‘Something arresting.’ I’m trying to sound cool but I keep my hands by my sides so he doesn’t see them quiver. I hope my mastery of understatement irritates him.

‘A ginormous, fucking, ratings-rocketting idea. Now go away and have it.’ He dismisses me.

I get back to my desk and give in to the shaking. I light a cigarette and swallow back a cold double espresso. Artificial stimulants are a way of life. For all Bale is as ugly as a slapped arse, he is good at his job. I do, grudgingly, admire him. He has a point. I’ve been trying to ignore our flagging ratings, positively denying the competition’s success. But the weekend runs are indisputable: TV6 is in big trouble.

Our office is in north London. A peculiar idiosyncrasy in the microclimates means that it rains more than average here. Or so it seems to me. It’s late August. It has certainly been summer in every other part of London. I have seen pavement cafés exploding throughout Soho; crowds of office workers have exploited every coffee and lunch break by pouring into the streets in the West End. Girls in skimpy sundresses and strappy sandals have been spotted as far as Hammersmith. But in Islington it’s bleak. To be specific, in TV6 it’s bleak.

‘Everything OK?’ asks Fi. Fi is my assistant and has been for eighteen months. I employed her because she reminds me of myself. She is committed, ambitious and dedicated. She’s cold comfort in times of a crisis.

‘Fine.’ I turn to my PC and hope she’ll get the hint. I like to work things out for myself.

‘Is there anything I can help with?’

‘No,’ I reply automatically. Although I employed Fi, I don’t trust her 100 per cent. It isn’t that Fi has done anything to lose my trust. In fact, when she first joined TV6, she worked very hard to be a ‘chum’, but eventually she realized I don’t do ‘chum’. And I don’t trust. These are policies.

‘If it’s Bale, maybe I can have a word,’ she offers.