Chapter Fifty-Six Soundtrack: Ready or Not by Shakey Graves

My meeting with Daniel is this afternoon. I've gone through the motions of preparing, but my heart isn't really in it. He told me that the BAFTA win affected his decision. Surely, my work will speak for me.

It's so weird to be this calm about an interview. Is this how other people feel all the time?

Yesterday morning, Barry sent me an eight-paragraph email announcing his resignation and then listing every innovation he attempted, all of which were 'shot down by our overlords'. It's impossible to overstate how little I will miss him. I made sure I was grabbing a coffee when he stormed out with his personal items, to spare me the teary goodbye. If I don't see him again, I can pretend he learned my name.

My CV looks pretty shiny. I forgot that, last year, I made a 'rage list' of everything I achieved which I sent to Nas whenever he ignored me. It looks like I sent it four times before he added an inbox rule to bounce it back. The rage list was incredibly helpful for enhancing my CV. Point to Ellie.

So, other than winning another BAFTA before three o'clock, there's not much more to do. I occupy myself with social media.

Scrolling, I see a meme of the 1975's art for Sincerity Is Scary. Sincerity really is scary. I debate about sending this to Nas. He hates Matty Healy enough that it might force him to respond.

That feels too mean, though.

Instead, I want to tell him about another, more important change. Sandra introduced me to a driving instructor who specialises in PTSD. Hopefully, I'll learn how to drive again without the fear overwhelming me. I mean, I live in London, so driving is hardly a necessity. But I think it will be good to try.

I draft a text to Nas: just booked a driving lesson. worried I'm a terrible driver as well as a terrible person, but you knew that already. I miss you. can we talk?

This may get a response: something to praise, some grovelling. But Sandra says I'm not a terrible person. I just did a terrible thing. For so long, every mistake I've made has felt like it's made me a mistake. No wonder I've felt so worthless. I don't know how long it will take to change that. I don't even know if I can. But I ought to try. That's not an excuse, either. My choices, good and bad, are my own to own. If I want Nas to forgive me, I need to be honest with him. I've spent too long pretending.

I change the text to: just booked a driving lesson. hopefully this was a better choice than the last one I made. I'm sorry and I miss you. can we talk?

No response. Fair enough.

Should I tell him that I'm about to be promoted? The Old Nas would have cared. Then again, I told the Old Nas that we were just colleagues. Reverting to that dynamic won't help me.

I search for him on our company database and enjoy his photo. Again. So what if the page is bookmarked? No one's checking.

Under his name, it says Animation Producer.

The words hook into my stomach and twist.

Maybe I owe it to him to let him move on. He's clever, talented, handsome, successful. Our relationship, however brief, mostly involved him talking me down from anxiety attacks and soothing my grief. Selfishly, I let him without ever wondering what he wanted. Is it kinder to walk away? What could I possibly give him?

And is this just my anxiety again? How can I know if these thoughts are rational?

Time flies when you're spiralling.

A few breaths, a blink, and it's time for my interview. My whole career has led to this. And right now, my career is all I have.

Sally smiles from her new desk as I walk past. It's big. Three monitors. Good for her.

'Hi, Eleanor,' Daniel greets me as I enter his office. The room is austere, without photographs, awards, or any personal touches. The furniture is solid oak with glass cabinets. For a media executive, the vibe is remarkably unartistic. That's kind of refreshing. Here's someone who cares about the business, not just the optics.

'Take a seat.' He gestures me towards a couch and, to my surprise, sits down opposite me. 'Do you have your CV?' I hand it over and he scans it, taking his time.

'Okay,' he finally says. 'The department is yours. What will you do with it?'

Wow. That was fast.

'Well, we aren't investing enough in our pipeline,' I tell him. 'Most of our resources are focused on active production, but that will dry up soon, and without a robust development slate, we're too exposed.'

'Good. I agree.'

'Diversity is key too.'

'Expand on that.'

'Beside the business case - viewers and production partners are insisting on genuine diversity - we can't produce a truly global slate without truly global talent. We have huge gaps in our creative teams, and casting diverse actors doesn't help when it's the same voices writing their stories. I've already proposed some initiatives and put in place budgets, so now we need to invest in those. I'd like to partner with the DEI team on that.'

'Good. What else?'

'It's stupid to have two people doing the same job. We're adults. If we're off for a week, we'll arrange cover. Don't have us overlapping all the time.'

'Yes.'

'I can send you my forecasts and put together a departmental budget, too, but I'd like to bring on an extra producer in addition to the two roles Nas and I held. They should focus solely on development. And for the love of God, we need a better lawyer. I can't keep dealing with agents directly.'

'Send me those numbers, then.'

He leans back in his seat and peers at me over his glasses. 'You know, Eleanor, Barry didn't have a good thing to say about you.'

'Oh.'

'Congratulations. That's a recommendation in itself. I look forward to seeing what you do next.'

'Thank you.'

I sit for a moment and bask in this feeling.

'That's all, Eleanor. Shut the door on your way out.'

'Oh! Right. Thanks.'

With great force of will, I don't curtsy.