Chart Throb by Ben Elton Page B

I . . .’
    ‘Do you have an Emmy? I don’t think you do, do you? I’ve got an Emmy, in fact I’ve got fucking two, darling, so don’t talk to me about how to make television.’
    Emma smiled ruefully at the sound recordist with whom she was crammed into the plane’s tiny toilet. He smiled back. They all hated Beryl. They didn’t hate her for being an arrogant, bullying bitch, although she was. They were used to that, putting up with that was what they were paid for. They hated her for the way she pretended to be so fucking real. When it suited her she was everybody’s friend, just one of the girls, no airs, no graces, just big-hearted old Beryl, but God help you if you crossed her, or if she took against you for no reason at all, or if you forgot for one moment that she was the Empress of Popular fucking Culture and the people’s darling. What was most frustrating for those who worked with her was that she truly believed the popular conception of her was the result of her own special talents and fabulous personality. She thought the public believed her to be sexy, mumsy, caring, playful, emotional, honest, sensitive, hard but fair and totally down to earth because she was all those things, whereas Emma, who had spent many, many weary days in the edit suite cherrypicking the handful of shots that made her look so good, knew that Good Old Beryl was the creation of her editors and production teams. Be they in America working on The Blenheims or stuffed into the tiny toilet of a private jet hovering over RAF Brize Norton for Chart Throb , it was the crews who created Beryl Blenheim. Perhaps that was why she treated them with such contempt.
    ‘I just don’t see why, because it’s a different day, we all have to sit in different seats,’ Beryl moaned as Hair and Make-up got to work on the subtle changes they had planned so carefully in order to create the fiction of a progression of days. ‘I get on planes all the fucking time, I don’t get on thinking, oh, I must sit somewhere different from yesterday.’
    ‘Yes,’ Rodney added. ‘I think we’d have kind of got our set places by now. You know, we’d have sort of claimed our own little space.’
    ‘Yes, but we need to show the viewers it’s a different day,’ Trent argued, looking anxiously at his watch.
    ‘That’s what the costume changes are for, darling,’ Beryl replied. ‘I’ve changed my jacket, it’s a different day. I don’t need to change my seat. I’m not fucking moving.’
    Trent sent an appealing glance towards Calvin, who was staring out of the window and so missed it completely.
    ‘Calvin,’ Trent said. ‘Beryl doesn’t want to change seats for Birmingham.’
    Reluctantly Calvin engaged his attention.
    ‘Problem, Beryl darling?’ he enquired.
    ‘Every time we cover a different day, this prick makes us swap seats. Why would you always sit in different seats?’
    ‘Not always in different seats, Beryl,’ Trent protested. ‘We only have six seats after all and you “visit” five cities so the combinations are—’
    ‘I am talking to Calvin.’
    ‘Well, darling,’ Calvin smiled, ‘it’s like this. Quite a lot of rather careful storyboarding has gone into this morning’s shoot and we are attempting to create rather more than the impression that the three of us spend months together travelling the country looking for talent. For instance, during the Manchester auditions you and Rodney will have had a fight about Rodney being mean to a talentless sweetie . . .’
    ‘I’m going to be mean?’ Rodney enquired, brightening up immediately.
    ‘Yes, Rodney, you’re going to be mean. You can use that “sharp as a coffee table” putdown if you like.’
    ‘Flat.’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘Yes, anyway. Terrific.’
    ‘What’s your point, Calvin?’ Beryl snapped.
    ‘Well, darling, when we leave Manchester you are all angry and sad. Your mother instincts have been roundly provoked by this sweet disillusioned little girlie