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Authors: Rebecca Chance
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supporter; her neck was on the line if the series was considered a disaster.
Rory Shipman, the head of the independent TV company that produced Devon’s shows for the BBC, banged his fist down on the table, making everyone jump. He was a large, square-built Yorkshireman, pragmatic and blunt, and the clippings nearest to him scattered away with the impact of his blow. Devon and Bettany looked over at him apprehensively.
‘Right,’ he said bluntly. ‘If no one else will say it, I will. Devon, you look like you
do
eat sodding pasta carbonara every day! You’ve piled on the pounds since the last series! When you showed up for filming, there were a lot of comments, OK? I didn’t have a go at you at the time, because I thought the audience might like it. You know, woman on TV who looks like woman on the street, that kind of thing. Average woman in the UK’s what, a size 16?’
One of his researchers bobbed her head in swift confirmation.
‘So here we go, lots of birds with one stone, show we’re not sizeist, bung on one of our stars who happens to have porked up a bit, get a bit of relief from all the overweight women out there who keep complaining that we’re not representing them on TV . . .’ He rolled his eyes. ‘As if TV’s there to represent people! Stupid arses!’
All the researchers tittered dutifully at this.
‘But you know what?’ Rory banged his fist down on the table again. ‘It hasn’t – bloody –
worked
! It’s a sodding disaster! All those fat heifers out there say they want to see themselves on TV, and when they do, they don’t – bloody –
like it
!’ He looked around the table at his audience, none of whom would have dared to say a word to interrupt him. ‘They might keep watching the show to poke fun at you, Devon, but no one’s buying the damn book! What does that tell you?’
Devon opened her mouth to answer him, but no words would come out.
‘They’ll watch you to have a laugh,’ Rory continued, ‘but they won’t shell out their hard-earned dosh to buy a book with recipes that are going to make them as fat as you!
That’s
the elephant in the room!’
Devon and Bettany gasped in horror; even the researchers cringed, wide-eyed, at the spectacle of Rory pointing at Devon and using the word ‘elephant’.
‘Rory!’ Bettany said feebly, torn between sucking up to him and defending her star.
‘What?’ he snapped. ‘It’s no more than the truth!’
‘I’m not fat!’ Devon said in a very small voice.
Rory rounded on her like a tiger who had been just toying with its prey up till now. ‘On TV, you are,’ he said straightforwardly. ‘And you’re not supposed to be fat. You’re supposed to be sexy, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t
Two Fat Ladies
, or that porky bloke on
Masterchef
. You’re supposed to be the girl men want to fuck and women want to be! That’s what we’ve sold you as! It’s not like you’re even a proper
cook
!’
If Devon’s weight had been the first elephant in the room, this was the second. It was perfectly well known at the production company and Devon’s publishers that most of the recipes didn’t originate from her, but from the team of researchers sitting around the table. Devon was a truly gifted presenter, not just a pretty face that they put in front of the cameras and told what to say; she had a real knack for taking a basic concept and putting her own spin on it, lacing a creamy Brie sandwich with fresh sharp redcurrants, adding mint chocolate swirls to a Baileys cocktail, ideas that made a viewer genuinely excited to try them out. In her most creative moments, she’d been responsible for supermarkets selling out of ingredients the day after she’d been on TV, talking through a recipe, selling it with the charm and charisma that had made her a star almost overnight.
‘I
am
a cook!’ Devon said, outraged. ‘I cook all the time!’
‘Devon . . .’ Rory started.
‘No!’ she said furiously. ‘OK, I may not have been
Rory Shipman, the head of the independent TV company that produced Devon’s shows for the BBC, banged his fist down on the table, making everyone jump. He was a large, square-built Yorkshireman, pragmatic and blunt, and the clippings nearest to him scattered away with the impact of his blow. Devon and Bettany looked over at him apprehensively.
‘Right,’ he said bluntly. ‘If no one else will say it, I will. Devon, you look like you
do
eat sodding pasta carbonara every day! You’ve piled on the pounds since the last series! When you showed up for filming, there were a lot of comments, OK? I didn’t have a go at you at the time, because I thought the audience might like it. You know, woman on TV who looks like woman on the street, that kind of thing. Average woman in the UK’s what, a size 16?’
One of his researchers bobbed her head in swift confirmation.
‘So here we go, lots of birds with one stone, show we’re not sizeist, bung on one of our stars who happens to have porked up a bit, get a bit of relief from all the overweight women out there who keep complaining that we’re not representing them on TV . . .’ He rolled his eyes. ‘As if TV’s there to represent people! Stupid arses!’
All the researchers tittered dutifully at this.
‘But you know what?’ Rory banged his fist down on the table again. ‘It hasn’t – bloody –
worked
! It’s a sodding disaster! All those fat heifers out there say they want to see themselves on TV, and when they do, they don’t – bloody –
like it
!’ He looked around the table at his audience, none of whom would have dared to say a word to interrupt him. ‘They might keep watching the show to poke fun at you, Devon, but no one’s buying the damn book! What does that tell you?’
Devon opened her mouth to answer him, but no words would come out.
‘They’ll watch you to have a laugh,’ Rory continued, ‘but they won’t shell out their hard-earned dosh to buy a book with recipes that are going to make them as fat as you!
That’s
the elephant in the room!’
Devon and Bettany gasped in horror; even the researchers cringed, wide-eyed, at the spectacle of Rory pointing at Devon and using the word ‘elephant’.
‘Rory!’ Bettany said feebly, torn between sucking up to him and defending her star.
‘What?’ he snapped. ‘It’s no more than the truth!’
‘I’m not fat!’ Devon said in a very small voice.
Rory rounded on her like a tiger who had been just toying with its prey up till now. ‘On TV, you are,’ he said straightforwardly. ‘And you’re not supposed to be fat. You’re supposed to be sexy, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t
Two Fat Ladies
, or that porky bloke on
Masterchef
. You’re supposed to be the girl men want to fuck and women want to be! That’s what we’ve sold you as! It’s not like you’re even a proper
cook
!’
If Devon’s weight had been the first elephant in the room, this was the second. It was perfectly well known at the production company and Devon’s publishers that most of the recipes didn’t originate from her, but from the team of researchers sitting around the table. Devon was a truly gifted presenter, not just a pretty face that they put in front of the cameras and told what to say; she had a real knack for taking a basic concept and putting her own spin on it, lacing a creamy Brie sandwich with fresh sharp redcurrants, adding mint chocolate swirls to a Baileys cocktail, ideas that made a viewer genuinely excited to try them out. In her most creative moments, she’d been responsible for supermarkets selling out of ingredients the day after she’d been on TV, talking through a recipe, selling it with the charm and charisma that had made her a star almost overnight.
‘I
am
a cook!’ Devon said, outraged. ‘I cook all the time!’
‘Devon . . .’ Rory started.
‘No!’ she said furiously. ‘OK, I may not have been
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