All to Play For (17 page)

Catherine returned looking pristine and sat down with care. Chris took her hand. “Look darling. I love you, I need you, I want you to be happy.
I’m
happy, I’m happy if we don’t have another kid and I’m happy if we do. But I can’t be
really
happy unless you are. I’ll go along with anything you want, I promise. Apart from giving up my job.”

“I’d never ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

Catherine squeezed his hand and smiled at him, her eyes watery. Chris noticed that her faint crows’ feet were more apparent when she was stressed out. “I love you,” he whispered.

She smiled again, wider. “I love you too.”

The waiter took this opportunity to move in and clear the table. They ordered coffee and relaxed as they sipped the last of the wine.

“We don’t talk enough, you know,” Catherine remarked. “Maybe it happens to all couples after a few years, you feel you know the other person so well you don’t need to say it. You think they know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m only a bloke, Cathy. You’d like me to be a new man really. But I’m not cut out for it.”

“I know. I don’t want a new man, I’d be bored silly. They’re not sexy at all as far as I can see. It’s to do with power. New men have no power. No power, no sex appeal.”

“
I’ve
got power.”

“I
know
”. She giggled.

“I know it’s not Sunday, but I could probably demonstrate my potency for you if you like.”

She smiled affectionately. “That’s very sweet of you darling, but I’ve got my period, remember?”

“Oh yes. Shame.” He smiled tenderly, privately relieved.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said brightly. “Why don’t
we
move up into the loft room for a while? It might be fun.”

Chris was dismayed, but a promise was a promise. “All right. What do we tell Sarah? She’ll think we’re mad.”

“I’ll think of a good reason. It’ll only be for a few months. I’ll start taking my temperature so we know when to do it.”

“Great. Just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We can get the bed up there, can’t we? I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

“Of course we can.”

The coffees arrived, and they toasted one another in decaffeinated espresso.

“One other thing,” said Catherine.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll have to start wearing boxer shorts.”

Chris groaned. “Anything you say, my sweet.”

Chapter Eight

I was able to escape the dreaded frock series when Peter Maxwell asked me to be the BBC’s editorial representative on a two-part thriller commissioned from a new independent production company. These little firms were proliferating. Many were set up by former BBC programme-makers who wanted more control over their work. Their existence was very insecure, dependent on the favour of the two BBC Channel Controllers, but they had the freedom to operate as they saw fit provided they adhered to corporation guidelines. Crucially, Mrs Thatcher’s government was forcing the BBC to broadcast independently-made programmes – at least a quarter of the total output, in fact.

This was a great experience for me, working with a senior producer and a leading theatre writer. It was a step up to work on a two-hour drama instead of a long-running series, and I learned how a contained structure could carry far more power and impact. The story was about a British couple accidentally caught up in drug running, and the film locations spanned the globe. Sadly the script editor wasn’t required on location, so my role only lasted until negotiations on the script were concluded – although this was an unexpectedly drawn-out process as the Australian director didn’t seem to speak our language; almost every scene suggested something entirely different in his mind. Layers of subtle meaning went straight over his head, and he seemed to take all the dialogue at face value. It was a valuable lesson. You shouldn’t assume that the English languages spoken around the world are the same English that’s spoken in the UK. Neither should you take it for granted that anyone can read a script and understand it; it’s highly skilled. Scripts aren’t like pieces of prose. They’re a glorious mixture of dialogue and images, character traits and motivations, themes and stories. The briefest scene can communicate an ocean’s depth of significance, sometimes with no dialogue at all. The medium of film is so rich, varied and full of potential that you need to understand all the possibilities inherent in a bare script to appreciate its quality. You have to know about actors and what they need, cameras, lighting, sound – and then there’s pace, tone, atmosphere. You have to visualise the effect of cutting from one image to another to recognise the power of juxtaposition. Film can be more truthful than real life, more amazing than dreams, more overwhelming than music, theatre, or any of the arts on their own. It can be pure or it can perpetrate wicked lies. It’s the richest, most complete art form we have. Have I persuaded you?

I also realised that you can’t make original drama in the same way that you can churn out long-running series, which essentially repeat the same formula episode after episode. New work needs to be made by teams of individuals, each bringing their own personality and a unique combination of skills and experience. That’s how creativity blossoms: through the open-minded interaction of imaginative ideas and exploration, not by following rules and procedure – and definitely not by ticking boxes, as politicians believe. Don’t get me started…

It was eye-opening to leave the corporation buildings behind for a couple of months and widen my view of the industry, I gained another perspective on the BBC and came to sympathise with the independents’ point of view. After all, it belonged to the people as a whole, and yet decades after his death, the pompous patriarchal attitudes of Lord Reith’s era still lingered on, as if viewers should be subserviently grateful for whatever they were given. Many people in the industry felt this was absurd, and I agreed with them. There was definitely a need for the BBC to modernise itself and catch up with the rest of us.

The broadcasting press reported on the independent sector and often mentioned Magenta, which by the mid-nineties was in the ascendant with five shows on ITV Midland, three of which were networked across the country. When they ran a photo and profile of the industry’s youngest head of production, Nik Mason, I was gobsmacked to recognise little Nicky from the NYT. What a turn-up! I was really pleased to see that he’d done so well for himself.

Magenta had moved to smart new offices in Camden, having a permanent staff of sixty and a large number of shareholders. Since floating the company on the stock exchange, Rex and Haris had become wealthy. Rex had a penthouse suite at Chelsea Harbour and Haris drove his Mercedes in to work from a grand house in Buckinghamshire.

Nik was becoming a bit of a name. He had produced two shows of his own, both quiz formats hosted by Geordie Boy, and their collaboration had proved very successful. Daytime ratings were always low, but they attracted a larger share than BBC1, and the shows were re-commissioned.

Geordie had much preferred working with Nik than with Rex. They were of the same generation, and they understood each other so much better. Nik allowed Geordie to be himself, and helped to draw out his charm and humour so that he became increasingly loved by audiences. As the show’s contestants were always members of the public it was essential for the host to have enough personality and charisma to carry the show single-handed. The last couple of years had seen Geordie find his feet as an artist, he was now relaxed on camera and a very dependable performer. He had a new agent, who had great ambitions for him, and a stylist to choose his clothes.

Geordie and Nik had just developed a show format which moved into a new area: the comedy quiz. Geordie had only been peripherally linked to the new comedy circuit, his material was apolitical and he had never felt fully accepted by the punky, anarchistic comedians who liked to push boundaries over the cliff. At this point in his career he hoped to cross the divide, and align himself with those so-called alternative names who were now starting to become the new comedy establishment.

The show would be called
SOS
, and Rex had needed some convincing that it was right for Magenta. It would still be a quiz, with two celebrity guests who were supposed to help the contenders to win. It required more preparation and scripted material than previous Magenta shows, and more costumes, since all the participants would be seen full length – a radical departure. It also tested the contestants a little more rigorously, for their general knowledge and for their long-suffering. They were required to be good sports. This feature worried Rex: what if they proved
not
to be good sports and spoiled the show, or sued the company? He thought it was dangerous – which was exactly why Geordie liked it.

Rex had told Nik and Geordie that the show would never be commissioned except by Channel Four, and that even there, they only stood a cat in hell’s chance. So when Nik received a call from their Commissioning Editor for Entertainment saying that he wanted thirteen episodes he was delighted, and Geordie was ecstatic.

“Yes! Yes! Thank you God! This is the big one!” gloated Geordie, raising his fists triumphantly in front of the tenth floor picture window as Nik replaced the phone.

“Ain’t we done well, kid! Our first show that’s not for ITV. Growth, expansion. Just what Magenta needs. I must go and tell Haris.”

Nik left the office and Geordie swung to and fro in the big executive chair, singing to himself and fiddling with the executive toys on Nik’s large steel desk.

A minute or two later, Rex’s head appeared round the door.

“Hi Rex. Heard the news?” said Geordie.

“Where’s Nik?” answered Rex crossly.

“With Haris. He’ll be back soon. Did you hear about
SOS
?”

“What about it?” grunted Rex, stomping in and dumping his briefcase and raincoat on a chair.

“We’ve been commissioned! Thirteen episodes for Channel Four!”

“How much?”

“Eh? Aren’t you going to congratulate your clever boys, Daddy-o?”

“Don’t wind me up. I want the figures before I rashly dole out compliments.”

Nik reappeared, and clapped Rex on the back as he strode happily up to his desk and sat on it.

“Hi Rex. How was the meet at the Beeb?”

“Fucking terrible.”

“Oh. Sorry, mate. Sit down. Have a drink.”

Rex allowed himself to be cossetted. He sank into the leather sofa, kicked off his shoes and sipped the large whisky Nik gave him.

“Didn’t they like
Give us a Break
?”

“They did not. They think advertising is not a subject for a BBC game show. They live in a world where advertising’s like sewage, something other people deal with to keep the world turning, while they keep their dainty hands clean. Stuck-up ponces.” He finished off the whisky. “Of course it’s really me they don’t like. If some Oxbridge type came in with the same idea, they’d love it.”

“Aye well,
they’d
be making a clever ironic comment on the modern world, wouldn’t they?” commiserated Geordie, parking himself next to Nik on the front of the desk.

“Whereas we actually live in it,” finished Nik.

“To them, I’m nothing but a jumped-up masseur. I never go to that place but someone’s always got to comment on it, like I’m some kind of funny little native species. I feel like a bloody crested tit marsh warbler. I think they think I’m a character out of one of their bleeding sitcoms.”

“Maybe it’s the generation gap?”

“No it bloody isn’t. I’m not old. I’m experienced. More whisky.” He held his glass out at arm’s length, and Nik poured him another.

“The actual sticking point,” continued Rex with mock earnestness, “is in the subtext, however – as them toffs like to say. The one point they troubled to impress upon me was the issue of rights. Unless we pip-squeak production companies are prepared to give them our copyright – on
our
shows which we have developed at
our own
expense –
they
are not prepared to give serious consideration to any bloody new show at all!”

“How do they expect us to make a profit and keep the company afloat unless we own the rights to our own products?” Nik was disbelieving. It was crazy.

“They couldn’t give a ferret’s fart about us. It’s company policy. They’re forced to have independents in by law, but they expect us to act like the hired help! They won’t negotiate, they’re absolutely rigid about it. They want our profits. But they ain’t getting them.”

“Second rule of business, eh Rex?” smiled Nik.

“That’s right, boy.
Own it
!”

“Looks like the BBC operate by the same rules then, doesn’t it?” said Geordie.

“Yeah, well, stuff ’em.” Rex concluded.

“A toast, gentlemen,” called Geordie, filling their glasses. “Stuff ’em!”

“Stuff ’em!” repeated Nik and Rex. They drank.

“Well. At least there’s some good news,” said Nik happily.

“Yeah, well done, boys,” said Rex, frowning. “Get Haris to bring the sums in, will you?” Nik picked up the phone and called Haris.

“He’ll be along in a mo.”

Rex couldn’t stop worrying over the BBC dilemma. “What we’ll have to do, is make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Geordie looked askance. “Surely not, boss. We’d never get away with that at the BBC, would we?”

Rex looked up, bewildered, and then caught on.

“I’m not talking about GBH, you northern moron, I’m saying we need a show that’s so completely irresistible they can’t turn it down – even without the rights.”

The door opened and Haris stepped in quietly. In recent years he had taken more of a back-room role in Magenta, preferring to let the extraverts run the production side of the company while he efficiently ran the business end. He was happy not to take part in public engagements, they seemed to him increasingly tedious. He carried a piece of paper which he gave to Rex, standing by him as he perused it.

“Well this show’s a complete waste of time, ain’t it?” Rex said finally.