CHAPTER 50

‘What do they want to meet about?’ Gary paced up and down his deck, ignoring his wide, high view over the bay toward Ettalong.

‘Network people always want to meet. It’s what they do.’

‘Are they concerned? About ratings?’

‘They’re always concerned about ratings. They’ll tell us they want them to be higher.’

‘But does that mean …’

‘It’ll be fine. Although …’

‘Shit. Although?’

‘They may want a few tweaks.’

‘Changes!’

‘Just tweaks.’

‘Tweaks are fucking changes.’

‘Small changes. Last week’s ratings spooked them a bit, and made them feel they should do something, but it was only a small dip. We’ll smile and nod. No drama.’

After Justin rang off – had the producer sounded eager to end the call, or was that his imagination? – Gary slumped onto his daybed. He knew the code. The network wanting changes meant they were nervous, and if they were nervous and ratings didn’t improve, they might cancel the show.

Fuck! Just when, after years of paddling, he had finally managed to catch another big wave, was it going to dump him?

Lots of people had thought the premise of Which Duck? was ridiculous. He thought it was ridiculous, but he wasn’t going to say no because it was a job hosting a television show, which meant lots of money, increased profile, more media and corporate work and – just admit it – feeling important again. And he had nailed it. He had made the show fun, amusing and energetic for its target audience, basically pensioners and losers.

Objectively, thanks to him, It was a good show, but its quality wasn’t really the issue. Television success was as merit-based as roulette, and the consequences of failure only slightly less drastic than the Russian variety. Bad shows succeeded. Good ones failed. He had tried to avoid thinking about the possibility of Which Duck? failing, because he really didn’t want it to, but now those thoughts came cascading in.

Gary hid it well, but he had always been a worrier, and working in the unpredictable media and entertainment industry didn’t help. He had been blind-sided when the first show he hosted, Time To Shine, was cancelled after three years. That had been a decent run, and he was able to walk away smelling fresh with no reputational damage. Even so, it had been a dark time. Not his worst, but still.

His return to television had been more than good luck. He had invested in the long term by getting a new agent who took a higher commission, but was more proactive. He grew a big social media presence, because networks looked at that, and cultivated relationships with producers: driving down to Sydney for parties, inviting them out on his boat, pitching them shows. None of his show ideas went anywhere, and he kind of knew that none of them were great (apart from The Tormentor, where school bullies and their victims had to work together to survive a week in the wilderness – that would have been a hit), but it kept his name in front of them.

He had cultivated the Face Ache guys, got the audition for Which Duck?, worked hard and smashed it. Thank God it wasn’t Which Cat? because he was allergic, but honestly he’d been that desperate that if it had been, he would have pushed through until his throat closed up.

If Which Duck? got cancelled after only a couple of months, it would not be a good look, especially as it was a late-afternoon game show, already risky territory for a comedian. He would carry that loser’s stench, and everyone in the media had a very good sense of smell. Dominos would tumble and other work would dry up, destroying his optimistic (over-optimistic?) financial projections. His recent Tesla purchase was now looking less like an astute investment in good-vibes branding and more like economic recklessness.

His stomach churned. What if everything came crashing down? What if his career ended up in the toilet?

His therapist would tell him that this was just his tendency to catastrophise, but what if it was worse than that? What if all the bad things that might happen, did happen? Then he wasn’t fucking catastrophising, was he? He was just being realistic.

Deep breath in. Ooout. In. Ooout.

He tried to look at the positives. He was healthy. He had a boat. The show might not get axed. Dev had promised him a great return on his investment, although that was now dependent on Viv agreeing to sell, so he fucking well better.

His thoughts drifted to Joe. Poor Joe. Good guy. Talented, too. Gary respected talent, but you needed more than that. You needed discipline, single-mindedness and perseverance, all of which Joe lacked.

He stood up. Fuck them all. He would go for a run.