The Wrong Girl by Zoe Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five? She couldn’t tell; he was in that age bracket that lacked clear delineation. There was a small gap between his front teeth, she noticed. Huh. Not so perfect after all.
    â€˜I’ll try not to fall into that category,’ he said, finally taking his eyes off her.
    Lily nodded as a full stop to the conversation, if you could call it that, and walked out of the boardroom shaking her head. He was odd, she confirmed. A real oddball.

6
    Lily was feeling anxious. They went live Monday morning, and if this rehearsal were anything to go by, it would be a nuclear mess. Rob and Mel, hosts of
The Daily,
were still so utterly wedged into holiday mode that they may as well have had a margarita in one hand and a frisbee in the other; the set was incomplete, and Eliza was running on double-shot mochas and unwarranted hysteria, which annoyed the crew and made all the producers unnecessarily anxious. The general mood was akin to a crowded beach after a shark alarm. Lily decided to stop watching rehearsal and focus on her segment and set instead. She could at least make sure
that
was decent, Jack’s as yet untested on-air skill notwithstanding.
    Lily pulled the pre-chopped herbs and fish from the fridge and placed them next to the stove, while Tim, the lighting guy, stood on a ladder messing about with the lights, which Sasha said looked too ‘train station toilets’. Jack stood at the bench, straight-armed leaning on his hands, reading his script. He was wearing a simple light-blue shirt – the memo must have reached him about no checks in front of camera – and black jeans with black trainers. Sasha had wanted him to look friendly but sexy; the Curtis Stone effect, she called it. Like one of your older brother’s good-looking mates. All that was missing was his white
The Daily
apron, which no one had been able to locate.
    Lily took a moment to assess her set. Lighting aside, she was happy with the final product, having worked with the set designer and fitter last year to make absolutely sure there was none of the shiny, glossy chintz usually associated with TV-set kitchens. The look was a bit cool, a bit industrial, complete with second-hand wooden beams overhead, low-hanging naked globes and exposed brick behind the cooking bench. Of course, Eliza had immediately had two shelves of spices and oils and products installed onto the wall to keep advertisers happy, which annoyed Lily, but there was nothing she could do. Eliza might have the nous of a twig, but she knew how to keep the sponsors smiling. The fridge was concealed in a wooden cupboard and there was a line of unmatched antique jars acting as the holders for Jack’s utensils along the bench. It would all look horribly outdated in a year or two, but for now, it was pretty cool for a network morning show. The sink wasn’t actually functional – well, it could last the show, but it was the equivalent of a camping rig, and needing refilling and emptying before and after filming, and sometimes even during ad breaks. Ah, the glamour of live TV.
    Jack was on set
way
too early for his segment – the talent generally rocked up five minutes before go time – but Lily was impressed that he wanted to be around and soak it all in. Not that there was much for him to do until the cameras were on him – the rehearsal recipe was a breeze. He’d chosen it himself: grilled salmon with a fennel and mandarin salad, and as with every show, Dale had chopped, prepped and laid out all the ingredients and utensils.
    Jack, Lily, Dale and Eliza had at least done a brief run-through earlier, sorting out timings, and ingredient placement, where Jack would stand in relation to Rob, which camera he would be addressing, and making sure Jack remembered to ‘talk to the camera, not the food’, but Lily could feel Jack’s nerves vibrating through the floor; he was clearly terrified. She’d written his script