People LIke Her(53)

TV presenting just seems to me like the next logical step. There are times when, in my head at least, the whole thing has seemed not just natural but inevitable. Over the years, at my insistence, Irene has booked me for as many on-screen interviews as would have me, for practice in front of the camera—I’ve been the parental pundit on everything from Newsnight to Loose Women, with varying degrees of success. She’s got me in for auditions, meetings with casting agents. The advent of Instastories helped a bit: it’s been a useful training ground and a never-ending audition for the role of myself. To be honest, I was never quite as good at it as we’d both hoped, but I’ve improved with experience. With her contacts from the acting agent days, Irene set me up with voice coaches so I stopped swallowing my words, movement specialists so my hands don’t flap awkwardly, and a media trainer who taught me how not to look wild-eyed.

I’ve had some paid gigs, including a kids’ TV show about climate change on which I was interviewing a man dressed as a polar bear, and an influencer special of Antiques Road Trip. A few proper presenting projects have even looked like they were about to happen, then been canceled. The show that I’m sure Irene is calling about, a BBC Three documentary I was hoping to front, has nearly been green-lit five times before. The idea is almost as old as Coco, in fact, but while they know they want it to be about the struggles of starting a family, they keep changing their mind about the angle. There have been casual chats and hardball negotiations, only for it to all go quiet again.

The last time I was called in, they lined up an actress for a screen test, to talk me through her heartbreaking baby loss experience in all the distressing detail, the actor playing her husband holding her hand and silently weeping as she spoke. They were emoting their socks off, and all I had to do was make the right noises, come up with the right questions off the cuff. Somehow, though, I just couldn’t seem to get the tone right. I could hear myself sounding fake, sounding brittle. The first few takes everyone was very supportive, the actors making encouraging comments, the director offering suggestions and trying to help me relax, loosen up a bit. By take five people were discreetly checking their watches. After take six we took a brief break. By take nine it felt pretty clear to everyone in the room that this was not a gig I was in the process of landing.

I take a deep breath and dial. “Go on, then, give me the bad news.” I sigh.

“Actually, Emmy, it’s the opposite. BBC Three called to say that you’re down to the final two.”

It takes a moment for what Irene is saying to really register. I was so braced for another knockback that by the time it does, I’m already halfway through formulating some expression of polite regret that I was not what they were looking for, again.

“The final two?” I say.

“You’re up against ivfandangels—usually I’d say you’re a dead cert but, well, topic-wise the show is very much on-brand for her. Obviously, though, in terms of follower count, you have a massive advantage.”

She is not bloody kidding. Admittedly, ivfandangels has got two hundred thousand followers, but still, if it’s sheer numbers they’re going on, there’s no contest.

“The thing is—and this is something they were absolutely up front about—they’ve changed the angle. They want whoever they choose to be able to put a personal spin on things—for the show to have an authentic human story at its heart.”

Of course they fucking do. Which means, therefore, I don’t stand a chance. Ivfandangels has personal tragedy coming out of her ears. Every time her child has a birthday she always sets out six little empty seats, lights the candles on five extra cupcakes, and posts the artfully lit pictures on Instagram.

Irene tells me they’ve asked us both for one more thing. They’ve seen all they need to, audition-wise.

“They’re just asking for a brief video clip. Explaining why this is a show you have to make. Really opening up about your own experiences.”

“Really opening up,” I repeat.

“Oh, and they want you both to send your video by five o’clock today. I think they want to put you on the spot so it feels real and raw. Is that going to be a problem?” she asks.

“No problem,” I reply airily. “Tell them I’ll send it over by five at the latest.”

The baby monitor relays a half-awake squeak from Bear’s room. A series of tentative moans and mumbles follows. Jesus Christ. His nap can’t be over yet, can it?

I check the time. One hour exactly until five p.m. I find myself unable to stop envisioning the minutes literally slipping away like sand through my fingers. I think about all the effort and time and energy I have put into this over the years. All the sacrifices I’ve made. What it would feel like to turn the TV on and accidentally stumble across ivfandangels standing by a lake and reading a poem, wandering around hospital corridors looking soulful.

The squeaks gather pace into full-on, angry screams. The baby is definitely awake.

I take a deep breath, open my email, and type the name “Polly” into the search bar.

Dan

What kind of sick fuck? That is what I keep asking myself. What kind of sick fuck?

One of the things about putting your life out there online: there is always someone who pops up and helpfully draws your attention to anything nasty, vile, or just unpleasant someone has written about you that you might otherwise somehow have missed. Some helpful fucker with nothing better to do, happy to provide a link to a terrible Goodreads review you were unaware of, to loop you into a negative discussion of your work on Twitter, or, in Emmy’s case, to make sure you’re kept up to speed with how a thread about you on Guru Gossip or Tattle Life titled “Has Mamabare put on more weight?” is progressing. It’s not that I think Suzy Wao was delighted exactly to inform Emmy of the #rp account, but even through the three-line WhatsApp, I could feel the fizz of excitement, perhaps even a whiff of schadenfreude.