Chapter One
TV Executive, Interrupted
‘Daisy, I’m so sorry darling.’ There is a pause and a sob. ‘I’m sorry for taking heroin... for ruining your childhood.’ My bottom is perched on the edge of my chair in the TV studio gallery. I gulp from the sugar-free Red Bull next to me. I am scrutinising every shot on the twelve screens in front of me.
‘Take the lights down!’ I whisper into my mouthpiece.
Pearl Lowe, friend of Kate Moss, member of the infamous Primrose Hill set, reaches across to her daughter, Daisy Lowe.
‘Give me close-ups of each of them!’ I continue.
My eyes roam the studio set, captured from every angle on the monitors in front of me. What else, what else?
There!
‘The hands, the hands, I need the hands too!’ I shout, watching a tissue being ripped into shreds between Daisy’s fingers, as one of the cameras zooms in to find the close-up shot.
A hush descends across Pearl, Daisy and the presenter. I know it is The Moment.
Their hands find each other across the intimately lit studio set. Emotion crackles on every monitor in the studio gallery.
Daisy Lowe, daughter of Gavin Rossdale and Pearl Lowe, is facing up to the reality that her mum was addicted to heroin throughout her childhood.
She’s hearing it on my show.
It’s a pilot for an ITV talk show. I pitched it as Oprah meets Jeremy Kyle, hosted by a presenter who exudes wisdom and empathy.
‘Ask Daisy,’ I whisper into the microphone in front of me, ‘what she wants to say to her mum.’ The presenter, on hearing my words, repeats them. At the same time I am frantically motioning the director sitting next to me to instruct his cameras to move in for a two-shot close-up.
‘Mum,’ Daisy replies, breaking the spell over the studio, ‘I know you love me, it’s OK, I forgive you.’ As they hug, the audience breaks into spontaneous applause.
Everyone claps in the gallery; the show is over.
I jump to my feet, having had no sleep for the last thirty-six hours. I’m giddy with excitement and exhaustion because it’s my moment too.
My dream come true – my TV company’s first show.
My all-female team has decamped to TV studios in Kent. I even have an ITV film crew following me: apparently I’m a perfect example of how to launch a TV company. Eek! I have been gliding around since 7 a.m., resplendent in grey skinny jeans, Joseph black top and a Marc Jacobs jacket; giving off the aura of being in control – to my team and the cameras.
I’m living the dream. My dream! For the last sixteen years I have worked my ass off to fashion a career in television. In 2005 I put my money where my mouth is, remortgaging my home to release over £100,000. I launched a TV company where women would be treated like the supremely intelligent beings they are: ‘powerful programming made by passionate people’ was my company’s mantra. I had the connections, I had the talent; I put everything on the line to make my dreams happen.
And now, in the spring of 2006, with two shows in the US and a series in the UK, along with the ITV pilot – it looks like dreams really do come true.
Two hours after the pilot has wrapped (after I’ve promised to have lunch with Pearl) my Mercedes convertible purrs to a halt and I’m parked up outside my house. I still pinch myself – I live in Richmond, one of London’s poshest suburbs. I know how lucky I am. I grab my Chloé handbag, open my black wrought-iron gate and click-clack up the path. I can already see my significant others through the window. They’re just back from their own day care too.
I open my front door and gently close it, walking into the cream haven that is home. Hues of butter, vanilla, biscuit and caramel tastefully dominate the walls, the fabric on the sofas, the stone masonry of the fireplace and the distressed wood of the bookcases (my books are all arranged by theme – mind, body and spirit by the fireplace, relationship books opposite the telephone seat, chick lit next to the sofa). With the flick of a switch, the lamps carefully positioned throughout the living room light the space just so. I never fail to appreciate this place: my sanctuary.
As I open the kitchen door, the two men in my life are stretching in the downward dog pose. Their tailless (nothing to do with me, honest) bottoms swoosh and oscillate wildly.
Barney and Ambrose. The two hairy loves of my life. ‘C’mon now, outside and make pee-pee for Mummy!’ I sing-song in a high-pitched voice. I teeter across the kitchen (we’re still having problems with the occasional ‘puddle’) and let the dogs out into the back garden. I flick a switch, illuminating my recent garden furniture purchases from a local French antique shop (although judging by their prices, it would’ve been cheaper to go to France and fly each item back myself).
In bloom, my professionally maintained garden is white – jasmine lazily climbing the fence, bushes of white roses in the border beds fighting for space with other white flowers I couldn’t tell you the name of. I smile to myself as I watch the dogs potter together; paws padding, nails tapping over the recently paved garden. But they didn’t make me smile at first – oh no. There was a lawn before, but when the puppies arrived, the place turned into a complete mud bath. Nightmare! Mud all over the kitchen stone flagging, the sofas in the kitchen, the pristine paintwork. In the end it was simple; I had the garden entirely redesigned to accommodate the doggies.
As they continue to potter in the garden, I ease out the cork, my shoulders relaxing at the sound of the reassuring pop, pouring myself a well-deserved glass of Veuve Clicquot. It gives me an opportunity to reflect; I have everything I want.
But then, of course, things start to go wrong; very wrong.