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to make his skin look vaguely human for the cameras. He dubiously sipped the glass of water that had been placed in front of him.
    “Is this Evian?”
    “Did you want sparkling?” asked a sweet-faced young woman in combat trousers and army boots.
    “I wanted Evian.”
    She looked relieved. “That’s Evian.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Well, it’s Badoit.”
    Marty looked at her.
    “But there wasn’t any Evian in the vending machine,” she said.
    “Try the green room,” he suggested with a little sigh.
    There were murmurs of assent. The green room—the holding pen for the show’s guests—was definitely the place to find Marty’s Evian. Crestfallen but smiling bravely, the girl in combat trousers went off to find the right water.
    “I’m thinking classic encounter with Hollywood legend,” Marty said. “I’m thinking Michael Parkinson meets the stars with his clipboard. I’m thinking Tinsel Town. I’m thinking Oscar nominee. I’m thinking…Jack Nicholson?”
    “Jack’s not in town,” our researcher said. She was a small, nervous girl who wouldn’t be doing this job for much longer. Her fingernails were already chewed to the knuckle.
    “Leonardo DiCaprio?”
    “Leo’s unavailable.”
    “Clint Eastwood?”
    “I’ve got a call in with his office. But—doubtful.”
    “Robert Mitchum? James Stewart?”
    “They’re dead.”
    Marty shot her a vicious look.
    “Don’t ever say that,” he said. “They are merely unable to commit to the show at this moment in time.”
    He looked at me in the mirror, his beady eyes blinking inside a cloud of orange foundation.
    “Why can’t we get any of these fucking screen greats, Harry?”
    “Because none of the people you mentioned have any product out,” I told him, as I had to tell him every week. “And when they do, we still have to fight for them with all the other talk shows.”
    “Did you see the news tonight?” the makeup girl said dreamily, the way makeup girls do, completely oblivious to the nervous breakdowns that were happening all around her. “It was really interesting. They showed you those protesters out at the airport. The ones chaining themselves to the trees? Protesting against the new terminal?”
    “What about them?” Marty said. “Or are you just making conversation?”
    “I really like their leader,” she said. “You know—Cliff. The one with the dreadlocks? He’s gorgeous.”
    Every woman in the room muttered agreement. I had seen this Cliff character up his tree—skinny, well-spoken, dreadlocks—but I had no idea he was considered a sexual entity.
    “That’s who you should have on the show,” the makeup girl said triumphantly, dabbing Marty’s face with a powder puff. “He’s much more interesting than some old superstar with a hair transplant and an action thriller on general release.”
    “Cliff’s not a bad idea,” I said. “But I don’t know how to reach him. Although he can’t be as difficult as Clint Eastwood.”
    “Well, I’ve got a cell phone number for him,” someone said from the back of the makeup room. “If that’s any use.”
    We all turned to look at her.
    She was a slim redhead with that kind of fine Irish skin that is so pale it looks as though it has never seen the sun. She was in her early twenties—she looked as though she had been out of the university for about forty-five minutes—but she still had a few freckles. She would always have a few freckles. I had never seen her before.
    “Siobhan Kemp,” she said to no one in particular, blushing as she introduced herself. “I’m the new associate producer. Well—shall I give Cliff a call?”
    Marty looked at me. I could tell that he liked the idea of the tree man. And so did I. Because like all television people, what we worshiped above all else was authenticity. Apart from genuine, high-octane celebrity, of course. We worshiped that most of all.
    But we were sick of junior celebs pushing their lousy product. We hungered after