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six Maud Frizons?’ Steffi smiled back at Claudia over the top of her glass.
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And how do you propose I get her to admit all this?’
    ‘I don’t know. You’re the hack. Accuse her of being a bad mother.’ Claudia finished the last drops of her Bellini. ‘Even better, get some dirt on her. Talk to her
nanny. I heard her complaining that the nanny was getting pissed off with her.’
    Steffi thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t a bad story. TV MOGUL NEGLECTS HER CHILDREN. And the
World
liked nothing better than putting the boot into television people.
Especially when the TV person in question just happened to be married to the editor of their rival newspaper.
    ‘OK then, darling,’ Steffi touched Claudia’s glass with hers, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

CHAPTER 4
    ‘Thirty . . . twenty-five . . . twenty . . . fifteen seconds to on air . . .’
    Liz held her breath sitting in the gallery of the transmission studio as the PA did the countdown. In fifteen seconds Metro Television would be on air for the very first time and all her work
over the last few months would stand or fall. It was the most terrifying and wonderful moment of her life. There was only one other possible comparison. Giving birth. Only when you’re having
a baby eight million people aren’t watching, thank God.
    ‘Settle down studio please,’ warned the floor manager to the assorted technicians who were taking life rather too casually for Liz’s taste and still reading their papers.
    ‘Ten seconds to on air. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five seconds to on air. Three. Two. One. Roll Titles. That’s it everybody! We’re on air!’
    Liz sat and watched Metro’s brilliant title sequence for what seemed like the millionth time and still loved it. An unseen person, represented by the eye of the camera walked through
London streets witnessing highlife and lowlife, culture and crime, politics and party-going all on one single unedited shot. It would have people arguing all over town about how they’d done
it. And a freeze-frame from it would be on the front cover of
TV Week
tomorrow.
    As the titles ended in the about-to-be-familiar station ident of a big red M with a lightning flash through it, Liz sat down and closed her eyes. Upstairs a huge party of advertisers,
journalists and Metro broadcasting bigwigs awaited her. She stood up. And then she realized that everyone in the studio and the gallery had got to their feet too. They were giving her a standing
ovation.
    ‘You’re hot news, Lizzie! The phone’s been ringing non-stop!’ Conrad hissed the moment she walked into the room.
    ‘Every paper in the country wants to talk to you,’ interrupted Cindy, Metro’s PR girl, ‘as well as the colour supps and the women’s mags. Boy are you going to be
busy!’
    Liz felt as though she’d just been given some very bad news by the doctor. The last few days had been a nightmare as they’d struggled to put the finishing touches to their launch
programmes. She’d seen the dawn coming up over the river more often than when she was a bright young thing at Oxford. And she wasn’t a bright young thing any more. She was
knackered.
    Yet as she posed elegantly for the photographers against the backdrop of the river in a hastily bought sunshine-yellow Arabella Pollen suit, which had cost more than she usually spent on clothes
in a year, she knew it was great news for Metro, even if she did feel like an exceptionally chic zombie. And as Cindy handed her a glass of champagne she smiled and began to enjoy herself.
    As the photographers rushed back to their papers to print up the shots, Cindy bore down on her with a sheaf of interview details.
    ‘Feeling strong as a horse, I hope? You’ll need to be! I’ve set up four interviews today for the nationals and two or three more tomorrow for magazines.
    ‘Here’s the schedule.’ Cindy handed her a typed sheet. ‘The
Daily Mail
at two, the
Guardian
, natch, at