“What we’d be looking at is, something traditional,” Russel told Martin, “None of this sneering post-modern shit.  Back to basics.”

Martin nodded along with him, making encouraging, noncommittal noises.  It occurred to Octavia that she couldn’t have picked a better guy for Russel to pontificate at.  Martin Sloan was a chubby middle-aged man with an earthy Scottish accent, so Russel had quickly taken it as read that he was on his wavelength.  Of course, having worked in TV for twenty years, Martin was also an expert in feigning interest in people’s terrible ideas.  Octavia had promised him fifty per cent off his production company’s next event to humour Russel for an hour.  And hey, for all she knew, Martin might actually like what Russel had to sell.  Octavia couldn’t predict the future.

“We’d be looking at a basic quiz show format- a few saucy jokes, a couple of pretty girls jiggling up and down, you know?”  Russel winked at Martin.  He didn’t notice Tamsin, in the seat next to him, begin to scowl.  “The feminists might not like it, but how much telly do they watch, eh?”  He let out a barking smoker’s laugh.

Martin skated smoothly past this.  “And you’d be thinking of yourself for the presenter, right?”

“Mm.  Mm.  With maybe a couple of guests to introduce the different rounds.  Pop stars, comedians…”

Octavia, who didn’t have much to contribute to this meeting, began to brainstorm what she’d do in the next three or four weeks, which was probably how long it would take for Russel to figure out that Martin’s encouraging noises hadn’t actually constituted a legally binding contract.  She could find some damning evidence that would get George Chandler instantly thrown in jail where he could do no harm.  She could find a way to convince George Chandler not to believe anything Russel said.  She could find out some secret that Russel didn’t want revealed- neutralise blackmail with more blackmail.  The possibilities seemed endless, but she had to pick one fairly soon.

“That sounds promising…” said Martin, his eyes brimming with sincerity.

Russel opened his mouth to make some more suggestions, but before he could, Tamsin spoke up.  “What kind of pop stars do you think you’d be able to get?”

Russel did a bit of a jump- he’d probably more-or-less forgotten she was there.  “Tamsin…”

She looked back at him, and continued.  “Because I was thinking, for our vow renewal…”

“Tam…”

“Let’s not jump the gun on that, eh?” Martin cut in, “Look, I’ll talk to the people at Sky, see what we can do.  In the meantime, I’ve got…”

Russel shook his head.  “Not Sky.  I don’t like Sky. Let’s try one of the big guns.”

Martin glanced at Octavia, clearly getting the words Where did you even find this guy? across with his eyes.  “Well, we’ll see who’s biting, OK?  In the meantime, I’ve got your number.  I’ll keep you posted.”

Octavia checked her watch- she was pretty sure it hadn’t been a full hour.  Not that she blamed him.

*

As soon as they got outside the building, Russel started tearing into Tamsin.  “What the fuck do you think you were playing at?”

“What?” she replied, folding her arms like a sulky teenager.

“Asking him what pop stars he thought he could get!”

(Octavia was pretty sure that Russel was the one who’d mentioned pop stars first, but decided not to say anything.  She hadn’t had to so far.)

“I was just thinking, because of our…”

“You just don’t get it!  This is my fucking career we’re talking about, and you’re still thinking about getting Girls Aloud to perform at your party!”

Tamsin spluttered.  “My party?  It’s our…”

“You’re pathetic,” Russel spat, and walked off towards the taxi rank.

Tamsin stayed where she was, staring after him.  Octavia put a hand on her shoulder.  “I think he’s…”            

Tamsin shook her off.  “Just leave it, Octavia, OK?”  And she followed him down.

(To be continued)