All to Play For (36 page)

“Not till I had kids,” he said. “Never crossed my mind till then. It makes you think about the future, and how much time you spend in the office. I thought, these scribblers have got it made. I fancied writing a bestseller and living off the royalties.”

“So you did.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t as easy as all that, but yeah, basically. I’m a lucky bleeder, gift of the gab like my dad.”

“Does he write too?”

“No! He can hardly write at all, only in capital letters, bless him. He’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey though. He can tell a story, he can. Generations of market traders in my family. Blag anything you like.”

“Proper cockneys.”

“You could say that. I’ve had to clean up me act since I met my missus though, married into the Old Bill, ain’t I!” Jim didn’t seem to have got over this fact yet.

“You have to mind your P’s and Q’s now?”

He sucked in his breath with a comically serious expression. “It’s murder.
Both
in-laws are coppers. You can’t get away with nothing. I bought a new kitchen table. They come round, eye it up: ‘So where d’you get this, then?’ –‘Heals, actually’ – ‘Oh yes? How much d’you pay for it then?’” Jim reproduced the suspicious gaze of a 1950s police constable. “I’m constantly expecting to get my collar felt and a quick march down the nick!” It was a lovely image; we laughed.

“What about you, Rhiannon?” asked Jonathan. “Do you write?”

“No, too busy,” I said, “but I’d like to write a novel one day. Everyone says that though, don’t they? How about you?”

“It’s not for me. I can’t imagine it anyway. Maybe I’m too reserved. I like telling other peoples’ stories.”

“You don’t want to expose yourself,” suggested Jim.

“Maybe that’s it,” agreed Jon shyly. I wondered what he wanted to hide, but didn’t like to ask. Jim, quick as a kestrel, read my face.

“She thinks you’ve got a skeleton in the closet,” he put in.

Luckily Jon wasn’t offended. He smiled charmingly at me, “In my family nothing’s ever revealed publicly. It just isn’t done. Not that there’s anything dreadful to conceal, as far as I know! It’s about showing a public face of respectable happiness.”

“Good manners.”

“Exactly. You pretend everything’s absolutely perfect, regardless of whether it is or not. You sail through life confidently. You’re very successful, that goes without saying. And you don’t reveal your feelings, that would be a kind of betrayal.”

“Wow,” I said, incautiously. “I don’t think I could live like that. So – if you
wanted
to be a writer, you couldn’t?”

Jon pursed his lips. “Risky. It would depend on what you wrote. Biography, academic work would be perfectly fine. Spilling the emotions: all rather embarrassing.”

“Makes me realise how lucky I am,” I said. “My parents always encouraged me to do whatever I want. Both my grandfathers were miners, and my dad managed to become a school teacher. Our family’s really keen on education and bettering yourself, and they don’t worry about anything I do impacting on them. They’re really proud of me. They never care about gossip.”

Jon looked kind of wistful, and I felt sorry for him, for the first time.

Jim, of course, couldn’t resist a comment, “Poor little rich boy. It’s no wonder he’s got a lobster up his arse.”

“Nobody else could get away with the things you say.” He just grinned, and Jonathan looked tolerant and signalled for the bill. I realised he quite enjoyed being treated like this, perhaps it made him feel one of us. I supposed teasing wasn’t done in his family either, and he enjoyed the warmth and acceptance that it implies. I’d learned a lot about him over lunch. I’d had a glimpse of his vulnerable side, and had seen him in another context – it had taken Jim’s scathing wit to show me what I could have found out on my own, if I hadn’t had a crab up my own arse since I’d been at Television Centre.

The bill arrived, Jonathan paid, and as we got up to go I noticed a familiar figure at the door. “There’s no escaping the Drama Department,” I remarked. “Here’s Penny Cruickshank – ooh – who’s that?” Jon glanced over and saw our generously proportioned senior colleague with two fashionably-gelled young men half her age, being shown to a table.

“She’s on a date,” offered Jim.

I ignored him and surreptitiously watched the waiter seat them in an alcove and give the wine list to one of the men. “I know that bloke’s face from somewhere.”

Jonathan sneaked a peek, “I think he runs Magenta.”

“D’you think she’s leaving? I can’t believe it. She’s been at the Beeb forever.” We left, discreetly ignoring Penny, though normally we’d have had a chat. There was evidently something afoot and we didn’t want to put a spoke in her wheel, Penny was one of the few people everyone liked.

Penny had noticed us immediately, and was now taking care not to look around, being keen to avoid catching anyone’s eye on this occasion. She preferred to keep negotiations private until the deal was signed and sealed. Her companions’ eyes, in contrast, swept the room periodically like lighthouse beams.

Nik watched as the champagne was poured by the sommelier, and proposed a toast, “
Bus Stops Here
!”

“
Bus Stops Here
!” echoed his new executive assistant.

“To the bus, and all who sail in her!” exclaimed Penny jovially. They drank, smiled, and looked at Nik. He looked back at them and wondered whether they would get through the show without falling out.

He had been happy to accept Chris’ suggestion of Penny to produce the show. She was an old-school BBC type, full of cheery common sense and completely reliable. She was a safe pair of hands where the budget was concerned, knew everyone in the BBC and all its arcane systems, and would be invaluable as a go-between, a champion, and a general workhorse. He only worried that she might imprint her personality on the show, and give it a Blue Peter flavour. To counterbalance this he had found an energetic assistant with contemporary taste: Jack Smith. He was very young but had a degree in Media Studies, and had also won a competition with a ten-minute screenplay, although it hadn’t been filmed. Nik thought he saw something of himself in Jack, and was quietly flattered when he began spelling his name Jak.

That morning the threesome had wrestled over the still-to-be-named drama series. It hadn’t been easy. Penny had been quite clear about the low budget and what they could realistically expect to achieve on it. She had identified major loopholes in the dramatic logic of the series concept, and asked questions they couldn’t answer. Jak had tried to dismiss her objections as fussiness, which had riled Penny to the verge of walking away from the show altogether. Nik had understood the wisdom of her points, however, and had backed her. He realised that she knew what she was talking about, and Jak didn’t, so he said as much. He laid down the law: what Penny said, went. If she said it wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t work. Jak’s function was to connect with the kids, and make sure the series was
cool
. Penny was to accommodate as much of his input as she could, but she was in charge.

This resolution satisfied Penny enough to commit to the series despite her reservations. She knew there would be a terrific scramble for work within the Drama Department from now on, so this was probably a good opportunity. She reluctantly agreed to resign from the BBC in favour of this one-year contract with Magenta. The budget was ridiculous, but given her extensive contacts and the favours she could pull in, she felt sure she could give this series the best production values without overspending. She was an old pro, and she would dedicate herself to making it work. The scheduled slot was early evening, Saturday; this kind of family viewing was her speciality.

They had agreed to develop a 26-part episode breakdown, with Penny checking costs and practicalities, and Jak checking its street cred. Nik had decided that there was no reason why these two angles should be mutually exclusive, although Penny had her doubts. Jak was keen to assemble a wish list of guest stars. How they would appear for one episode only was a problem the storyliner would have to solve, somehow. Penny had failed to persuade them that the sci-fi genre was not a carte-blanche excuse for illogical plotting. She also insisted on a story arc which would lead to an ultimate resolution, although Nik wanted to keep the show open-ended so that it could grow with each new series and potentially run for decades. Penny’s views on narrative integrity were dismissed by Jak as utterly irrelevant in the post-modern, de-constructionist,
fin-de-siecle
world. Penny had no answer to this except flat denial, but Nik had managed to pull them together with the inspired reminder that since he needed both ends of the audience to enjoy the show, they must find a way to be all-inclusive, and ‘Give ’em all what they want.’ In this way a truce was reached, and he had brought them out to seal it over a good lunch.

“Tell me about yourself, Dik – I mean Jak,” said Penny, while Nik went to the gents. “Which university were you at?”

“Sussex,” replied Jak. “It was crap.”

“Oh! I thought it had a good reputation. My niece – ”

“Depends what you do there.”

“A pretty cool place to spend three years, I should think?”

“Boring, really. Brighton’s all hippies, gays and nutters.”

Penny wished Jak would at least make the effort to meet her halfway – her son’s sixth-form friends had much better social skills – but perhaps he lacked confidence, and felt overwhelmed in this media restaurant. She tried again. “Nik tells me you won a writing competition?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you still writing?”

“Well I’m doing this now.”

She was glad when Nik returned and the oysters arrived. Working with Jak was going to be a hard slog, that much was clear. She’d thought the BBC had already presented her with every challenge under the sun, but this was a new one, she observed ruefully. At the moment it was impossible to see what contribution Jak would make to the show; he seemed nothing but trouble, but she foresaw that if she were to lose Nik’s backing she’d be off the show faster than Linford Christie.

When Jon and I got back to Centre House the weekend was approaching, and the building was quiet. There was a comfortable feeling between us which I hadn’t expected and I could tell he was aware of it too. We returned to our respective offices, and ten minutes later Jonathan appeared at my door with a letter in his hand.

“Have you got a moment?”

“Of course,” I said. He came in and sat on my historic sofa.

“Peter’s left me this note, he’s gone away for the weekend. It’s a bit unusual. It’s very confidential.”

“You don’t have to tell me – ”

“I think I do.” He held it out to me, so I took it. It was handwritten, but crystal clear:

‘
Jonathan, destroy this message when you’ve read it. You must revise all official docs and remove any references to cannabis in The M M. Finish scripts ASAP. Peter.
’

“How weird,” I said. “Was it on your desk?”

“Vera brought it to me just now. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it?”

“Bloody hell. Perhaps he was pissed when he wrote it?” Everyone had noticed Peter’s alcohol intake was rising. “What are you going to do?”

“What he says, I suppose. Vera seemed to think it was important.”

“Vera always knows.”

“I hope it doesn’t backfire on me, what if he’s forgotten all about it when he gets back?”

“I’ll stick up for you.”

“Thanks. Intriguing, isn’t it?”

“Not half. I suppose we better get cracking, then.”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” I really didn’t. “I can work late tonight, if you like.”

“Let’s do that, then. We might regret it if we don’t.”

Chapter Eighteen

Selina was looking forward to her engagement party, naturally, and then to setting the date for the wedding, and deciding where she and Jonathan would live. They’d barely discussed it so far. They hadn’t moved in together, since Daddy wanted to preserve the illusion of giving his little girl away at the altar. Humouring Daddy would certainly be to their advantage financially, so why rock the boat? Jonathan was very easy going, he was a sweetheart. He understood her parents in a way that many young men had failed to, and was content to go along with what they and Selina wanted. He seemed to know innately that opposing them would lead to far more trouble than it was worth. They’d fallen for each other soon after meeting, and since then everything had dropped into place very easily. There was a gentle, unhurried routine to their relationship that Selina found very reassuring. They always spent Saturday night together, and sometimes Friday too, and occasionally Wednesday. They remained in their own flats the rest of the week, it worked better that way. Selina hated being in the wrong place without all her cosmetics and wardrobe, and having time to herself meant she was always at her best for Jon or for work. She was glad that they weren’t the kind of couple who are all over each other and can’t bear to be apart. Their love was respectful and well-mannered, just like her parents’. They were perfectly suited.

Jonathan’s family weren’t quite so straightforward, but they were manageable. Selina had charmed his father, the retired history professor, without any difficulty although conversation had a tendency to stall unless she got him onto his favourite topic of the Plantagenets. She’d become quite knowledgeable herself as a result. Jon’s mother was perfectly nice, a well-educated housewife who played the organ in their local church. She wasn’t easy to get close to, but perhaps that wasn’t necessary. The only member of the family she had misgivings about was Roger, Jon’s younger brother.

Roger’s father always referred to him with a laugh as the black sheep of the family. His mother would wince, but she never objected. Jonathan would look askance, but since family arguments were strictly taboo their father said whatever he liked. Roger was the rebellious child. He had followed his (let’s face it) perfect elder brother through life being told he wasn’t as good, clever, handsome, tall, or hard-working. It’s unsurprising that he chose to create an identity for himself that his parents didn’t care for: spontaneous, creative, sociable – qualities which translated to unreliable, unfocussed and noisy, as far as his father was concerned. His mother was more tolerant of his personality traits but also more upset by his sexuality, since she was an old-fashioned Christian and he was gay.