Page 41 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Graham’s final red-carpet event for the year is a television and film awards night. The awards night. Biggest, most-watched and streamed live across the country.

‘Do I really need to do this if I’ve been fired?’ he asks, beside me in the back seat of the car. He’s attaching his cufflinks while I read through briefing notes. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and we’re still a few minutes away from the venue.

‘Yes.’

‘Says who?’

Gosh, I don’t know. I’m just a lowly producer, I don’t make the rules.

Grumbling from beside me, he runs a hand over his bald head. He wears a navy suit – his finest – and I’ve squeezed into a strapless burgundy gown. Low heels, black. A silver necklace resting on my collarbones. Matching silver earrings.

I’ve got the briefing notes in my lap but also a spotter sheet – photos of all the talent expected to attend tonight. Actors, filmmakers, influencers, composers. It’s an extensive list this year, and I feel it’s going to be a massive night.

‘Last one,’ I say, looking up at him.

‘Thank god,’ he says, squirming a little to get comfortable. ‘Hate these kinds of things. They’re stuffy and crowded and loud.’

I don’t believe him for one second. He once told me this was his favourite event of the year, and right now the man cannot stop leaning forward to check the GPS tracker in the front of the car. Keeps looking out the window as we approach the venue.

I reach out and rest a hand on the top of his back, bringing his attention to me. But also because I know it calms him. ‘Are you worried people are going to say something?’

He frowns. ‘No.’

‘Graham.’

He relents. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘It’s your job.’

He looks at me, challenged, and I can tell from his tight expression what he’s thinking. For three more weeks. But he says nothing. Then, he runs an eye over me. Head to toe.

‘I like what you’re wearing. You look nice.’ Then he runs a hand down his own suit. ‘Mine’s a little tight.’

‘You look very handsome.’

‘Not too bad for an old guy.’

The red carpet is stationed at the front entrance of an exhibition centre, stretching from one end of the carpark to the other.

Studio lights line – and illuminate – the entire stretch of carpet, with bollards and rope to section off the media from the talent.

On the other side of the carpet sits a four-level tiered grandstand for fans, who have already started taking their seats.

When the event publicist shows us to our allocated position in the media line, we realise that something has shifted. It’s immediate, like someone has thrown a bucket of iced water down our backs.

We’d usually be stationed towards the start of the carpet, near the television crews and the sponsors.

It increased our chances of access to the biggest names – because we were the second most sought-after radio outlet in the country and we could catch the talent before the media line exhausted them.

But tonight, they’ve placed us down the back with the tabloids. With the shady journalists and the trashy magazines, known for asking inappropriate personal questions. With the bloggers and sub-par freelance journalists.

I know we’re not as valuable anymore, with the ratings slipping. With Graham being fired. But being placed here ? We’re going to get skipped by the talent. The publicists will take one look at who is standing next to us and veer their actor away.

Before she slips away, the event publicist throws me a sympathetic glance, then shrugs, as if to say, What did you expect? What was I supposed to do ?

This is a disaster, and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s enough to make my chest constrict.

‘Well, fuck.’ Graham is blinking at a rapid rate; that’s how he composes himself when he’s upset.

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’ I assumed we’d have the same spot as last year. And the year before that, and the year before that. And every single year before that, for the six years I’ve been working with Graham.

He rolls his shoulders back. ‘How long until it starts?’

Looking at my watch, I wince. ‘We’ve got an hour for set-up.’

‘And then the two-hour carpet.’

I nod.

‘Jesus, okay.’ His mouth twists as he steps behind the bollard and rope, as he glances down at the floor and reads all the media outlet labels written on paper. Slowly, he steadies his breathing.

It’s only a matter of time before Graham’s facade falters, and I fear it is imminent.

Over the next hour, as other press arrive, the media line squishes.

Journalists in their floor-length gowns, some with trains and far too much equipment.

Lights, camera stands, everybody’s bags on the ground behind us – it’s all far too busy.

We’re squeezed together in such a small space – how are we all going to fit?

In our old spot, up the front, it was spacious, and we felt royal.

But down here, towards the end of the line, we’re pressed up against everyone else. Edging our path with elbows.

Normally, I’d love this. The people, the conversations, the company. After a few quiet nights at Graham’s, I was looking forward to this. Now, all I want to do is turn around and go home.

With each body that’s added to the media line, the temperature climbs.

We’re undercover but we’re outdoors, and it’s already too humid.

Warm and sticky. The backs of my knees are sweating, and I can see that the top of Graham’s forehead is starting to glisten.

I smell body odour, but can’t tell who it’s coming from.

There’s another grandstand on the other side of the carpet, directly facing us. Five tiered rows of fans, all waiting to sight their favourite celebrity. Phones out, cheers ready.

And so, we know instantly when the carpet has started. Not because we can see the arrivals ourselves, but because the fans have a better view than we do and their squeals alert us.

Graham reads his briefing notes and spotter sheet one more time. Then straightens and turns to me. ‘I’ve decided I’m fine with this. I’m being positive.’

That’s great, because I’m not. I was trying to be positive, but that was an hour ago and now I feel awful. After everything Graham’s done for radio and this is how he ends his career. My upper lip curls.

To really twist the knife, I realise how long it takes for anyone to reach us down here at the back. It’s at least twenty minutes, maybe more, before an obtrusive dress is in view.

And then, it’s a sea of people, floor-length gowns and fitted bodices, silk column dresses and sequined mermaid cuts.

Sleek ponytails and hair extensions, drop earrings and obscurely shaped metallic clutches.

Publicists with lanyards hustle the media line, adorning all black and pulling their talent over for interviews.

The noise reaches an unbelievable height. How have I never noticed that?

We bank a couple of interviews, but as suspected, we’re largely avoided. We watch as publicists read media outlet names on the ground, see who surrounds us, then give their talent a quick head shake and move right along towards the photo wall.

‘It’s because they can’t properly see me,’ Graham says, elbowing a couple of the people beside him. ‘If they could just see me.’

That’s definitely not it.

‘Hold on. I’m just going to nudge forward.’ He tries to readjust his stance, leans out over the bollard a little further, and in the process, he somehow loses his footing.

He tumbles forward onto the carpet.

Hand over head, belly smacking down on the carpet.

He takes down a bollard as he does it, causing an almighty racket.

The air shifts. Before, it was hot and stuffy – far too much noise, far too many journalists and media crews.

But when he falls, suddenly it’s just the two of us.

And it feels like the carpet freezes. Everyone around us turns to see what’s happened.

Jaws dropped open, hands covering mouths. Phones extended, filming.

‘Shit.’ I rush forward, stepping over the rope to help him. So do scores of other people, which I know is making it worse. Making it become more of a scene.

Talent have stopped walking the carpet, instead pausing to stare. Publicists hold grimaced expressions. Around us, media are shouting out, asking if he’s okay. And then, to my left, two security guards jog over.

All eyes are on us.

Graham makes a strangled groan as I hook my arm underneath his shoulder and help him up. ‘Are you okay?’

My god, this is awful. With each person who comes over to us, and joins this crowd, my body tenses up even further.

I should’ve stopped him from stepping forward.

The pitying looks cause me to sweat even more than I already am.

We’re on live television now: I can sense it without even looking over at the camera crews.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine ,’ Graham snaps, pulling himself up. Swatting our hands away as we try to assist. Keeping his head down. Blinking like crazy.

Everyone is looking at us – at Graham. And anyone who’s been in the media for a long time is giving us softened expressions, because they’ve noticed where we’ve been placed. Seen what media we’re surrounded by. Clocked what this means.

Graham straightens his jacket, which has torn along the armpit.

‘You can’t notice it,’ I say, after he runs his fingers along the tear.

He closes his eyes. ‘I’ll just keep my arm down to my side.’ Then he tips his head to the side to crack his neck and rotates his torso to crack his back.

‘You sure that you’re okay—’

‘I’m fine. Let’s just, forget it happened, okay?’

‘Okay.’

He won’t look anyone in the eye, just keeps hold of the microphone in his hand and works to control his breathing.

I want to tell him it’s not his fault the ratings slipped, and that I’m sorry he’s been fired.

I want to tell him that something will come up for him, because this simply cannot be the end of his career.

But he keeps fighting back tears and he keeps touching the rip in his jacket – running his fingertips along it and poking his finger through the new hole – and I know this isn’t the right time.

‘Maybe take the jacket off?’ I suggest. ‘If you’re worried about it.’

His mouth twists. ‘This is my best suit.’

‘A tailor will fix it.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

I know what he meant.

For the rest of the night, most of the talent bypasses us. Don’t even see us, just get whisked away by their publicists and steered inside to get seated.

We’re calling out their names, but so are the other media outlets. And with each familiar face that walks by, I see Graham grow more and more depleted. Is this what it’s come to?

I am determined not to check my phone, because I know it’s blowing up about the fall. God knows what people are saying about him. God knows how many have viewed the footage.

‘Are you sure that you’re okay?’ I ask.

‘Stop asking me that.’

‘I’m worried about you.’

His mouth forms a thin line, but he shrugs off my comment. And it’s really tiring, I’ll admit, trying to coax the truth out of him. I’m so, so exhausted.

‘Graham, what are you going to do after you leave the station?’

He flinches, then stumbles over the words. ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.’

‘Really? Look where we are.’ I extend my arms to prove a point. ‘You might be the first radio host I’ve heard of to get fired but given notice. You know that’s worse, right? You have to stick around while they find your replacement. Are they going to make you do the onboarding, too?’

His eyes widen. Looks up at me with this challenged expression. I didn’t know you had that in you .

People are staring. Listening. We’re packed too tight for conversations like this to go unnoticed. Graham’s eyes dart around.

‘Graham, you got fired . Doesn’t that bother you—’

He simply holds up a hand to silence me.

And I’d argue, I would, but a commotion is starting to build over the evening’s biggest arrival. The crowd on the other side of the carpet recognises a famous face, and judging by their reactions, we know instantly who it is.

Graham presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes, and shakes his shoulders as if resetting.

Pauline Sandringham, a seasoned actor who’s been in the industry for almost as long as Graham.

Rich, black hair trailing down her back.

Pale skin peppered with freckles. She’s wearing a purple number – lilac, low-neck, sequined and draped over her shoulders and down her arms, paired with silver, beaded heels.

We’ve had her on the show a dozen times – she and Graham have known each other most of their lives.

She’s barely doing any interviews, breezing down the carpet. But as she nears the end, she spots Graham from afar and comes charging towards us, beaming. ‘Oh, Graham ,’ she says, breathless. Pulling him into a hug. ‘I was hoping to see you.’

Graham is so relieved to have nabbed an A-lister, I fear he’s about to cry. ‘Pauline, thank you.’

‘How are you?’ she asks. And he lies, of course, tells her he’s doing very well. That it’s a blessing. That he’s going to be just fine. And she buys it. Visibly relaxes. Says, ‘Good.’ Tells us that our show is her favourite in the country, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do without him.

Realising we’re running out of time, Graham thrusts his microphone under Pauline’s chin and the interview gets underway.

‘How are you feeling tonight about your nomination?’

‘Talk us through your outfit.’

‘Who are you excited to see here?’

‘Will you be going to the afterparty?’

‘And finally, any projects coming up that you’re excited about?’

And then the interview is over, and she’s being directed to the photo wall. But before she leaves, she reaches out and touches Graham’s side. Angles her body and lowers her eyeline so she can get a better look at him. Then clicks her tongue.

‘Oh, Graham, I think your suit is ripped.’ She dons a saddened expression. ‘What a shame.’

And then she’s gone, waving and blowing us both air kisses – two, three, four times – as she slips away. After she’s out of sight, Graham hands me the microphone and yanks off his jacket, discarding it on the floor.