Dead Famous

DAY TWENTY-SIX. 9.15 a.m.

Bob Fogarty waited until the following morning’s production meeting to make his complaint. He wanted his objections to be noted publicly. It was difficult for him to find his moment because Geraldine was roaring with laughter so much as she recalled Sally’s unlikely take on the weekly task.

“All I’m trying to do is persuade them to feel each other up and it turns out I’m a champion of minority rights. Anyway, all ethnic and sexual bollocks aside, Dervla will have to get ’em out for the lads or nobody gets a drink next week.”

Fogarty had to stand up to get her attention. “Geraldine, we are coercing this girl into taking her clothes off against her wishes.”

“Yes, Bob, we all know that. Why are you standing up?”

“Because I think it’s morally corrupt.”

“Oh, do fuck off.”

Fogarty had finally had enough. “Ms Hennessy, I cannot prevent you from using profanity to punctuate your sentences, but I am a grown man and a highly qualified employee and I am entitled to insist that you do not use such language towards me or those who work under me.”

“No, you’re fucking not, you cunt. Now sit down or fuck off.”

Fogarty did neither. He just stood there, shaking.

“You think you can do me for constructive dismissal?” Geraldine asked. “For swearing? Grow up, Bob. Even this cunt of a country isn’t that pathetic yet. If you walk out it’s a straight resignation and you get bugger-all. Now, are you staying or are you going?”

Fogarty sat down.

“Good. You may be an arsehole, but you’re a talented arsehole and I don’t want to lose you. And besides which,” Geraldine went on, “Dervla is free to leave that house at any time. She could have walked out there and then, and she could walk out now. But she hasn’t done, has she? And why? Because she wants to be on telly, that’s why, and at the end of the day, if she has to take her clothes off to do it, then you can bet your last quid she’ll allow herself to be persuaded.”

Bob stared down into his coffee. He looked like a man who needed a bar of chocoate. “We’re corrupting her,” he mumbled.

“What?” Geraldine barked.

“I said, we’re corrupting her,” but this time Fogarty said it even more quietly.

“Look!” shouted Geraldine. “I’m not asking the snooty stuck-up cow to show us her bits full on, am I? There are guidelines, you know. We do have a Broadcasting Standards Commission in this country. The polythene walls of that box are going to be translucent and the lights will be off. The idea is to make it so dark that the anonymity will persuade some of them to have it off, which I can assure you will be a lot more interesting than precious little Dervla’s sacred little knockers. I want it to be literally dark as hell in that box.”

Eviction