Page 23 of Last Christmas in London

I took a few video clips, zooming in and out expertly, imagining the edit in my mind. The transitions and the music, down to the caption. It was strategic but as easy as breathing sometimes.

Feeling as if I had prime content for my TikTok, I pocketed my phone and gave Pim an excitable thumbs-up as they called for silence on set and began to count down back to the interview.

Just as the red light of filming came on, my phone began to buzz in my pocket, with what I assumed was an incoming WhatsApp message.

Wanting to avoid the telling-off for having my phone out behind the live camera, I stepped backwards to exit the studio. The door to the green room was off to the side and I hurried over, tiptoeing as quietly as I could, as Pim and the presenter picked up their conversation effortlessly.

Once inside, I pulled out my phone but, before I could even unlock the screen, someone crashed into me. A man in a navy pinstripe suit barrelled through the door, nearly knocking my phone from my hand.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ he barked, just as the soundproof door clicked shut behind me. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going?’ He shook his shirt sleeve and droplets of coffee splattered across the fabric.

‘S-sorry,’ I stammered, even though it wasn’t my fault. I’d been coming out of the studio; he’d been charging towards the door without looking, like a boulder shoved by Sisyphus.

‘You should be.’ He glared, eyes narrowing, then stomped towards the green-room kitchenette, muttering under his breath. A runner rushed up, taking the man’s mostly empty coffee cup, whispering about keeping the noise down during recording.

‘Get off my coffee, and make yourself useful, you imbecile,’ the man growled. ‘Get me a new jacket.’

The runner, a young man no doubt straight out of a media-studies course at university, paled, his hands trembling. He nodded and dashed off. My chest tightened as I watched the man curse under his breath, shaking out his sleeve as if the coffee was toxic.

I started towards him, rage igniting in my gut like a struck match, but I stopped myself. He wasn’t worth the trouble. No point risking a reprimand over this odious man. Instead, with a quick breath, I sat down on the sofa and unlocked my phone.

Josh had sent over costume ideas for the Great Christmas Pudding Race. One was a screenshot of Miss Piggy in A Christmas Carol. Yeah, that needed shutting down immediately. But, before I could respond, the runner returned with a black pinstripe jacket, and instinct made me look up.

The man’s face had gone scarlet.

‘Black? I’m in fucking blue, you idiot!’ he bellowed. ‘Is this your first day? Are you colour-blind? How are you this useless?’

The runner flinched, his shoulders curling inwards as the man snatched the jacket from his hands and hurled it across the room.

‘That is enough,’ I said before I could stop myself. The man turned, eyes narrowing, surprised to still find me there. I stood firm, summoning every ounce of courage. ‘You don’t speak to people like that. Not at work. Not anywhere. A mistake was made – you can cope.’

His eyes widened. ‘Do you know who I am?’

That tired line. It never worked, especially not in this industry. I crossed my arms and arched an eyebrow, letting a hint of dry humour slip through. ‘I don’t care.’

The runner’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile, before he hurried off with the discarded jacket. The man’s face contorted, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He looked ready to explode when a woman from hair and make-up breezed in through the side door. ‘All righty, are you ready, Michael?’

Michael. The name echoed in my head and flashes of news anchors shuffling papers and making sombre announcements appeared. This was Michael Holland.

A critic-turned-news-anchor-turned-presenter – and an all-round ass-hat.

Michael Holland’s smug face had haunted Pim more times than she cared to admit. For years, even while abroad, she couldn’t flip through channels without stumbling upon him standing on some windswept mountaintop in Asia, salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled, staring earnestly into the camera, as if dispensing wisdom from on high.

To Pim, he was more than just an irritant – he was her nemesis. He’d barely been interested in theatre when he seemingly destroyed her career, his lack of interest evident from his quick escape from the Arts and Culture section to what he clearly believed was more meaningful journalism. And yet, his words had the power to dismantle everything Pim had built for herself. Because of him, she had retreated from acting, abandoning a promising career despite her success in Wuthering Heights.

He’d been a critic for the Evening Standard during her last performance on the West End – a daring turn as Hedda Gabler at the Fortune Theatre. His review had been nothing short of savage: ‘An actress whose ego could fill the auditorium, but whose performance leaves countless seats empty come the second act.’ It was a line that had branded itself into her memory. She still carried that review, tucked inside an old powder case, even now, nearly twenty years later. It seemed unnecessarily cruel.

But, seeing Michael Holland in the flesh, I could tell that cruelty came relatively naturally to him, and that no one ever stood up to him.

He swallowed and nodded at the make-up artist who was so focused on finding the right utensil in her toolkit strapped around her waist that she hadn’t even realised there was tension in the room. Michael pushed open the studio door, and a burst of noise spilled out – cameras shutting down, crew members resetting the stage.

‘… so wonderful! Thank you so much!’

‘No, my goodness, thank you!’ Pim was hugging the presenter, her smile taut, lips stretched like they were hooked by fishing lines – a clear sign she was done with pleasantries and in dire need of a glass of Merlot.

I held the door open, my heart pounding. Pim was finishing up her small talk when her eyes landed on Holland waiting in the wings. Immediately her expression faltered, her jaw tightened, the smile vanished with her interest in the presenter, who stuttered hopelessly before walking away dejected.

Michael’s posture relaxed, his smug smirk flashing across his aged but still interesting face as he folded his arms. ‘Well, well! Pim Hardcastle. I heard you were here, clinging to the same old glory.’