Authors: Heather Peace
All to Play For (47 page)
“Go on Nik, why don’t you try it on Geordie?” suggested Catherine playfully.
Nik forced his lips to move, “I don’t think so, that’s not really my style.”
They all murmured supportively. He hoped desperately that Chris would not suddenly recognise him. If so, he would run for the exit – sweat was already trickling all over his body.
“What happened then, Chris?” asked Catherine, to keep the conversation flowing.
“Well, a fight broke out actually, and then the police rolled up. Several people were arrested, including me, would you believe!” he hooted with laughter at the idea.
“No, really?”
“Yes! We weren’t charged, though. We had to sit in a cell for a few hours, that’s all. I managed to explain things satisfactorily to the sergeant” he said modestly. Nik was all ears. “I told them the kid was my brother and he was a bit brain damaged. I’d only left him alone for five minutes and he’d got into a fight. I promised not to let him out of my sight again.”
“Ah,” said Catherine. “That was nice of you, getting him out of trouble. He must have been very grateful.”
“As a matter of fact, he was extremely rude!”
They all tutted, whilst Nik felt a powerful sensation of floating above the table. What planet was this geezer from?
Brain damaged
? He felt utterly patronised. Twice over. This twat thinks he’s Jesus bloody Christ, he thought. And now I’m his little project. Maybe I overdid the chirpy cockney bit. Well, I’m sick of being a protégé, I’ve arrived now, and I’m going all the way. He’d better watch his back.
He rallied his strength and excused himself, to avoid blurting out something regrettable. In the gents he took a line of coke and several deep breaths. He needed to stay well in with Chris and the other stuffed shirts if he was going to make it to the top. He had to accept their ways for a while. He was up to it. It was worth it. Hang on in there, there’s nothing to lose, he told himself. He remembered his father and reminded himself that patience was essential. Some things had to be waited out. He’d managed not to lose it back there at the table. Maybe no-one would ever connect him with the NYT With No Future. He ground his teeth at the memory of it.
When he left the gents people were beginning to go home, so he took his chance to end the awful evening. He shook hands with Chris, who said, “You know, Nik, you can have a terrific influence at the BBC, and I mean to do all in my power to help you.” He squeezed Nik’s shoulder in a brotherly manner, as Catherine warmly invited him to dinner soon.
“That would be very nice, thank you,” he said politely. “Cheers Chris, I… ”
“See you Monday, Nik. Take care.”
Nik walked up Regent Street aimlessly as others left in groups, en route to clubs and parties. A black cab went past with Magenta people in it, and he waved carelessly to them. A minute later another cab pulled up next to him, and Geordie leaned out.
“Howay bonny lad,” he said. “Wanna be pals?” He smiled sadly. He meant it. Was Nik man enough to conquer his insecurities? “Come on. We’re going to a party. Lots of celebs’ll be there.”
He thought about it, which way should he jump? He stared, bit his lip, couldn’t decide. Getting in with Geordie meant coming clean, admitting to their relationship, and looking a complete fool. Part of him wanted to unload the burden and forget his ambitions, but they were still as strong as ever. In any case, he wasn’t a hundred per cent homosexual. He had ideas of marriage and even kids, in his softer moments. All these thoughts raced around his mind as Geordie watched him stand spellbound on the lamplit pavement.
Eventually Geordie decided for him, “Fine. If that’s the way you want it, that’s okay. Happy New Year.” His tone was pleasant, calm and a little sad, but for Nik, not for himself. He pushed the window up and sat back as the taxi drove off.
Nik sighed and, too late, raised his hand to wave at the departing cab. Then he carried on up Regent Street, trying to be glad that he wasn’t in that cab on his way to a party. A few minutes later another car pulled over, this time it was a silver Rover, and Chris Briggs leaned out.
“Can we offer you a lift? We’re taking Selina home, we could drop you off near your place.” Selina sat on the roomy back seat, smiling pleasantly. The streetlamps lent a dramatic chiaroscuro to her perfect bone structure, and her luscious cream evening gown draped her like a Madonna.
It flashed into Nik’s mind that there were many ways to get on in life, and very few fixed rules. In fact, you could make the rules up as you went along. Nothing was forever. People changed.
He’d
changed. He’d grown up, moved on. He was still changing, still moving, still succeeding. There was still a long way to go, so much more to see and experience. He smiled, “Thanks very much, that’s extremely civil!” Then he opened the back door and climbed in next to Selina, who looked as perfect as she had at the start of the evening.
The car accelerated imperceptibly and they moved smoothly out into the early morning traffic of the twenty-first century. The world was full of opportunity, and it was all to play for.
A Last Word
May 2011, Penarth, Wales.
There’s a saying, I think it’s ancient Buddhist wisdom, about spending a lifetime travelling the world in search of something, only to return home and find it in your own backyard. It’s true: I’ve proved it. Here I sit, looking out over Cardiff Bay, as happy as I could ever have hoped to be. I have a nice old desk in the attic of our big family house where I can escape to write while the kids are at school. Jon is Head of Drama at BBC Wales. I gave up on my career when our first child turned three. I realised I wanted to be at home for them, and you can’t do everything – don’t listen to the women who say you can have it all; it’s rubbish. Well you might get it all but you’ll be letting some people down, starting with your kids. Turning forty also brought me to the mental place where the idea of writing a novel became a pressing need. It’s a lovely thing, if you haven’t tried it you should. It’s a great freedom to be able to enter and discover a world that’s entirely yours and under your control.
You’re probably wondering what happened to everyone since the dawn of 2000. Maggie went to Sydney, and is now a big shot in Australian television. Poor old Jill still lives alone in her Crouch End flat. Her son followed his dad into politics but joined the Tories, which hasn’t done anything for Jill’s nerves. Penny’s spaniels are very highly regarded, in fact we bought one ourselves; Basil is adored by all of us. Anthea’s a leading film producer now, and Carmen won an Oscar a couple of years ago and moved into the Hollywood stratosphere.
So who became Director General? Chris Briggs, of course. The managers’ manager secured the flag whilst the arty lot and the money-men were preoccupied with screaming at each other. It’s the triumph of the uncreative. A management style that engulfs the firm like a suffocating fog, and – most astonishingly – enriches itself beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. He doubled his own pay in just a few years. How did he get away with it? Because, it turns out, everyone was doing it, from the peers of the realm to every banker in the city. To give him his due, he did manage to steer the BBC through an endless storm of disasters without allowing it to sink, although an awful lot was thrown overboard to keep it afloat. He’s Lord Briggs of Banbury now, of course.
Through the twentieth century the old BBC played a vital role in the country, binding us together in a common culture. However maddening it was for many of us, it was essentially benevolent. What holds us together now? Do we have shared values anymore? We seem to be having an identity crisis. It came as a bit of a shock when I realised that all three main party leaders are now younger than me – we’re not ready to hand over yet, everything’s still in such a mess!
Nik Mason is still rising upwards through the BBC. He turned the Drama Department into a slick commercial operation, churning out sharp, efficient drama series by the mile. They sell all over the world and bring in a vital source of revenue that helps keep the Beeb afloat; the license fee is eternally insecure. He moved across to senior management after a few years, and married Selina. She worked wonders on his social skills. They’re civil to me and Jonathan if we meet at the occasional function, but we don’t stay in touch. It’ll be interesting to see whether he makes it to DG, and if he does, what will become of the BBC. Will it retain any of its character, or will it turn into an American-style media Godzilla?
Nowadays precious few of the top brass have even made a programme. They give BAFTA fellowships to drama heads who’ve never produced anything at all. The commissioners’ artistic judgement isn’t a patch on the old school drama folk; they fill the schedules with similar generic programmes as if they were stacking produce on supermarket shelves. They don’t even try to present a balanced evening’s entertainment for a loyal and discriminating audience. They only care about flogging more items to more faceless trolley-pushers than the other channels – you must have noticed this yourself as a viewer.
One of my personal bugbears is the loss of narrative integrity. It started with
Twin Peaks
and got much worse by the time we got
Lost
(pun intended). Instead of telling us a proper story, by which I mean that the plot unfolds towards an inevitable but surprising conclusion, they just make up something sensational for every episode, and if it doesn’t connect at all with what happened at the beginning, who cares? As long as you’ve hooked a rope through the ring at the end of the audience’s nose, you can lead them anywhere. Well sooner or later audiences will get wise to it. When they realise there’s going to be no satisfaction at the end of the story, they’ll stop watching. Simple as.
Then, perhaps, creativity will come back into fashion: originality, ideas, content that leaves you with something to think about. Creativity needs careful nurturing – I think I’ve mentioned this already, sorry if I’m labouring the point. Over in London they’ve stopped bothering, it seems to me. The good old Drama Script Unit closed years ago, the slush pile isn’t taken remotely seriously now (despite what they tell you) and to be fair, the number of prospective writers these days is absolutely staggering. So where does the original work come from? It’s true, fantastic new programmes do get made. Not everyone decamped into the film industry. It’s often the independents that bring in the best original work, they get less top-down interference. There are still vibrant pockets of production here and there, I’m proud to say we’re part of one here in Cardiff, one of the finest. Most of the really good work has a lot of humour in it – which is ironic, given that drama has traditionally looked down on comedy. I’ve never understood why that is. I reckon it’s dead easy to make an audience cry, but making them laugh takes a dash of genius.
In our out-of-the-way Welsh corner we’ve had it good, these last ten years. We’ve been able to run things the way they should be run, and we’ve proved it works. Our shows are some of the BBC’s best and most popular new drama series. It’s funny how the best opportunities turned out to be in my own boring old home town. Don’t tell anyone, will you? Now that the BBC management are de-centralising and moving whole departments out to the regions, we’re a bit worried that they’re all going to turn up here. We’re keeping very quiet. The last thing we want is an official management-sponsored ‘creativity partnership initiative’ round here.
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Table of Contents
Before I Begin
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen