Devon
F or a crisis meeting, everyone round the table was very silent. The trouble was, there was very little to be said. The clippings lying on the conference table – some from newspapers and magazines, others printouts from online news and gossip sites – spoke for themselves. British journalists prided themselves on their headline-writing skills, and from the selection of articles present, there might have been a nationwide competition to find the most creative way to inform the country not only that Devon’s latest cookery show was a failure, but that its hostess seemed to have been spending much more time stuffing her face than she had on concocting recipes.
DEVON HELP HER!
blared the
Sun
, over a very unflattering picture of Devon in a loose-flowing black dress and flip-flops.
NO MORE PIES, FOR DEVON’S SAKE!
contributed the
Express
, in much the same vein.
LITTLE BIT EXTRA? PULL THE OTHER ONE!
said the
Mirror
.
And
WHEN DOES INDULGENCE TURN TO GLUTTONY?
the
Guardian
asked – more polite, but just as pointed.
‘It’s not a complete disaster,’ Bettany, the producer of
Devon’s Little Bit Extra
, said finally, in a voice doing its best to sound confident. But she didn’t have the nerve to lift her head and look anyone in the eye. ‘I mean, the ratings are quite strong.’
‘Book sales aren’t,’ snapped the publisher of the tie-in-book, shoving a copy forward petulantly. ‘They’ve fallen off a bloody cliff.’
Everyone looked at the cover of the book, a lavishly produced hardback. Devon’s face in the cover photo was as beautiful as ever, her lush dark hair cascading onto her shoulders, a snug red velvet top lifting her bosoms to a perfect amount of white cleavage, just enough to attract without being so overtly sexual that it would put off the mums who bought Devon’s book in droves. Her lipstick matched the velvet top, her cheeks were glowing with blusher, her eyes wide and perfectly made-up; she was smiling seductively while holding out a plate of strawberry shortcake. Luscious red berries, white cream spilling out from the glowing golden split biscuit, curls of dark chocolate decorating the white plate; the crimson, white and deep brown shades cleverly echoing Devon’s own colouring, the whole image evoking celebration, summer, rich indulgent sweetness.
A perfect shot. Only no one looking at it could avoid seeing what wasn’t in the photograph: the rest of Devon’s body. The photo had been originally intended as at least waist-length. And previous book covers of Devon’s had shown her entire body in pretty little printed tea dresses that finished just on the knee, and suede sandals that fastened around her elegant ankles.
This one, however, had been ruthlessly cropped just below her breasts, to display her remaining assets: her face and her bosoms. Unfortunately, on a TV show it wasn’t so easy to conceal the rest of your presenter. There had been one ill-judged shot of Devon bending over to put a tray of biscuits in the oven that had made her look positively huge. One of the online sites had freeze-framed that, blown it up and posted it with the caption:
NEEDED: BIGGER OVEN FOR XMAS TURKEY!
‘It wasn’t
supposed
to be a show about food you eat every day,’ Devon mumbled eventually, looking down at the articles from
The Times
and the
Guardian
which were focussed, negatively, on the nutritional value of such suggested treats as Brie and redcurrant toasties and Baileys-and-cream cocktails. The
Guardian
journalist had even totted up the calorie count of some of the recipes, to staggering results.
‘No, absolutely not,’ Bettany agreed quickly. ‘They’re really misunderstanding the point of it.’
‘I mean, it wasn’t called
Devon’s Daily Diet
,’ Devon said, warming to her theme now she had Bettany’s support. ‘You don’t eat pasta carbonara with bacon and cream every day!’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ Bettany echoed, not that she was Devon’s most unbiased
F or a crisis meeting, everyone round the table was very silent. The trouble was, there was very little to be said. The clippings lying on the conference table – some from newspapers and magazines, others printouts from online news and gossip sites – spoke for themselves. British journalists prided themselves on their headline-writing skills, and from the selection of articles present, there might have been a nationwide competition to find the most creative way to inform the country not only that Devon’s latest cookery show was a failure, but that its hostess seemed to have been spending much more time stuffing her face than she had on concocting recipes.
DEVON HELP HER!
blared the
Sun
, over a very unflattering picture of Devon in a loose-flowing black dress and flip-flops.
NO MORE PIES, FOR DEVON’S SAKE!
contributed the
Express
, in much the same vein.
LITTLE BIT EXTRA? PULL THE OTHER ONE!
said the
Mirror
.
And
WHEN DOES INDULGENCE TURN TO GLUTTONY?
the
Guardian
asked – more polite, but just as pointed.
‘It’s not a complete disaster,’ Bettany, the producer of
Devon’s Little Bit Extra
, said finally, in a voice doing its best to sound confident. But she didn’t have the nerve to lift her head and look anyone in the eye. ‘I mean, the ratings are quite strong.’
‘Book sales aren’t,’ snapped the publisher of the tie-in-book, shoving a copy forward petulantly. ‘They’ve fallen off a bloody cliff.’
Everyone looked at the cover of the book, a lavishly produced hardback. Devon’s face in the cover photo was as beautiful as ever, her lush dark hair cascading onto her shoulders, a snug red velvet top lifting her bosoms to a perfect amount of white cleavage, just enough to attract without being so overtly sexual that it would put off the mums who bought Devon’s book in droves. Her lipstick matched the velvet top, her cheeks were glowing with blusher, her eyes wide and perfectly made-up; she was smiling seductively while holding out a plate of strawberry shortcake. Luscious red berries, white cream spilling out from the glowing golden split biscuit, curls of dark chocolate decorating the white plate; the crimson, white and deep brown shades cleverly echoing Devon’s own colouring, the whole image evoking celebration, summer, rich indulgent sweetness.
A perfect shot. Only no one looking at it could avoid seeing what wasn’t in the photograph: the rest of Devon’s body. The photo had been originally intended as at least waist-length. And previous book covers of Devon’s had shown her entire body in pretty little printed tea dresses that finished just on the knee, and suede sandals that fastened around her elegant ankles.
This one, however, had been ruthlessly cropped just below her breasts, to display her remaining assets: her face and her bosoms. Unfortunately, on a TV show it wasn’t so easy to conceal the rest of your presenter. There had been one ill-judged shot of Devon bending over to put a tray of biscuits in the oven that had made her look positively huge. One of the online sites had freeze-framed that, blown it up and posted it with the caption:
NEEDED: BIGGER OVEN FOR XMAS TURKEY!
‘It wasn’t
supposed
to be a show about food you eat every day,’ Devon mumbled eventually, looking down at the articles from
The Times
and the
Guardian
which were focussed, negatively, on the nutritional value of such suggested treats as Brie and redcurrant toasties and Baileys-and-cream cocktails. The
Guardian
journalist had even totted up the calorie count of some of the recipes, to staggering results.
‘No, absolutely not,’ Bettany agreed quickly. ‘They’re really misunderstanding the point of it.’
‘I mean, it wasn’t called
Devon’s Daily Diet
,’ Devon said, warming to her theme now she had Bettany’s support. ‘You don’t eat pasta carbonara with bacon and cream every day!’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ Bettany echoed, not that she was Devon’s most unbiased
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