Page 16 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We’re losing interviews.
The ratings results, which I try every day to forget, are impossible to escape.
And for the first time since I’ve worked here, I’m struggling to pull interviews.
Am getting ghosted by publicists, am getting told they have no space for me in the media schedule.
When I ask for feedback they tell me there’s limited availability but I’m certain it’s because of the ratings.
Because we’re sliding. Talent managers only have so much time in the schedule and they’re not going to waste a slot on a breakfast program that’s no longer pulling in the listeners.
Today is no different. Sitting here, at the desk, after everyone else has gone home, and I find myself on the phone arguing with a music publicist. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I can’t justify keeping this interview,’ he says. Voice strained. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Hamish, it was an exclusive .’
Pause. ‘We can’t do it, I’m sorry.’ There’s genuine sympathy there, but it doesn’t do anything to settle this deep pit in my gut.
‘Are you giving it to someone else?’
He doesn’t answer, and I feel like crumbling. Collapsing onto the carpeted ground beneath me, crawling into my sweater and disappearing.
Our biggest interview of the year – something scheduled six months ago, something we’ve been promoting on air for the past week – has been pulled.
One quick phone call and we’re done. One of the biggest pop singers in the world and we had the national exclusive.
We’d promised them a double slot, we’d promised to send through questions beforehand, and we’d promised to send the pre-recorded interview ahead of time to check it was fine.
All these contingencies that we’d never normally offer, and we’re still being cast aside.
‘Charlie,’ he starts. ‘We get one slot in this market. One radio interview. I have to be able to justify where I place it.’
‘But you gave it to us .’
‘Yeah, before,’ he says. Before .
‘Hamish.’
Finally, he says it. ‘You’re fourth, Charlie. Fourth .’
I expected it, naturally, and I still find myself grimacing. Pinching the bridge of my nose. ‘Who are you giving it to?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘ Fuck .’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m really sorry.’ And then he hangs up, and I am alone again. In this quiet station, with an hours-old, half-eaten sandwich to my right, and a cold mug of coffee to my left.
‘He cancelled?’
I jump. Turn around.
Graham is perched on the edge of my colleague Ivan’s desk, hands crossed. Glasses resting on the edge of his nose. Bushy eyebrows drawn together, gaze distant.
‘Yeah.’
He closes his eyes, crushed. ‘Christ.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I left my wallet in the studio.’
‘Oh.’
‘You told me you weren’t going to stay back again.’
‘I lied.’
He nods, and doesn’t appear to have the energy to fight me on this. ‘He’s really cancelled?’ he asks, and I nod.
For the first time since the ratings results, I see genuine fear flash across Graham’s face. What’s going to happen to us ?
‘Have you heard anything?’ I ask.
He doesn’t need me to elaborate. Apparently there’s been no word from the executive team since the ratings were released, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. Doesn’t mean our jobs are safe.
What’s
Going
To
Happen
To
Us?
‘I meant what I said,’ Graham replies. ‘If they fire you, I’ll walk.’