The green room

Now I know why they call it the Green Room. It’s got pale green walls and a dark green carpet, and even the long sofas they usher us towards are green. A shade somewhere between apple and lime, I’d say.

We’re on the tenth floor, with a wonderful view of the city spread out far below us. I see green outside too, as the huge windows overlook a sprawling park.

There are four of us. All strangers, all nervous, just nodding to each other and not much else.

I can’t speak for the others, but I’m dying for a cuppa. I’ve been up since the crack of dawn, checking that I’d packed the right clothes and shoes and a quiz book to read on the train, before Sam dropped me off at the station without time for a proper breakfast.

They’re making what they call a pilot. I saw the call for contestants on the internet and didn’t really expect to get picked, but here I am! It’s a new TV quiz show called Name and Shame.

Yes, I know it’s a terrible name, but it reflects the spirit of the game, apparently. Shaming our rivals. Showing up their lack of knowledge while concealing our own. Making friends isn’t really the idea.

So, I’m sitting here in my comfy elastic-waisted trousers, wearing my mother’s old pearl necklace for luck and staring at my feet, the others either reading newspapers or gazing at phone screens. They’ve given us coffee now, so that’s helped to wake me up at least, and we’re all taking it in turns to go off to the make-up room.

The presenter popped his head round the door a while back to say hello. Rick, his name is. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, on one of the lesser-known channels. Perhaps this is his chance to hit the big-time.

Anyway, I bet he wasn’t fighting his way through the rush hour to sit in second class at seven o’clock this morning. Chauffeur-driven, probably.

In the make-up room, the girl debates what to do with my hair, but I insist she leaves it alone. Pinned up in a bun is just fine. I have to give in over the eye shadow and lippy though, and the thick foundation stuff they wipe all over my face. It’s necessary, apparently, as the camera can be very revealing.

Along the corridor, the wardrobe woman is waiting to change me into one of the three outfits I’ve brought, as instructed. She says the white blouse will look too harsh unde