All to Play For (42 page)

“I agree with you Stewart,” said Basil. “We should have done this a year ago, at least. We’ve left it too late. The die is cast, the damage is done: we’ve all been on the parapet fiddling as Rome burned. I don’t see how we can possibly reverse it all now.”

Stewart listened, and assessed the mood of the room. “Donald?”

“Basil’s right old boy. As usual.”

“Peter? Won’t you join me for Custer’s Last Stand?”

“Sorry, Stewart. I’m inclined to cling to the wreckage, myself. All may not be lost, maybe the election will be called soon. That could change everything.”

Stewart snorted. “If it does I’ll dance naked on the
Nine O’Clock News
.”

Jonathan’s view was not sought, which made him feel as if it wasn’t worth hearing. He felt ashamed, and out of his depth. Where Basil’s calm and cheerful presence had always given him a sense of security, his current pessimism was disturbing. The meeting drifted to a close, and Stewart apologised irritably for wasting their time. The producers left the room separately and hurried back to their offices or into their cars, keen to forget the meeting and engage their minds elsewhere. Jonathan said a casual goodbye to Basil on the stairs; it was the last time he would see him.

Suddenly, Jonathan couldn’t wait to leave. The broadcasting colossus, source of his inspiration and focus of his aspiration, seemed now to be rotting and crumbling. He felt an urge to run away before it crashed around his ears and buried him in its rubble. He went home, and rang Selina: he needed to talk, he said, could he come over? She told him it wasn’t convenient.

*

At work the next morning I was dying to know where things stood but I didn’t want to jump in with both feet, so I found myself wandering up the corridor and into the little kitchen. I washed up a few dirty mugs and the coffee percolator jug, and then strolled up to Vera’s area to read the magazines. One of the younger script editors was in Morag’s office and I could hear their conversation since the door was wide open. She was asking for an extension to her contract, maybe she could even finish editing the drama brochure? Morag said that was already being taken care of. There were no other vacancies at the moment. She could always ring in later on, and ask.

“Actually,” said the girl. “I’m having a baby. I was really hoping I might be able to stay until it arrives.”

“No way, dear. I’m sorry. It’s out of the question. We’re not the Department of Health and Social Security, you know.”

I was shocked by this unsympathetic response, and looked at Vera to see whether she was listening. Her eyebrows were raised but she didn’t look at me. The girl in Morag’s office evidently had powerful hormones pumping round her bloodstream, and she released her fury with rising volume, “No. You’re the Department of
Stealth
and Social
Misery
. I’ve slaved here for seven years without any perks at all, and you’re kicking me out four months before I give birth so you won’t have to pay me any benefits. You haven’t even got the grace to say Congratulations! You’re an old
cow
Morag. I hope they get rid of
you
too, in the nastiest way they know.”

Morag gathered herself and shrilly barked, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and put this down to your state of mind, but only this once!”

“You do realise I could take you to an industrial tribunal for this!”

The girl stomped out of Morag’s office and slammed the door behind her. I offered her a sympathetic look, but she was too angry and steamed off down the corridor, receiving a smattering of applause from two young temps who lived in fear of Morag. Vera and I shared a shiver, and I beat a retreat to my office.

Jonathan, I discovered later, had spent the night at Roger’s following an evening of brotherly bonding over a couple of bottles of claret. Roger wasn’t sorry to hear that Selina would not become his sister-in-law after all; he assured Jon that it was all for the best. He also had some other ideas about the future of
The Medical Miracle
. Jon woke late with a terrible hangover, as he wasn’t used to drinking heavily, and I didn’t see him till much later.

I waited in my office, hoping Jon would call. When the phone did finally ring I jumped and picked it up immediately. “Hiya!” I said.

“Good morning, am I speaking to Rhiannon Jones?” Shit a brick, it was Selina.

“That’s right, can I help you?”

“Policy and Planning here. Selina. We met yesterday.” She was an ice queen. I felt sweat breaking out of every pore.

“Yes?” I responded cautiously.

“Just a quick question about your drama serial, Rhiannon. It’s cannabis, isn’t it?”

Her accusation struck like a stiletto in the neck. I froze, and hesitated. Had she worked it out? Had Jon confessed? Why was she asking
me
? Should I admit it, or lie? Was I being set up? The seconds ticked by as my brain hurtled through the options.

“Hello? Are you still there?” she sounded a bit annoyed now, and I thought there was a hint of triumphalism in her tone.

“Um, yes. I was just thinking about it. I think… well, it
could
be I suppose, the idea is that we don’t actually specify a particular herb… ”

“I’ve been doing some research. Apparently some people do use cannabis to treat the symptoms of MS.”

“Oh! Do they really?” I didn’t imagine for a moment that I was convincing her, but some people always assume that they’re cleverer than others.

Selina didn’t seem to have a high opinion of me. “For goodness’ sake, it’s obvious that your writer is trying to pull the wool over your eyes. Are all Welsh people as naïve as you?”

Now, that’s not a good way to talk to a Welsh woman, especially if you’re a stuck-up pompous twit of a plummy public schoolgirl. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath and put on my extra-polite voice, “Do you think so? Maybe I should have a word with him.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I tried not to sound like Ruth Madoc in
Hi di Hi
, but failed miserably.

“No thank you. You’ve told me all I need to know.”

She hung up. Oh God, I thought, what now? Have I let the cat out of the bag? I didn’t actually admit anything. Might we still get away with it?

I paced my room. Maybe I should go and see Peter. But I needed to catch up with Jon first, otherwise I might screw things up even more. The phone rang again, and I grabbed it. “Hello?”

“One more thing Rhiannon.” Oh God. “Is Jonathan with you?”

“No!” At least I could answer that honestly. She didn’t sound convinced though.

“When he arrives, tell him to come up and see me, would you?”

“I’m not his PA. I don’t know his whereabouts today.”

“Tell him it’s urgent.”

She hung up again. I thought – you’re not as cool as you make out, are you? Even down the phone, I could tell she was dying to slap my face. Just you try it, I thought – I’ll have you for assault. I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing at all. I made devil horns with my fingers and waved them in the direction of Television Centre, whispering, ‘Die, die, stupid cow!’ just to let off steam. Then I remembered the glass in my door.

Jonathan was in the shower at Roger’s bachelor flat in Hoxton, trying to drag his body and brain into gear while Roger made coffee and toast. He shaved with his brother’s razor and borrowed some of his underwear (not entirely to his taste) then he found a tolerable shirt in the wardrobe, and sat down for breakfast.

“Alright?” asked Roger.

“I’ll live. Thanks, you’re a pal.”

“You’re welcome. You going to see her today?”

“I think I owe it to her not to string her along.” Roger nodded, stirring sugar into his coffee. “And then I’ll see Peter, and ask him to release the option so we can take the project elsewhere.”

“Great. It’ll make a fabulous film. It’ll work a lot better. And instead of winning a BAFTA, we’ll win an Oscar!”

“Yeah, well… there’s a small matter of raising the finance first. How many years is that going to take?”

“Details, details. I might be able to rustle up a contact or two in Hollywood.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. I’ll talk to my agent. You and me bruv, we’ll take ’em by storm. That’s my boy!” He squeezed Jon’s cheek, as a smile began to break out. “It’s all for the best in the long run. I can feel it in my water.”

Jon arrived at Television Centre looking more or less his normal self, and went straight up to Selina’s seventh floor office. After consideration he’d decided against bringing flowers. He wasn’t sure that was appropriate when you were about to break off an engagement.

He was surprised to find that she was expecting him: her assistant asked him to wait a moment, and then sent him through. Selina sat behind her large desk, with her hair up and wearing what he thought of as her Tory suit, making notes on a document. She didn’t smile, so he tempered his own, and was obliged to stand around until she looked up. So she wasn’t going to make it easy for him – not that he would have expected her to. He ran through the speech he’d prepared in his mind: ‘I’m so sorry, but I’ve realised it just isn’t going to make either of us happy… best to call a halt now before we go any further… and please don’t imagine that Rhiannon has anything to do with it because nothing could be further from… ”

“Okay Jonathan. Here’s the situation.” She startled him. “It turns out your ‘medical miracle’ is nothing more than a street drug. Whether you realised it or not, I don’t care, frankly.”

“Oh.” He nodded in a manner he hoped looked wise. “You can’t approve the show, then, obviously.”

“No, I can’t.”

“That’s okay. I understand. You have to do your job. It’s a blow, I can’t deny it, but there may be other possibilities; Roger suggested we turn it into a film – that’s to say, he always thought it would work better as a single drama than as a serial.”

“Yes I can imagine this project’s right up Roger’s street.” Jon heard a hint of scorn in Selina’s voice which he found rather repulsive, under the circumstances. “I’m afraid this does you no credit, Jonathan. Losing your only project for such an ignominious reason leaves you without a leg to stand on for the moment, doesn’t it? And your career looked so promising. I can’t see your path to Head of Drama now.” Jon didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged vaguely, which annoyed her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means… I dunno.” It means I’m trying to avoid rowing with you, he thought. Particularly in your office, with people in earshot.

“Look Jonathan, I’ve made a decision. The engagement’s off. It’s pretty clear that your interest lies elsewhere – don’t try to deny it, I’m not stupid. I know how you drama types carry on. Spare me the excuses and the denials. I think the best thing is a clean break. I’ve brought in your toothbrush and the things you left at my flat. You can bring mine in tomorrow.” She stared frostily at him, but her lip trembled. He realised that she was determined not to break down in front of him. Okay, good, it was over! He didn’t have to say anything more. Really? Was that it?

“Don’t stand there like a stunned rabbit, just – just leave me alone!” Her voice finally cracked, and Jon shuffled out, apologising. “Take this, will you!” He went back for the carrier bag of belongings and left, feeling ridiculous.

He stumbled round the corridor to the lift shaking his head and trying to work out what had just happened. Was that a victory or a defeat? Someone came out of an office and passed him, and he realised too late that he’d failed to respond to a pleasant greeting. He looked round and saw it was Chris Briggs. Oh well. He decided to take the stairs, in case he was called upon to converse in the lift.

Chris went directly to Selina’s office. “How was it? Are you alright?”

Selina blew her nose on a tissue and smiled bravely. “Yes. I just told him straight. It’s all off. He took it pretty well, considering.”

“Huh,” said Chris, putting his arm round her and squeezing her shoulder protectively. “He didn’t react like a man who’s lost everything, then?”

“No, he didn’t. So that means he’s keeping his cards up his sleeve, I suppose.”

“He’s already got someone else lined up, that’s clear. Oh, sorry – ”

Selina’s face had creased up in pain, and she drew a deep breath with a huge effort. “Sorry Chris, no it’s okay, it’s just hard, you know… he’s even got a plan B for the show! Turn it into a film… ”

“No! The perfidious little toe-rag!” Chris longed to hug Selina and kiss away her tears, but he restrained himself and patted her shoulder instead. “I’d like to knock his block off, I really would.”

“I don’t like violence.”

“Actually… ” A thought occurred to Chris which caused him to smile. “There’s one thing we could do to scupper his scheme.”

Selina looked up at him. He winked at her. “Leave it with me.” He rubbed her back, and suggested she take the day off, as compassionate leave.

I was trying to make sense of an invoice I’d been sent from the BBC library, which stated that the new charge for borrowing a book was now £25 per item, and consequently I owed them £50 for two volumes I’d been using to double-check my own Welsh knowledge. How could that possibly be right? There was a covering letter that said the new charges had been in force for two months. Somehow I’d missed this new policy. That’s no way to keep a library in business, I thought. What’s going on? Are they trying to close it, or what? Then Jonathan knocked once and charged into my office.

“There you are!” I said. “Guess who wants to see you? The ice maiden calleth. Oh, sorry, not my business.”

“Don’t bother, I’ve just seen her. I’ve been royally dumped.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”

“It’s okay. I deserve it. It’s better this way.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Not really.”

“She rang and asked me about the cannabis. I didn’t say yes or no, but I think she’s onto it.”

“She is. And the show’s been dumped too.”

“No! Oh no. Oh that’s terrible.”

“No, it’s not, it’s okay.” He smiled, and threw himself down on my sofa, putting his feet up on the coffee table and folding his arms behind his head.