Page 8 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

‘Speaking of.’ I pluck a card from my handbag.

‘Dora got engaged over the weekend.’ Dora, our producer.

Been at the station one year. Been with her boyfriend for five.

‘Saw it on Instagram and picked this up yesterday. Already signed it from the team. Also have a bouquet arriving later this morning. You might like to suggest a lunch today, to celebrate? Your shout, given you’re rich. ’

‘ Dora ?’ Graham says, aghast. ‘Got engaged?’

‘She did.’

He’s floored, mouth agape. ‘She’s twelve.’

‘Twenty-three,’ I correct.

‘Is she religious?’

‘I thought that too, but no. Turns out she and Cleaver are just really efficient people.’

‘God.’ Then he pulls himself together and nods. ‘Yeah, a lunch, sure. Christ . Engaged at twenty-three. Imagine getting married that young?’

‘Imagine getting married five times.’

He rolls his eyes before walking off.

Later, after the show has wrapped, the rest of the team depart for the pub to celebrate Dora.

Graham and I hang back. We tell them we’ll meet them there later – after the ratings have been released.

Good lord, I couldn’t possibly read them with a beer in hand.

My nerves wouldn’t be able to handle it.

No, I need to hide in a meeting room, head in my hands, gut on the floor. Armpits sweaty from worry.

At some point, Graham swings open the meeting room door with a stack of papers tucked into the crook of his arm. ‘Mind if I join?’ he asks, but then he slips inside anyway. ‘Thought you might need some company when we come in second again.’

‘We’re going to be first,’ I say, but now I’m not so sure.

I’ve been awake too long, and my resolve has faded.

People have been jittering about the office all day – men with gelled hair and pressed suits swanning about the hallways, in between board meetings and reading drab documents – and it has me nervous.

What if we are second, again?

How am I meant to bring this show back to the top if I’ve already used up all my tactics?

I fear I’ve run out of ideas. I fear I am terrible at my job and I’ll be fired and they’ll bring in someone far younger than me whose greatest flex is being good at content creation.

I’m going to be dumped for an influencer, and everything I’ve worked so hard for will have been for nothing.

‘Are you crying?’ Graham asks, now seated across from me. He’s been skimming my briefing notes for tomorrow’s show, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s looking up at me, frowning.

‘No.’

‘You look like you’re crying.’

I check the time, just like I’ve done all morning. A mere ten minutes until the ratings results will land in our inboxes. My throat constricts.

‘We’ll be fine, Charlie. We always are.’

Here is something I’ve noticed about Graham since we started working together – he does not seem to fluster as easily as I do. No fanning about, no red cheeks or sweaty forehead. Everything seems to flitter over his head like dust.

‘Seriously though,’ Graham says, looking at my jiggling leg. ‘Can you stop? Please? We did our best.’

‘Three months isn’t enough time between results. It’s ridiculous. I could’ve done more,’ I say.

‘You’ve done plenty.’

‘More entertainment, maybe. We know that works. Some big scandal, perhaps. When was the last time you took drugs? Recently? Maybe you grew reliant. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I didn’t think of a drug problem! The tabloids would froth.’ I push my laptop away from me in a frenzied mess.

He goes back to reading, and I check the time once again.

Two minutes until ratings results. I consider reading the email in the bathroom just in case I need to sob.

We’re going to be number one.

We’re going to be number one.

We’re going to be number one.

‘This means a lot to you,’ he says, narrowing his eyes.

‘Of course it means a lot to me, it’s my job.’

‘Well, yes. But you’re …’ He searches for the right words. ‘No other producer I’ve had has been this ruffled about the ratings.’

‘This is very important to me.’

‘Why?’

I struggle to articulate it, to confine it to just one thing. Why does this matter so much to me? Because I’m proud of what I do? Because I love what I do? Because I don’t like failing?

He continues. ‘It’s collaborative,’ he says, then points behind him. ‘We work in a team of thirty people. Ratings aren’t just on you .’

When I don’t respond, he gives me one of his steely-eyed gazes until I can somehow form a response.

‘My dad loved your program, tuned in every morning,’ I say. ‘I grew up listening to you on the radio. And the thought of you losing this because of me. Honestly, I can’t stomach it.’

And then the email lands.

Ping .

Like a bomb.

Graham stands. Hovers over my shoulder, resting a hand beside my laptop. ‘Go on,’ he says, eyes on my screen. ‘Open it.’

When I do, my hand shakes. Just like every other time. We take a moment to scroll through. To see the ratings breakdown – the market share, the percentages. To compare our numbers with our competitors’.

‘Jesus,’ he says, letting his head fall forward. His breath is loud and wheezy.

We’re not number one.

We’re not even number two.

We’re number four .

‘Oh god.’ In all my nightmares, not one of them had us fourth. At no point did I think this was even a possibility. How is the religious channel ahead of us? How did we skip number three and just go straight to four ?

There’s a flaw in the system, and this is an error. I’m sure of it. This whole thing is a typo and if I keep staring at my computer, things will magically realign. I am filled with stress, all through my body and right down to the tips of my toes.

I swivel to face Graham. Go to speak but nothing comes out.

He cannot look me in the eye, continues looking down at the ground. His glasses slide a little further down his nose.

Then, he nods. Nods again. One more time. As if convincing himself that what he’s just seen is real.

‘What’s going to happen to us?’ I ask.

‘Nothing is going to happen to us.’

‘Graham, we’re fourth .’

He snaps, ‘I know that. I can read.’ Then he corrects himself. ‘Sorry.’

‘They fire presenters for this. They fire producers for this.’

Hearing this, he is quick to rebut, pointing a finger at me. ‘One dip isn’t going to get us fired.’

‘It’s not just one dip. There have been many dips. Lots of dips.’

‘Will you calm down, please?’ He’s clutching his head.

I shan’t! I will not! We weren’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough. Is this not my job? Preparing a show that people want to listen to? I’ve failed here. For years, I’ve failed.

Graham grasps my shoulder. Pulls my attention towards him. ‘Don’t even think about blaming yourself.’

‘Of course I blame myself.’

He throws his hands out – stretched, fingers pointed upwards. ‘We’ve got a whole team of people: it’s not your fault.’

‘Aren’t you worried for your job?’

‘Charlie, I’ve been worried for my job since I turned fifty,’ he says. ‘I’m old and I’m tired . But I’m still here, every day. We’re going to be fine.’

Assessing Graham’s body language and facial expression, I decide he is not nearly rattled enough for this.

I press the inner corners of my eyes, because I’m imagining the worst. I’m picturing being called into a meeting and told I’m no longer needed. I’m picturing the team walking back into the station in an hour, having seen the results, and looking at me like a wounded bird.

Mostly, I’m thinking of Graham. Of what this means for him. And how I managed to ruin his standing in only a few years. He was the best and now we’re in the middle.

On the table, my phone vibrates. Genevieve calling .

I cannot bring myself to answer – she’ll know the ratings have come through. She’ll be watching the clock and wanting to know how we fared. God, she’s so supportive.

But telling her, telling anyone, might just kill me. I would rather wait for the news to break later tonight and let it swallow us all whole, like some gigantic whale in the deep sea.

‘I don’t understand how this happened,’ I say.

One look at him and I deduce that he, too, has no idea what’s gone wrong. But he’s doing a far better job of processing it than me.

‘You’re amazing at what you do,’ he says, and it makes me cry again. ‘No, listen to me. You are great at what you do. And you’ve done an amazing job. And if they do fire you—’

I choke.

‘ If they fire you, I’ll walk.’

‘You will not.’

‘I will. I absolutely will.’ He sighs, then rolls his shoulders back. ‘You’re going to be fine. And I’m going to be fine. And when the dust has settled today, you’re going to go home. You are going to close your emails and you’re going to take the rest of the day off.’

I shake my head. ‘My emails are a mess, and I’m still working through talking points for tomorrow’s final segment—’

‘I don’t care.’ He holds my gaze. ‘You work harder than anyone else in this team. You’ll leave on time today.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

‘Graham.’

‘Promise me,’ he says. ‘Promise me you’ll leave on time today.’

Eventually, I whisper, ‘I’ll leave on time. Promise.’