be late. While she didn’t look, she still had hope that she might be on time - self-delusion could be a powerful thing.

The bus reached another snarl of traffic and she finally gave up. There was nothing for it; she was going to have to run. She got off, tearing her new skirt in the process, and ran as fast as she could towards the television studio where she worked. Her shoes had cost her ten euro in a bargain bin, and they had very little in the way of tread. She slid on the film of water left over from the early morning rain, and she had to grab onto the coat of a nearby commuter to stop herself falling arse over tit onto the pavement.

‘Do you mind?’ the man hissed before stalking away. Nicki sighed, and put her hand up to her hair, a reflex whenever she was agitated. She could feel her hair freeing itself from the plaited bun she’d put it in this morning. She may not have money for clothes, so she put the effort into her hair, but even the laws of physics seemed to be deserting her this morning.

By the time she burst into the boardroom, she was hot and flustered. The table was already surrounded by immaculately turned out executives, and there was only one empty chair. Hers.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised as she slid into her chair.

‘You’re five minutes late,’ said Kenny, the producer.

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

He gave a curt nod, and Alva gave a quick smirk in her direction. Alva had cool blonde hair with no highlights, no warmth, and her eyes were an ice blue. In the two years that Nicki had been working alongside her as a she didn’t think that she’d ever seen the other woman give a genuine smile – that was if smirks didn’t count. If Nicki looked crumpled and badly put together, Alva was the complete opposite. Today she was wearing a fitted ice pink sleeveless dress, gravity defying white heels, all accentuated by a golden tan from her latest holiday. Her make-up was expertly applied, and she didn’t have a hair out of place. She certainly didn’t sport the just-ran-for-ten-minutes-in-heels flush that Nicki did.

Nicki took her folder out of her bag, and repressed a curse as the smooth faux leather slipped out of her grasp. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her, making her clumsy.

The worst part was that, contractually, Nicki didn’t even have to be there until 9am. This meeting had been scheduled for half eight, at Alva’s suggestion. Alva knew that Nicki had a little girl, but was always making up reasons why the team had to meet outside work hours. A couple of evenings ago, they’d all had to stay late and ordered in dinner to work on an extended special of the show. Nicki had rung her mum and got her to drive halfway across the city to pick up Katie from the child-minders and put her to bed. Her mother didn’t mind doing it, she told Nikki, but it would be nice if next time she could have a bit more notice.

‘I have Zumba on a Tuesday, you know,’ she’d said reprovingly. ‘We were learning new steps tonight, I’m going to look a right eejit next week bashing into people and going the wrong way. I don’t know why you can’t just say no.’

Strictly speaking, Nicki could do precisely that. Staying late the other night had been optional; everybody knew that she had a kid to get home to, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But Regina, one of the presenters of the show that she was a part of, was leaving.

Nicki and Alva were junior researchers on the show. They checked background details, trawled for stories, and briefed the main presenters. Regina, on the other hand, researched stories herself, and filmed segments with her own crew, and then would talk to the two main presenters on the show about the issue. It was a lot more responsibility, a lot more camera time, and a lot more money. Nicki desperately wanted the job, but so did Alva. All these suggestions that Alva kept making were designed so that she would bow out, proving to everyone that as a working mother she was unreliable. It was like a professional game of chicken. Nicki couldn’t say anything because, after all, Regina had kids as well. But Regina also lived with her husband, and they juggled childcare responsibilities between them, which made a huge difference.

The annoying thing was that Nicki knew that she could actually do it herself. Most of the preparation and filming occurred during the working week: she’d only need to be around for one night a week to do her part in front of camera. Katie could stay over with her father that night, he’d be all for it if it meant that she’d be earning more money. He infuriated her in many ways, but he did at least help out with his daughter.

Obviously, Alva being more put together meant that she looked more right for the part. She looked like a glamorous television journalist. Nicki knew that she’d probably get the job, and it sickened her because she knew that she’d do a better job. If only she could get the chance.

‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘There was a traffic snarl up at Stephen’s Green. I had to get off the bus and walk.’

‘Really?’ said Alva, looking confused. ‘It was fine when I came in, though I
did
get in almost an hour ago.’ Nicki hated her, she truly hated her. That was Alva’s MO, soft bland comments that hid the fact that there was a secret barb tucked in there somewhere. Nicki wished that smart, witty comebacks were her forte, but she was no match for Alva. Anyway, if she retaliated she’d look like one of those bitchy women who couldn’t stand to work with another female on a team.

‘Well, I’m here now,’ she said instead, opening her folder on the desk. Too late, she noticed that there was something squashed and congealed stuck to the underside of it. It was Liga. Really, today was one of those days where she really should have stayed at home. She decided just to brazen it out. ‘So what are we talking about?’

‘We’re going through the running order for this week’s show,’ said Kenny. He was the head of the production team. ‘It looks like Regina will be leaving sooner than we thought. As you know, she’s going to be co-presenting our new political programme. We’d planned on starting it in a month’s time, but we decided that, with the new minister scandal, we’d bring it forward a couple of weeks.’

Alva looked interested in this. ‘Bring it forward to when?’

‘Next week,’ said Kenny.

Next week? It was understandable. TV8 wasn’t exactly the biggest name in Irish television. They were slowly gaining market share since starting up five years ago, but it was slow going. Regina had worked briefly for the minister implicated in the scandal before she decided to pursue a career in the media instead of politics. Nicki wasn’t sure if she actually knew all that much, but viewers would tune in to see if she had any insider information, and maybe start watching the programme regularly. It would certainly create a buzz, and TV8 needed that.

But the team would have to make a decision on who was going to take over Regina’s slot sooner than either Alva or Nicki had banked on. She glanced over at Alva, who was already giving her an appraising look, sizing up the competition and probably finding it lacking. She clearly thought that she had it in the bag. And she probably did.

‘So whoever gets this position, will have to start from next week, is that right?’ asked Alva. She could barely contain her glee; in fact she was more animated than Nicki had ever seen her. It might be the first genuine emotion that she’d ever seen cross her face.

‘That’s right,’ said Kenny. ‘As you know, we intend to promote in house for this role. It’s part of our ethos here at TV8 that we try to nurture our existing talent, rather than looking outside.’ This was a nice way of saying that they were too cheap to use a recruitment company.

‘We had many applications, but the two strongest were Nicki and Alva.’

Runner up, thought Nicki. It could have been worse, though she would have preferred to lose out to any other in person in the building. But that was personally, rather than professionally.

There was a silence as everybody waited to hear who had got the job. Nicki was better liked by the team – she pulled her weight which was important in a small company like theirs – but nobody particularly wanted to cross Alva. She seemed like a women who was fond of retribution.

‘Well?’ said Kenny, surprised that his team wasn’t more animated first thing in the morning. He was so happy he made Mormon missionaries look grumpy. ‘Don’t you want to know who the next head of Focus Hibernia is?’

‘Who is it?’ said Greg dully.

‘It’s both of them!’ said Ken, screeching happily.

That was enough to wipe the smug look off Alva’s face. There was no way that sharing the limelight with anyone had been in her plans.

‘Wait,’ said Nicki. ‘We’re both going to head up the show?’ The thought of having to share the assignments with Alva made her want to cry. There was no way that Alva would let her talk to the presenters live on the show: that wasn’t how she operated. Not only would she have to spend most of the week with Alva compiling the report, she’d have to sit beside her on the couch like a lemon while Alva stole her thunder. It was an utter nightmare.

‘That’s kind of irregular,’ said Danielle, the warm and bubbly host of the programme, and one TV8’s genuine stars. She had no fillers in her face, which made her able to furrow her brow with an impressive amount of concern when listening to the human interest stories that Focus Hibernia was famous for. That was more than could be said for Greg, the other presenter, who had so much Botox in his face that he looked like an exhibit at a wax museum.

‘I’m not sure that would work,’ she continued. ‘We’d have four presenters on the set at one time, plus any guests that are brought on to talk about the points raised in the segment. It would be very cluttered, and quite frankly we’d have to fairly squeeze onto those couches.’

Danielle had a point. Nicki gave her a little smile: Danielle was always the nicer presenter to brief.

‘I know that,’ said Kenny impatiently. ‘And I wouldn’t want to do anything to mess with the dynamic. It has good ratings, it works. But the one place it falls down is on getting those viewers to interact with us. That’s the secret of a good programme these days, bringing the viewers online - and that doesn’t happen these days. If TV8 is going to compete in this new market we’re going to have to raise our game. So, we’re going to let the viewers decide who becomes the next lead investigative reporter!’

‘So, there’ll be a vote?’ asked Nicki, the penny dropping.

‘Yes!’ said Kenny. ‘You and Alva will film a small segment, about half the length of our usual pieces, on the same topic. You’ll both get equal time with the film crew. Your reports will both be shown, and the viewers will be asked to vote via Facebook and Twitter. That means that the viewers get to choose the presenter. And if they get a presenter they like, then they’ll be more likely to tune in. Advertisers will go nuts, and we’ll start connecting with our audience via social media. Good idea, eh?’

‘But Kenny, a lot of our viewers wouldn’t want to go online, they’re not really that computer literate,’ said Greg.