The Telly Box Apprentice

I’m greeted by a sea of people, sitting patiently in their seats. There must be a thousand people in here - wow! What a showcase for me! Anticipation fills the air as I try to decide where exactly to sit. Not front row, definitely not. I don't want to appear too confident. To be honest it looks as if the front row has been filled with the very top bods anyway; production company CEOs, directors at all the major rival channels and even some of the on screen talent have come out to show support for me! (Well, for my boss but tomayto - tomarto). I decide on 4th row back - far away enough that I don't feel claustrophobic but close enough to catch Alison's eye at the precise moment the VT comes to a close. This is it. This is my chance to show her that I can do it. I'm no longer a naive little apprentice fetching coffee and sourcing buttons for Chanel coats. I'm about to put myself on the map - the footage that's about to be shown to this impressive audience is intelligent, witty (if I do say so myself) and so slick that I'm expecting my phone to blow up the very second it ends with well wishes and congratulations. I mean, the first person to reach out to me will almost definitely be my mother so no one else will be able to get through for ten minutes or so but that's by the by. I sit up proudly in my seat and start to open my programme of the evening when the lights dim subtly and the spotlights bounce around the stage to adventurous, energetic music that wouldn't be out of place in some kind of James Bond movie. Dramatic and cool. A buzz of adrenaline flows through my veins and I look up in anticipation as the interviewer takes to the stage. He's a big man in every sense of the word; tall, muscular and before he utters a single word he fills the stage with his character. I'm vaguely aware of people laughing politely around me at his opening spiel but I'm not listening, I'm staring intently at stage left. Or is it stage right? I haven't got the production lingo entirely down to a tee just yet but I'm sure it will come with time won't it? To be perfectly honest I'm not sure many of the personalities you meet in showbusiness have the foggiest idea about anything anyway, it's all one big sham. Everyone is winging it. No one has a clue. That's what my Nan says anyway and to be honest, she's right about a lot of things; my favourite two pieces of advice she has bestowed upon me over the years being - custard cream biscuits help settle the stomach and using cheap moisturiser from the Poundshop has almost entirely the same effect as using an eye-wateringly expensive pot from Clarins. So I trust her judgement completely. I'm waiting for my moment. Waiting for a sly glance from Alison that says "good work Megan, I want you to be my executive assistant and I'm trebling your salary". Ok maybe that's a bit extreme but a girl can dream. Finally, after a very long and slightly over indulgent introduction speech from the interviewer he welcomes Alison to the stage. All 8 stone of her. She's wearing a black fitted dress that accentuates her curves in all the right places and sky high patent heels with those beautiful red soles. She knows how to work it. She's been doing it her entire career. And you've got to give it to her. She is the epitome of sexy; busty, glossy lips, blonde hair blow dried to perfection by her favourite stylist Andre (I should know, I booked the appointment after all). She looks fresh and relaxed, as if she's just returned from an all inclusive trip to the sandy shores of the Maldives. Oh that's right, she has actually.

I look at her in that moment. Admittedly we've had our fair share of problems since I started, she's not everyone's cup of tea. She's not most people's cup of tea to be honest but my god, what a woman. I turn to look around me and I see all other women in the auditorium look at her with the same admiration. Alison may not have many friends in this world but she sure does have a fan club. After a very quick, husky hello from Alison the interviewer gestures to the large screen at the back of the stage and a hushed silence fills the auditorium. The VT begins to play and the butterflies that have been hovering gently in my stomach suddenly jolt and judder, almost as if you would be able to see them from the outside of my body. I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly. It looks as though the editing team on the 18th floor have done a marvellous job. I don't remember such a smooth opening and the bold titles. And a jingly piece of music that I'm not sure is entirely appropriate but I guess these editing guys know what they're doing. And then, as soon as the images appear on the screen I freeze.

I'm no longer breathing.

I'm not sure if I'm still alive to be honest.

Sharp ice daggers are dragged down my spine and a cold fear takes over my entire body. I'm watching myself and Andy sitting on a sofa in a meeting room on the 21st floor. Me in a peroxide wig, skirt pulled up to my belly button and a harsh red lipstick plastered across my face. I know my words before they've even left my lips and I gulp loudly. "HI I'M ALISON SHAW AND WELCOME TO MY NEW GAMESHOW, HOW BIG OF A BITCH AM I GOING TO BE TODAY?".

I'm dead.

This is it.

I'm a goner.

My life in telly flashes before my eyes. 1 whole year of hard work completely and utterly wasted. How the hell did this video get on the screen? I bet it was that girl in marketing - the one with the extra long legs and smarmy smile who drinks extra hot, skinny soy lattes with added coconut. I bet she switched my tape out with this one. If I ever have to fetch her another coffee I'm definitely putting full fat cows milk in there now. But how did she get hold of this? Surely Andy wouldn't do such a thing. I know he hates me at the moment but he would never sink this low. I watch on as the event organisers squirm and panic, trying to signal to the projector operator to cut the footage. But still it keeps rolling. On and on. Me bending over in front of the camera with my posh Victoria's Secret blue knickers on full display, arse in the air (which in actual fact looks quite peachy and toned, I smile despite myself. Maybe my 30 minute session in the gym the other week really paid off). Just as I feel like I'm about to pass out, the film stops abruptly and leaves a black screen in its place. The interviewer smiles politely at Alison and the crowd is silent. To the human eye, Alison is expressionless. Apart from a slight red tinge to her cheeks, which could very well be her expensive Charlotte Tilbury blusher she raves about, her face is indifferent. Almost as if she could be sitting on the sofa watching the television or sitting at her desk checking her emails. But I know differently. Her lips are pursed so tightly together that I think her her jaw bones might crack. Her leg is crossed over the other and pushing down so hard on the other that she is cutting off all blood circulation to the lower half of her body. Her eyebrow is furrowed ever so slightly and her left nostril is flared just a few centimetres wider than her right one. I've never seen her so angry in my life.