The Show Must Go On

Chapter One: You're So Vain

Chapter One Soundtrack: You're So Vain by Carly Simon

This morning I have three goals for becoming a Better Me. Sandra says that things won't careen out of control over and over if I just make Better Choices. Since I'm paying £180 an hour for her advice, I've decided to try taking it, and this morning I promised her three goals. So:

1. Cross King Street without freezing at the crossroads and causing a traffic pile-up;

2. Tell Barry that he's underinvesting in new talent without saying 'I might', 'correct me if I'm wrong', or 'I'm not sure but';

And 3. Do not, no matter what, say anything rude to Nas. Gaze at the wall as though Nas is not there. Imagine calming waves. Especially do not say anything rude to Nas in front of Barry (who will laugh awkwardly and then admit he doesn't understand the joke until Nas gets to explain it). Just Do. Not. Say. Anything.

And breathe. I will remember to breathe.

So far I am not achieving my goals.

The odds were against me when Joanna called before I even reached my desk. She rings insistently, and I have no proof, but I am convinced that my phone buzzes faster when she's calling. I don't know who gave her my personal number, but I have my suspicions.

Joanna, after updating me on her children and her chilblains, was displeased that we hadn't finalised the option on her book. Joanna was furious, in fact. Joanna was uninterested in learning that this was her agent's fault, not ours, and only hung up once I promised to chase our lawyers again.

The second warning sign was that Barry's door was open. Barry's door only opens for 'Innovation Generation Sessions' or for team-wide bollockings. So far, there is no indication of which it will be. I'm not sure which is worse.

My boss Barry is the Vice President of Young Adult Original Content EMEA for our streaming platform—yes, that one. He oversees all of our commissioning and production for teens, though his real dream is to impress the tech team who work upstairs. In fact, I'm not sure he actually cares about television at all. He once drunkenly confessed to me that his real name is Joshua but that he goes by Barry 'for obvious reasons' which I have attempted to guess ever since.

I have already chickened out of suggesting a new talent incubator today. I'll try again tomorrow, when hopefully one of the programmers will have complimented his baseball cap and he'll be in a good mood. Instead, I'm hiding in the kitchen, making coffee and scrolling through emails.

'Hiya, Ellie.' David snaps me out of my thoughts. David, a portly production manager with a god complex, leans across me to reach the toaster. He ogles my tits as he does. I fidget with my collar.

'Morning, David.'

'Have you reviewed my revised budget?' he asks.

I hold up my phone. 'Working on it.'

'Hmm,' he says and walks away. I mentally push David's email to the bottom of my list.

I return to my coffee. Around me, the office is grumbling awake. It is a sprawling complex which reminds me of ancient imperial palaces. You could wander its halls for weeks without going outside. We have a gym with a complimentary personal trainer, swinging hammocks on every floor for brainstorming, and a free canteen manned by a former Michelin-star chef: all that's missing is the emperor's throne. Everything is as brightly coloured as a children's toybox. In a way, we are all just playing: playing at making the most entertaining, dramatic television we can pump out into the world. Except hundreds of careers hinge on our choices, every day. It's a little dizzying.

In this kitchen, on the eighth floor, the windows look out over the King's Cross canal boats. Two shelves are piled with the BAFTA and Emmy awards that didn't fit in reception.