All to Play For (41 page)

I was really giggling now. Thank God our show was ex-directory. I turned the page and found a letter:

Dear drama colleagues,

I guess this is goodbye. It’s been nice knowing you all, I just wanted to say farewell before I canter off into the sunset. I’m making my escape before I end up in a van with the men in white coats.

Love,

Sonia

My jaw dropped. Sonia was resigning in the middle of the job. She’d had enough and had decided to go out with a splash. Presumably she wasn’t planning to stay in the business. I picked up the phone and dialled her office number, but the voicemail informed me that she had resigned her post and gone. It was rather upsetting, and strangely moving. I wasn’t close to Sonia but I respected her, and to be honest I was rather impressed with her parody. What a waste, I thought, yet another good producer bites the dust. I wandered over to Jonathan’s office to find out whether he’d received a copy.

I could see through the glass in the door that Jon was on the phone, looking tense, so I loitered in the corridor until he put it down, and then tapped on the door. He looked up and beckoned me in.

“Everything okay?” I asked. He wrinkled his nose.

“Have a seat. What’s that?”

“I think it’s Sonia’s parting shot. Have you seen it?”

“Not yet.” Clearly, he had more important news. He frowned. “I’m in a tricky situation. D’you mind if I tell you about it?”

“Of course not, is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

I was all ears. I sat in one of his little armchairs, and he swivelled his big desk chair to face me.

“I’ve just had Selina on the phone. Asking me all about
Medical Miracle
. In some detail.” I nodded. “She feels she’s been kept in the dark. Which she has. I feel terrible about it.”

“She’s annoyed, is she?” I asked sympathetically, assuming this was a relationship issue. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll understand when she knows what Peter told us… once we get the green light we can stop being so secretive, can’t we?”

“Hmm.” Jon combed his hands through his hair. “That’s just it. Selina’s the one with the switch now.”

“What d’you mean?”

“No green lights without her approval.”

I was gobsmacked. “
Selina
gives the green light? How on earth – ”

“Not exactly. The controller doesn’t say yes unless he has a stamp of approval from Policy and Planning.”

“My God. Can’t these people take
any
decisions for themselves?”

“Apparently not. Why make a decision on your own if you can employ ten people to take the blame if it all goes tits up?”

“Okay.” I tried to absorb it. “So – what’s not to like about
Medical Miracle
– what’s she saying?”

“She wants to test it with a focus group.”

“A what?”

“A focus group. Like they do in advertising. Get a few punters in to respond to the idea, see whether they’re likely to watch it.”

“Right. Don’t they do that in Hollywood, to test the endings of movies?”

“Yes. But she’s going to do it on the cheap, with ten people, before it goes into production.”

We gazed at each other, horrified.

“How? Will she show them a synopsis or something?”

“Yes, unless we go and pitch it to them.”

I groaned. “That really takes the biscuit for the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard in my life! Why would the opinions of ten people off the street be worth hearing?”

“It’s called market research.”

“I always thought these decisions were made by well-informed, experienced executive programme makers, drawing on their own considered judgement. Not a handful of people who probably only watch football and will be so excited by being asked for their opinion that they’ll just rabbit all their prejudices.”

“That’s how it used to be,” said Jon. “Welcome to the modern world of free market economics.”

“They’ll hate the idea, they’ll say it’s depressing and they’re not interested in Welsh farmers, especially if we don’t tell them the herb is cannabis. And we can’t do that.”

“I think we’re stuffed.”

“We’ve got to find a way round it, Jonathan.”

He sighed heavily and nodded. “We’d better tell Peter.”

We both walked along to Peter’s office and asked Vera if there was a chance of ten minutes with him. She said she’d slip us in before his next appointment if we waited, so we sat down and leafed through the broadcast magazines despondently, listening to Vera on the phone to the stationery administrator. One of the new improved systems was getting rid of the stationery cupboard. Until now, if you needed a pad or a pen you could just go and get one. She needed a pencil sharpener, it seemed, and was having some difficulty.

“I only want
one
though,” she said into the phone. There was a pause. “But why? What am I supposed to do with two dozen?” Another pause. “Yes I understand that we have to order in bulk, but if… well why don’t
you
order two dozen and we can come to you if we need one?” She held the phone away from her ear and looked at me, shaking her head. “Okay, okay, I give in,” she said finally. “I’ll order two dozen. Who cares?” She hung up. “Either of you need a pencil sharpener?”

“No thanks Vera,” I said. “Too risky, I might hurt myself with it. Then I’d be in trouble with Health and Safety.”

Peter’s door opened, and Donald Mountjoy came out. Vera looked in and asked whether we could see him, then told us we could, so in we went. Peter looked harassed, as he usually did these days.

“Bloody Policy and Planning. I’m sorry Jonathan, I know you and Selina… ”

“Please don’t apologise Peter. I feel just the same.”

“Now I’ve got Donald up in arms because she wants to see all the rushes. What the hell’s it got to do with her, for God’s sake? She doesn’t know a film from a hole in the ground. Sorry.”

“No, it’s true, she doesn’t,” said Jonathan, to my astonishment. “She likes
When Harry Met Sally
and
The English Patient
, that’s about it.”

Even Peter noticed that this was an unusual comment for Mr Super-Nice to make, so he invited us to sit down.

“Actually we need to talk to you about something similar,” I said.

“She wants to run a focus group on
Medical Miracle
,” said Jon. “To find out whether it’s going to appeal to a big audience before we start production.”

“That’s a bit odd. I haven’t heard of using them like that before,” said Peter. “I smell a rat. How much does she know about it?”

“No more than the official synopsis,” said Jon. “She never asked, luckily. But now she says she needs detail before she can give her approval.”

“Oh dear. I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary, under the circumstances.” Peter was alluding to the engagement.

“Yes. She’s been on the phone this morning, wanting to know about the herbs, whether there’s really a herb that can treat MS. She reckons that if there is, people are going to want it, but if there isn’t, they’ll be angry and think it’s a silly story. Either way, she says, the BBC’s liable to come in for criticism.”

Peter rested his elbows on his desk top and his chin on his hands. Then he got up and walked round the office. He stopped at the window and looked out. A couple of minutes went by; Jon and I looked at each other, wondering whether to say anything, and decided to wait.

Finally Peter turned and shook his head. “I’m a bit stumped, I’m afraid. Leave it with me for the moment, would you? Stall her for the time being.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Jonathan, and we left him in peace.

We then went across to Television Centre for lunch so that we wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else.

It seemed as though we’d run into a brick wall. I felt very sorry for Jon, he was in an awful position. Peter had more or less asked him to lie to his fiancée for the sake of his project. It was a risky strategy, possibly alcohol-influenced, and it could well mean the end of the road for
The Medical Miracle
, not to mention an unpleasant row with Selina. I told Jon I thought Peter was to blame for the mess, even though it was all done with the best intentions.

“Too much intrigue,” I said. “It’s all very well conniving and politicking, but in the end we haven’t got the power, have we? They have.” He agreed miserably. “Is there any chance Selina would see it our way, and back the show?”

He shook his head. “It’s too much of a hot potato, politically. She’s not really interested in drama as art, you know. I hadn’t quite realised that before now. She always seemed really into it.”

“That’s ’cause she was after you,” I commented with conviction. “Now she’s got you she doesn’t need to pretend anymore.”

“You know what, Rhiannon?” He looked at me with an expression that nearly broke my heart. His clear blue eyes were wet, and his voice trembled. He swallowed. The noisy canteen vanished from my peripheral view, as I waited for him to speak. “I can’t marry Selina. It’s all been a huge mistake. It’s obvious now.” He bit his lower lip, and looked down. I wanted to give the poor boy a hug, but it was a bit awkward with a table between us, so I gripped his forearm in a supportive sort of way, and patted it. What do you say in answer to something like that?

“You poor thing.” It didn’t sound great, but it was all I could think of.

“I’m going to have to break it off. I love her, but… it’ll never work.” He took a huge deep breath, and blew out his cheeks. “You’ve no idea how much better I feel now!”

“Better out than in,” I remarked stupidly, as if he’d burped. “You must have needed to get it off your chest.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “You’re so easy to talk to, Rhiannon. Thanks, you’re a good friend.”

“I hope so,” I said, smiling and patting him again.

“I wish Selina was more like you.”

“Stop!” I said, “Don’t bring me into it.”

“I don’t understand how you’re still single.”

“Oh, I’m too perfect,” I said. “I frighten all the boys away!” He was looking at me with this soft expression that made my hands sweat; my heart started thumping. Oh God I thought, now I’m in the shit. I mustn’t let him know what I think about him. Fuck. Now what?

“We better be getting back” I said, knowing perfectly well that there was nothing to do. Jon didn’t move.

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he said. “I can’t for the life of me think of a way to save either the show or the relationship.”

“Maybe we should ring Jim and ask him to write a solution?”

Jon managed a laugh. “Wouldn’t it be great if you could do that – every time you hit a problem in life, you ring up your writer and get him to rewrite it for you!”

I agreed. “Don’t do anything rash. Give it another day or two.”

“I’m not sure it’s fair to spin it out, now I’ve made up my mind.”

“Hello Jonathan,” said a silky voice. “And Rhiannon, isn’t it?” We both jumped, shocked. “Sorry, did I startle you?” said Selina, who was standing by our table, carrying a tray with used crockery on it, evidently on her way out. “You were so wrapped up in your conversation that you didn’t see me wave. I was sitting over there.” She indicated the other side of the room. She was very calm, but I wasn’t deceived: she thought there was something going on between us. Our reactions would have confirmed her suspicion. I gawped at her, blushing, and wished desperately that my cheeks wouldn’t give me away. How could I tell her she’d got it all wrong, when I knew her fiancé was going to dump her?

“See you later,” she said, walking elegantly to the tray rack, even managing to look stylish as she plonked her tray on a shelf and left the canteen.

“Oh dear,” I said. “I’m sorry I touched your arm, she’ll have thought – ”

“Don’t worry. It’s okay.” Jon looked very pale. “Well, that clarifies one issue, at any rate. I’ll have to talk to her this evening, and break off our engagement.”

I tried to smile encouragingly, and started piling up the plates. What a day this was turning out to be.

The afternoon passed without further incident until five o’clock when there was an emergency producers’ meeting called by Stewart Walker. Not being one of the anointed, I went home. Jonathan attended in the Centre House conference room along with the rest; their numbers being depleted to twenty or so, there was now room for everyone to sit down. He took a place between Basil and Donald. Peter was sitting at the back of the room with a quarter bottle of whisky.

Stewart was in the chair and thanked them for coming. “I couldn’t sit by any longer. Watching this department disintegrate, while we all look the other way. It’s time we took some action. We should publicise what’s going on, rally public opinion behind the department. Tell the viewers what they won’t be getting anymore of, if we all go. I’m proposing a one-day strike to start with.”

There was a pause.

“Do you really think the public would listen?” asked Gillian Makin. “As far as they’re concerned, there’s plenty of good drama on the box. They won’t notice any difference for at least five years, so the issue’s meaningless as far as they’re concerned, surely? It would just sound like a load of sour grapes from a bunch of old has-beens.”

Fenella also looked pained. “Stewart’s right, of course. But then it’s easy for
him
to make radical speeches, he’s already built himself a safe little bolt-hole.” She looked acidly at him. “We don’t all have independent production companies to go to.”

Stewart scowled back. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I’ll still be trying to place projects with the BBC, they’ll still blackball me if they choose to. I’m not suggesting
any
one takes risks they don’t want to take.”

“Well
I
don’t want to, I’m afraid,” said Gillian. “I’m not very confident about getting work as it is. I’ll probably have to accept a pay cut, whatever I do. I can’t afford to lessen my chances. If that’s all you’ve called this meeting for, I’ve got more important things to do, I’m sorry.” She got up to leave.

Stewart’s lip curled as he replied, “That’s your decision, Gillian, and I’m sure we all respect it.” He looked round the room, challenging each producer. Most lowered their gaze to the table. Behind Jonathan, Peter’s bottle clinked against his glass. Stewart ignored him, pointedly. Jonathan felt very nervous. He wasn’t really the striking type, despite his idealism. The state of the department cut him to the quick, but he still clung to the sapling of his own promising career in the face of the hurricane.