All to Play For (45 page)

“Let’s make a list. Of all the women who are young and hot.”

“A pleasure.” Jak shook his head in admiration of his boss’ cool, and got a pad and pen out of his briefcase.

“We’ll take them to Groucho’s, and then we’ll make them stars,” said Nik dreamily.

“And then what?” sniggered Jak.

“Behave. Right. Who’s the hottest babe you can think of?”

“Cameron Diaz.”

“Get real. We’re talking television.”

“Daniela Nardini?”

“Leave it out, she’s disgusting.”

“Martine McCutcheon.”

“That’s more like it, we can get her no trouble. Who else?”

*

Nik had a lunch appointment with the Deputy Director General, Chris Briggs. They went in Chris’ chauffeur-driven Mercedes to a discreetly café-styled expensive restaurant in Notting Hill, and relaxed at a screened table.

Chris was still slightly uneasy in the company of this confident, fashionable young man of the world. Nik was quite friendly, but Chris had failed to find any common interests which would enable them to get to know each other, so he was obliged to fall back on a more formal preface of small talk. When the starters had been cleared away, he got down to business.

“We need to discuss the Drama Department’s future,” he began. “In terms of the over-arching plans the DG has set in motion for the twenty-first century.”

Nik was all attention as he leaned back in his rattan chair, sipping a glass of Chablis.

“That’s not the same as your personal future, of course. It goes without saying that, if you succeed in resolving the situation in line with the DG’s aims, he’ll ask you to rise to a new challenge, perhaps in a different role.”

Nik inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“I believe part of your work at Magenta included taking over production companies and turning them around.”

“That’s right. I appraised their current business and their potential, and acted accordingly. Some just couldn’t be made financially viable.” Nik had mastered the knack of implying he’d done far more than he really had.

Chris smiled and nodded. He sipped his wine, put it down carefully and lowered his voice further. “We’ve known for a long time, a
long
time, that the Drama Department has major problems.”

Nik responded with a shrewd gaze. “I realise that.”

“The point about the BBC is that it occupies a unique position,” continued Chris. “No change can ever be made suddenly without frightening the horses, as it were. The press are on your back before you know it, there are letter campaigns from retired colonels, even questions in Parliament. It’s very, very sensitive. I want to be absolutely sure that you appreciate this. We’re not in Wardour Street here.”

“Believe me Chris, I
do
understand. I wouldn’t dream of taking any action which would create opposition.”

“The new government has pretty much left us alone, so far. It may be that they have more urgent business to attend to and that, sooner or later, they’ll give us more attention than we really want. We mustn’t precipitate a reaction.”

“I understand.”

“The licence fee is always under threat.”

Nik smiled confidently, one eyebrow raised. “Personally, Chris, I wouldn’t worry about it. Subscription would be a much better system in many ways.”

Chris frowned.

“Of course,” continued Nik. “We want to keep the licence fee for the foreseeable future, I agree completely.” He nodded very seriously.

Chris spoke quietly with determination. “I’d like you to discuss your strategy with me, when you’ve had time to think it through. As a safeguard. To make sure you don’t inadvertently contradict our underlying policies.”

“Certainly. No problem, Chris.”

“Would you like to share your first impressions with me?”

Nik smiled. “Sure. My
first
impression, which I have yet to confirm, of course, is that the tired little outfit in Centre House should be put in a boat and shoved off down the river.” He laughed. Chris watched him intently. “Current shows I have no problem with. There’s really no need for them to be managed from the centre, they can be privatised and run themselves. New shows, that’s the crux of it all. I shall have to see what I can do to kick-start development. I wonder though, in the long term, does the BBC really
need
to develop new shows? The country’s full of independent producers furiously working away at new ideas and queuing up outside the door to show them to us. All we have to do is pick and choose. Why should we have rooms full of people doing the same thing,
on salary
?” Chris nodded slowly. “And home-grown shows tend to carry other baggage with them. Such as copyright problems with writers and producers. At Magenta we held all the rights in every script we commissioned.”

“Didn’t you have trouble with the Writers’ Guild?”

“We would have, so we didn’t go near them. It meant we had to use less experienced writers most of the time, that’s all. It doesn’t take long before they
are
experienced. We had to get rid of a few along the way, but it was all worth it. We’re – I mean, Magenta’s on a nice little earner now, thanks to me.”

Chris seemed impressed. “Jolly good, I think we’ll get along pretty well, Nik. Tell me, have you ever visited the Harvard Business School?”

Chapter Twenty-two

Jonathan and I became an item very quickly. I suppose we already knew each other pretty well, and were grown-up enough to deal with it maturely. By the time our BBC contracts had run out we were a secure couple, not living together yet but virtually. Jon said one of the things he loved most about our relationship was the complete absence of ceremony. I shuddered to imagine what going out with Selina had entailed. We’d circumspectly enquired about each other’s hopes for the future, and had established that we both wanted to marry and have children. We both felt satisfied with that and didn’t jump the gun. There was an unspoken understanding between us that, all being well – and we had no illusions about the possibility of circumstances intervening – that’s what lay ahead for us. We were very happy. Which was lucky really, since we were soon to be unemployed.

We did the usual rounds looking for new contracts, but it was very hard as so many people were on the same circuit. We tried a couple more times to buy the rights to
The Medical Miracle
, but it was impossible. I had a nasty feeling that they might be for sale to others, but we had to give up on it.

Finally, BBC Wales advertised for a drama development team. I wasn’t sure I wanted to apply. It was too much like going home to our street, and I thought it would be far too boring for Jon. Once again he surprised me, he was perfectly happy to give it a go, so we both applied, and were both accepted. This time I was senior to him; my Welshness put me in the lead as Head of Development, with Jon as Senior Script Editor. How’s that for a result?! Laugh? I nearly wet myself. I tell you, there aren’t many blokes who could cope with that kind of reversal and keep the relationship intact.

We moved to Cardiff in early ’98, and rented a flat to start with. My family took a while to get used to my posh Englishman: posh Englishmen haven’t been that popular in Wales, down the centuries. What tipped the balance with my dad was when we were all in his favourite pub one winter evening, with a roaring fire and rain dashing against the windows, all very Dylan Thomas, and some of the fellers started a sing-song. Nothing formal; they just felt in the mood. Being Welsh they knew all the traditional songs, and so did the rest of the pub. It was one of those spine-tingling evenings that happen – well they happen every week in Welsh pubs, but Jonathan didn’t know that. As the gorgeous harmonies swelled and filled the room, tears rolled down Jon’s face, he was incapable of holding them back. He felt a complete idiot, but my dad and I loved him for it. After that he was one of the family.

Our lives at work were very enjoyable. There was less pressure and tension, and a lot more real drama development. We benefitted from our status as a regional centre in that the public service element meant we were securely funded, so we could settle into developing Welsh writers and solid, family-oriented drama. We gradually stopped caring what was going on in Shepherd’s Bush. The longer we lived in South Wales the more absurd London seemed; the long hours, the politics, the back-stabbing. Not that Wales was entirely free of that kind of thing. It was rife in some areas, to be honest. But it didn’t get in our way. Or perhaps we were more adept at dealing with it.

It was always fun to hear the news from London, and Maggie was a great source of gossip. She continued to be very happy at Sisters in Synch with Anthea. They weren’t making a lot of money but the company was establishing itself. Jill and Carmen both wrote for them regularly. Jill’s ex-husband had been elected as a New Labour MP, we looked out for his name, but he didn’t seem to be one of the Blair Babes. Right time, wrong sex, I suppose. Isn’t it a shame when men are sidelined just because of their gender?

Stewart Wanker (as we’d referred to him since Sonia’s brochure) had set up an independent production company which was busy making controversial films designed to make waves in Cannes. Penny Cruickshank had retired and gone to breed spaniels in Cornwall. I liked to imagine her striding the cliff-tops with a dozen golden cocker spaniels bouncing around her, their ears flapping in the wind. Peter Maxwell was now on the boards of several august film and television institutions. Chris Briggs was Deputy Director General, and it seemed inevitable that his career trajectory would continue to carry him upwards. Selina was in charge of Policy and Planning. Whether she was also sent to the Harvard Business School we never found out. Nik Mason settled into his post running the Drama Department and made a surprisingly effective job of it. Everyone hated working for him, but no-one could deny that he brought a number of successful shows to the screen, and re-established BBC1’s core position. If the hit shows were derivative and obvious, so what? It was a cut-throat industry now.

As the millennium approached the country became fascinated by the prospect of a new century, as if no-one could have predicted its arrival. It was rather like when we hit 1984, a year that had been imprinted on us all as a symbol of everything terrifying and futuristic. You’d think we’d have learned from that, but no. It was much more fun to picture the world falling apart because of the millennium bug, or even better, the End of the World. Plenty of cults believed they’d be off in a cable car to heaven as soon as the Big Ben bongs died away.

Jon and I were chuffed to be invited back for a special television awards ceremony in December 1999. The powers that be had decided that everyone who was anyone in television should all get together and see the century out with a spectacular bunfight; there was money to burn in those days. The government was burning as much as possible at the Millenium Dome. The Mayor of London intended to burn it all the way down the Thames in a River of Fire, but it didn’t work. Maybe the blue touch paper got damp.

We’d recently got married, and I was pregnant with our first child. I was still Head of Development in Cardiff, but Jon was now a producer on our newest series which promised to be very exciting, a show that combined Welsh wizardry with contemporary science fiction, and was witty and fun too. We were quietly confident that it would be a big success, and would burst out of the quiet provinces to take the country by storm. It’s surprising how little time it takes for your allegiances to root themselves in the country where you’re given a warm welcome.

The awards event took place at the Café Royal in Regent Street, a huge hall with a long history. (Don’t go looking for it – it’s gone now.) Sixty tables were packed with nominees and guests, all knocking back the wine too fast, wanting a fag, and resolving to have their formal outfits let out by a couple of inches. I was wishing I’d splashed out on a maternity frock, but I’d thought I could just about get away with wearing my little black number and save the money. We were sitting at the Regional table, which was, inevitably, situated at the edge of the room.

Hundreds of flushed faces bearing new haircuts and sparkling jewellery chatted nervously. The clatter of cutlery and china rose in a cacophony to the top table where Nik was seated alongside Chris Briggs and his wife Catherine. There was no-one he was interested in talking to on his own table apart from the delectable Head of Policy and Planning, Selina, but she was too far away for comfortable conversation. Already bored, Nik cast his gaze around the room frequently and swiftly, since he was keen to avoid catching the eye of many people present. The Magenta table was near the front – Rex was schmoozing happily, and Haris had for once decided to taste the high life, and had even brought his wife along. Nik had never met her. She looked much more intelligent than he had imagined a stay-at-home wife would be, and she clearly had plenty to say to Penny Cruickshank, who was deep in conversation with her over some photos of what looked to be dogs.

Geordie Boy was sitting at a table full of comedians, dressed to kill and having a whale of a time. To Nik’s chagrin, Geordie had taken the idea he’d rejected as too camp for Magenta to a well-known gay theatrical entrepreneur who had set up a new production company entirely for the benefit of his friends, as far as Nik could see. He didn’t expect it to remain commercially viable. However, Geordie’s new show had wowed them at Channel Four and it now had a cult following; it was nominated for Best Comedy Series. It was many months since they had spoken to each other.

After the first course Geordie passed close by Nik’s table and paused to say hello. He was polite and restrained, congratulating Nik on his job at the BBC and wishing him well. Nik responded minimally, seized with tension; he was anxious to avoid being seen by the BBC bigwigs with the debris of past relationships dangling from his nose. After Geordie had gone, Nik realised that the correct thing to do would have been to congratulate him on his nomination and wish him luck. Too late now. He turned his attention to his companions.