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Naomi, who, along with her fierce temper, could, when required, summon up gargantuan quantities of self-control, was determined not to give in to her desire for a bacon sandwich. Having just spent fifty quid getting rid of her stomach bulge, she had no intention of allowing it to reappear an hour later. What’s more, as someone who liked to shower three times a day, who insisted on every cubicle in the Channel 6 Ladies’ being fitted with a bidet and who used tampons even when she didn’t have a period, she was rather taken with the idea of fasting for a couple of days in order not to get dirt on her freshly irrigated bowel.
    There was, however, another reason why Naomi decided against the bacon sandwich. Image. A strong, powerful woman like Naomi Gold, whose success was due in large measure to her ability to instil the fear of God into her colleagues, did not sit in the canteen stuffing her face with grease, looking like some desperate cow who’d just tunnelled out of an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
    She had always made fun of gym junkies and food faddists, but late in the day had come to the conclusion that it was important for media high-flyers to prove their physical as well as their mental strength.
    The upshot was that she made sure everyone in the office knew she had joined a gym and was now working out from six until eight every morning with a personal trainer. What’s more, in front of her colleagues, she was determined to give the impression that she had also embraced healthy eating. During production meetings she would sneer at people’s Eccles cakes and slices of Battenberg while passing round a bowl of carrot batons accompanied by some dark green dip which looked like it had been made from puréed algae.
    Her junk-eating marathons only ever happened when she was home alone. After one of her four-slices-of-Nutella-on-white-bread-followed-by-an-Indian-take-away binges, she would either live on Lucozade and water biscuits for a week or make an appointment with Summer.
    ***
    Furious at having to forgo the Bacon Bastard, Naomi slammed her briefcase down on the desk and bellowed for Plum, who had an interconnecting office.
    By the time Naomi had sat down, Plum - goatee beard, flares, Adidas Gazelles - was standing in front of her. Plum’s real name was Jason Plumley. He came from Preston, and because he was a bit of a wuss and built like a sparrow with growth hormone deficiency, Naomi enjoyed emasculating the poor lad even further by calling him Plum. Humiliated as he was, Jason didn’t have the balls to fight back. He simply blushed.
    His puny frame, combined with his slightly bowed head and anxious smile, made him look like a petrified first-former up before the head.
    â€˜Right,’ Naomi said, giving a single clap of her hands, ‘how many cripples, cretins and inadequates have we got lined up today?’
    Keeping up his smile, but saying nothing, Plum handed his boss a print-out of the list of stories they were proposing to cover in that day’s show. Naomi sat back in her leather swivel chair and scanned the page. Plum watched the familiar frown form on her face as she went down the list searching for an excuse for molten abuse to start pouring from her mouth. As usual, the two-hour show was to be a mulch of consumer stories, showbiz interviews and Oprah-style talk and tears.
    When Naomi had decided on the show’s present mixed-bag format, none of the producers or editors thought it would be popular with the punters. In private they referred to the new structure as ‘a fucking shambles’ and ‘a ragbag of crass and unfocused ideas’. A few of them even dared to hint at this to Naomi’s face. She simply rode roughshod over them, pushed on with her plans and, when the show became a runaway success, insisted that the Channel 6 bosses sack her detractors. When the newspapers found out that a TV presenter had become so powerful that she was sacking