Page 54 of Last Christmas in London

‘Pim for PM.’

‘Did she just verbally destroy the most feared man in TV?’

‘Oh my God, I work at the BBC. The tea is SCORCHING – not just Holland’s shirt.’

Of course, this meant my phone would not stop buzzing. The Pim’s O’Clock producers were demanding to know how we’d handle the PR fallout, whether we should lean into the moment or ignore it completely. The takeaway was that Pim was coming out as a voice of the people, victorious over the man who appeared to have pissed off half the UK by once saying Shakespeare was mid, at best, and that Sunday roasts were ‘just an overhyped meat-and-veg pile’. The philistine.

Pim, for her part, was now delighted and was already planning to casually reference it in her next interview.

My inbox, however, was on fire.

Claire from PR was fuming that I hadn’t responded to her about an exclusive interview with Pim before Christmas, and I had eighteen separate voicemails from journalists asking for an official comment. My brain felt like an overloaded browser with too many tabs open.

And then there was Pim herself – though she was delighted by how the story had turned in her favour, she seemed oblivious to the stress it had caused.

‘What is wrong with you, Evelyn?’ Pim finally asked when we were back in her hotel room. She had her feet in a bubbling foot spa and her hair in rollers, looking the picture of self-indulgence, while I sat opposite, running purely on caffeine and Polo mints.

Hearing Pim use my full name, though, was a bad sign.

Evie was what Megan had christened me as children, since pronouncing Evelyn as a three-year-old was always going to be a challenge, particularly for the likes of Megan, who had a short attention span, and three syllables was one too many.

‘Nothing,’ I said, exhaling, which only made it sound more insincere.

Pim raised an eyebrow. ‘I know you organise my schedule and get me from A to B – usually, anyway – but I feel like I’ve been doing most of the heavy lifting this week. I won’t take “nothing” as an excuse for sloppiness.’

It must have been obvious to her something was up; mostly because of the stupid errors I had been making all day. I got the wrong coffee order from Starbucks – who genuinely enjoys iced teas? – forgot to book the car to take her to her last dress fitting, and I hadn’t got back to Alison about meeting with Pim before Christmas.

I was usually so on it; I couldn’t let it slip now. Especially not as someone leaving a job.

I was not going to work my arse off for eight years only to get a reference from Pim stating that I was unorganised and didn’t care. My job was all I had truly focused on for years, even if it appeared I should have focused on a few other things more.

I braced myself for a well-earned bollocking, but Pim simply tutted and picked at her freshly manicured fingers. ‘So tell me, what is bothering you?’

I hesitated. Pim wasn’t exactly a shoulder-to-cry-on type, but she could read people like a book.

‘Is it all this Michael Holland rubbish? He’s an odious man,’ she said, swishing her feet in the foamy water.

‘The world is aware of what you think of him.’ As is Michael Holland himself. He had remained suspiciously silent on the reaction to the video. I’d had no contact from his people about the publicity angles or how to smooth the corners of his disaster. But no one could tell me who his people were; perhaps he had scared them off as well? Or he was just waiting to catch me off guard and then spin the story his way. Who knew with the likes of him? He had been in the business four times longer than I had, he could play a master hand any second, and I would just have to roll with the punches. Just something else to look forward to this Christmas.

‘I don’t mind admitting I once flirted with him,’ Pim carried on, ignoring me. ‘Or rather, I flirted, and he rebuffed me like I was a fly and he a swatter. I can take rejection, Evie, but there is something so needlessly cruel about him.’

‘That sounds awful,’ I said vacantly. I didn’t mean it.

Pim nodded, sipping her Starbucks. For a moment, I considered confiding in her about Megan and Josh. About how their silence was suffocating me. What did I have to lose? My job? I had already changed that.

But before I could say anything, my phone rang.

‘Who’s that?’ Pim asked, cheeks flushing in fear. ‘One of the producers?’

I checked the screen. ‘It’s a personal call.’

‘Ugh, during work hours?’ she muttered, but I ignored her, stepping out into the corridor.

‘Hello?’ I answered, pressing my fingers to my temple.

‘Evie, it’s Alex.’

My stomach clenched. ‘Alex?’