All to Play For (34 page)

“Maybe you should ask Peter to arbitrate?”

“Actually that’s a really good idea. Thanks, Jonathan. Sorry to rant at you.”

“My pleasure,” he smiled, and made his getaway.

At three o’clock Jonathan sauntered into Peter’s outer office, where his reassuringly mature PA Vera was on the phone as usual. She looked up at him over her half-moon specs and seemed too weary to smile, although her voice was kind as ever.

“Hello Jonathan. He’s got Basil in there at the moment. Might be a few minutes yet.”

“I’ll wait, no problem. How are you, Vera?”

“Mustn’t grumble.” The phone rang again, so Jonathan moved away from her desk towards the newspaper rack. He couldn’t help overhearing Basil expressing delight at something and strained to listen in.

“Best Drama, of course!” Peter was saying.

“I didn’t know it had been entered. You must have forgotten to tell me,” Basil replied. Peter’s voice continued at a lower, apologetic level, and Jonathan picked up
Broadcast
and sat down to read it. Ten minutes later Basil emerged and closed Peter’s door behind him.

“Jonathan!” he hailed. “Congratulations. Our last production just won another gong.”

“
Down and Up
?”

“Tony will be so pleased.”

“What’s the prize?”

“Best Drama at the Banff festival.”

“Fantastic! Congratulations, Basil.” Jonathan beamed as he gathered his documents and prepared to enter Peter’s inner sanctum. He paused as Basil held his eye mysteriously, strolling behind Vera and leaning over to speak quietly into her ear.

“Tell me the truth, Vera. Who
really
put
Down and Up
in for Banff?”

Vera leaned back and pursed her lips. She patted Basil’s hand, which was resting on her shoulder.

“The American co-producers, Basil.”

Basil continued to look at Jonathan, letting him understand that the BBC had taken so little pride in the show that they hadn’t even bothered to enter it for an international festival. It was the Americans, who had put up half the money and interfered hardly at all, who believed in it. But it was not Basil's way to make a song and dance about such things. He squeezed Vera’s shoulder.

“It’s good to know
someone
appreciates us.”

“Take it where it’s offered, Basil.”

“Oh I do, Vera, I do,” said Basil walking out with his usual dignity, winking at Jonathan as he passed.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows at Vera, who shrugged: none of it was her doing.

“Bit of a back-handed compliment, really – something like that anyway,” said Jonathan. “Bit depressing, really.”

“You think
that’s
depressing,” said Vera quietly. Glancing at Peter’s door, she whispered loudly, “Basil’s been asked to give up his office and take a small one. And he can’t have a PA any more.”

Jonathan was shocked. He shook his head. “Why?”

“Cut-backs, what else? He’s not in production.”

Jonathan was disgusted. It was a terrible affront to Basil’s dignity; the rest of the entertainment industry would wonder at his apparent demotion as soon as they realised he was answering his own phone and writing his own letters.

“He can’t even type, Vera!”

“Lucky
I
can, isn’t it?”

“You’re far too busy.”

“True,” said Vera, as the intercom buzzed. “You can go in now.”

There was a hint of whisky in the air when Jonathan approached Peter’s desk, but no sign of a bottle or a glass.

“Jonathan! Come in. Make yourself comfortable,” welcomed Peter, who seemed droopier than usual. He looked at his watch. “Three twenty. Not too early, is it – fancy a drink?”

Jonathan was embarrassed. “Not really, thanks awfully – but don’t let me stop you.”

“No no. I’ll get Vera to fetch us some teas.
Vera
!” he yelled. She opened the door. “Two teas please my sweet. And get one for yourself, you deserve it.”

Vera acknowledged his humour with a sarcastic smile and disappeared.

“Now then,” said Peter, throwing himself into an armchair as Jonathan leaned back on the corduroy sofa. “
The Medical Miracle
.” He paused and rubbed his temples; Jonathan wasn’t sure whether he was going to continue. Uncomfortable at the silence, he opened his mouth to speak just as Peter asked, “Directors. Who have you got?”

Jonathan wasn’t prepared, they were supposed to be discussing the budget, but Peter had evidently forgotten. Never mind, he would go with it.

“Well, it’s basically a choice of young, trendy and cheap, or experienced and expensive.”

“What about your brother?”

Jonathan was taken by surprise. His younger brother Roger was just beginning to establish himself as a director, but he hadn’t put him on the list of possibles.

“Well I do think he’s very good,” he began. “But I wouldn’t want to be accused of nepotism.”

Peter laughed sourly. “Who cares about
that
these days? Look after your own, that’s what I say, because no-one else is going to. I thought he did a very good job on that thing of Gillian’s.”

Peter was referring to a series of short single dramas produced at Pebble Mill, which Roger had directed.

“So did I,” said Jonathan. He liked the idea of working with Roger, who at 28 was three years his junior and would be easier to work with than most directors available to him. “He’s certainly young and cheap, and he
thinks
he’s trendy! I’d definitely like to consider him, if you think that’s a good idea.”

Peter nodded assent. “Who knows, you might become the British Coen brothers.”

Jonathan liked that idea even more. Vera came in with the teas at that moment, and he took the opportunity to get the meeting back on course. “I need to talk to you about the budget, I’ve been working on this draft.” He put it on the table but Peter didn’t look at it.

“Where’s your script editor? Why isn’t she here?”

“Oh.” Jonathan’s face reddened. “I don’t think I mentioned… Rhiannon’s been very busy, so I said not to worry, I could manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Peter. “D’you think you can do everything on your own? First time out?”

“Well, I thought I could save a bit of money if I edited the scripts myself.”

“The point of having an editor is so that you can discuss everything with someone who knows what you’re talking about and can work with the writer while you solve other problems. You need her. Go away, and come back when you’ve got her on board.”

Jonathan was somewhat shocked by Peter’s tone, which was a good deal sharper than he was used to. He realised he must have made quite a big error; he’d thought his handling of Rhiannon had been diplomatic, but now he saw that it was weak. He was only a learner producer in Peter’s eyes. He excused himself and walked straight back to his office without speaking to anyone, not even Vera who had just made him a cup of tea.

I was on my computer, trying to get the hang of the new script software that was supposed to make our lives so much easier, when Jonathan knocked on my door. I called, “Come in,” hit
save
, and spun my chair round to see who it was.

“Hello,” he said, and walked in rather diffidently. Surprised to see him, I took the opportunity to be nice: not only did I regret not being on his show, I still hadn’t found anything else to attach myself to.

“Hiya, have a seat! Would you like a drink?” I caught myself – was I gushing? He perched on a sofa I’d filched from a departing producer’s office.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking at an embroidered blue plaque I’d sewn onto the back like an antimacassar. “‘Alan Bennett, Jack Rosenthal, Andrew Davies… ’”

“It’s a list of the famous bums that sat on it. It’s supposed to be like the ones they put up on houses where famous people lived.” I felt a bit daft, but he seemed to get the point.

“Brilliant!” he laughed. “What a list. Is it true?”

“I reckon – I can’t be sure, but they all worked with Geoffrey over the years, so it’s more than likely they sat on his sofa.”

“Makes you think, doesn’t it? Imagine if every office door listed all the productions that were made in it down the years.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” We smiled sadly at each other, and all the awkwardness that had existed between us seemed to have evaporated. He cleared his throat.

“I was wondering – I haven’t got a script editor for
Medical Miracle
, I’ve been doing it myself, but I could really use one now. I just thought I’d check whether you were available before I asked anyone else.”

“Oh, yes, actually, I’m pretty free now. My show got dumped.”

“I heard. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to rub salt – ”

“No problem! Don’t worry about it. That’s life, I’ve already forgotten about it!”

He smiled his handsome smile, and I smiled back. “Shall I come and pick up a copy of the script?”

“Great!”

I was grateful to Jonathan for making it so easy for me. Of course, at that stage I didn’t know what Peter had said, and I thought he was generously overlooking my rudeness and giving me a second chance. Whatever the reason, we seemed to have made a fresh start, and by unspoken agreement we never mentioned what had gone before. Each of us breathed a private sigh of relief and got on with the job in hand. We had no idea what we were in for.

Chapter Sixteen

The Harder They Come

Proposal for a ninety minute thriller by Jill Watkins

SHARON (35) teaches English in a tough East London comprehensive. She has been married to JOHN (58) (
David Jason
) for ten years and they have two little girls (5 and 2). They are more or less content. John runs a local advertising paper. He is the kind of man who seems to have everything under control, who never raises his voice; the sort whom people are afraid to cross.

LUKE (16) (Take That) is about to sit his GCSEs. He loves anything to do with art and making things. His parents both work at Ford Dagenham. He has a sister RACHEL (14).

A murder has recently taken place locally: a woman was raped and left for dead in the local woods. The murderer’s identity is a mystery.

Sharon teaches Luke. She has always liked him, and can’t help noticing that he is growing up into a very sexy man. He’s tall, good-looking, wears a long blonde ponytail and has an inner confidence unusual in a boy of his age that Sharon finds very attractive.

Luke has had a crush on Sharon for months and believes he’s the right person for her. He wants to start a relationship.

Sharon and Luke begin an affair. She’s riddled with guilt, but can’t help herself, realising her marriage is hollow. Luke wants to run away with her, but she won’t leave John, it wouldn’t be fair to him.

One day they take a walk in the local woods, and are overcome by passion. They don’t realise John is in the woods too, we don’t know why, he sees them but doesn’t let on.

John starts stalking them. The suspense builds. Sharon is on the horns of a dilemma. She wants to run away with Luke, but can’t make the decision. John knows what’s going on and he’s as nice to her as he knows how, hoping it will blow over. Another body is found in the woods.

Whilst the police conduct investigations, Sharon and Luke meet in the woods, followed by John. Sharon promises to leave John, hears a noise, tells Luke to go. She waits a few minutes before she leaves.

John has a knife. He creeps up and attacks her for betraying him. Luke’s dog hears something and wants to go back. They do, and catch John struggling with Sharon. It’s a tense fight, but the dog’s barking attracts some police searching the woods, and they come to the rescue.

It turns out that John is the psychopathic murderer. Sharon and Luke settle down together with the girls. John goes to prison.

Jill was quite pleased with her effort, although she felt it would take a little time to grow on her before she really liked it. What would Basil and Maggie’s comments have been? A fleeting regret passed through her, was she betraying them? Hardly, she reasoned. How could you betray people who had dropped your project? All the same, she had changed the title so that they would think it was a new idea, if they ever heard about it.

Sally called back the day after she got the fax and declared it super. However, she wanted Jill to make one or two tiny changes before she took it further.

“Firstly, the boys in Take That have short hair, so can Luke? He’ll only look silly with a wig on.”

That was tough. Jill had always seen Luke’s ponytail as an integral part of his personality, a low-key statement of individuality. She made a Herculean effort and mentally chopped it off.

“Great,” said Sally. “Now I’ve got this idea, it’s really very exciting. I think it’s a bit dodgy to make David Jason the baddy. I’m really not sure audiences will wear it, so I thought, wouldn’t it be a terrific twist at the end, if it turned out that
Luke
was the murderer! Then
John
’s the one who saves Sharon’s life, and she realises it was all a sort of mid-life crush on
her
part and goes back home with John, who’s really mature and kind and forgives her?”

Jill couldn’t speak.

Sally interpreted her silence to suit herself and rattled on, “If you could possibly write that up by the end of tomorrow I can give it directly to David’s agent, I’ll be seeing him at a dinner party. If David’s on board we can get the controller behind it and then we’ll be able to sort out your contract.”

The magic word
contract
lodged in Jill’s mind, and she muttered that she’d try.

“You’re a brick, Jill.”

“By the way,” Jill said before Sally’s phone went down. “I’d really like to have a go at developing a precinct drama set in a school. What do you think?”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the window now,” said Sally airily. “They’ve already got two: one’s set in a police station and one’s about a hospital. Speak to you later. Bye.”

Jill paced up and down the kitchen while she made coffee. Sally’s ‘tiny’ changes ripped out the heart of the original story. They turned her ideal youth into a neurotic obsessive, and Sharon into a weak-minded fool. She didn’t want to write it.