Cause Celeb (68 page)

“Well, it's a fair-enough point,” said Oliver. “What is the heart of the show going to be? It has to be something short—we can't count on more than an hour. The viewers have to feel they're getting their money's worth if they're going to send cash. They want to see you doing something you wouldn't normally do. It's got to be simple and it needs a theatrical connection—”

“Can I just say something here?” said Eamonn Salt, in his flat monotone. “Obviously we're very grateful for this turnout tonight.”

“Absolutely,” said Edwina Roper. “It's fantastically generous of all of you to give up your time and energy to this wonderful cause. Thank you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I'd like to thank everyone too, on behalf of the camp at Safila.”

“Excuse me,” said Corinna, “excuse me. I find it rather odd that charity professionals should feel they have to be sobbingly grateful to a group of performers for a few days' work. I think the gratitude should probably be the other way around.”

“Well, let's say we're all grateful to each other and try not to break down, shall we?” said Oliver, after an awkward moment. “Now what were you saying, Eamonn?”

“Yes, indeed,” Eamonn went on in his droning tone. “I think it would be helpful if the content of the program could somehow mirror what the appeal is about. The money raised will help in the short term, but essentially this is a political issue. There are things it is difficult for us, as a charity, to say, but you could say them for us.”

“Excuse me?” said Corinna. “If we all get up in front of the camera are we supposed to be saying what
we
think, or what
you
think? I mean, you know, like, everyone's always saying we shouldn't be ill-informed mouthpieces. So are we allowed to say what we think?”

“Well, let's hear what SUSTAIN think first,” said Oliver.

“Yes, indeed. In the first place the Keftian people's movement has arisen because of a war, and the war has arisen because of a corrupt autocracy in Abouti. In the second place the reason why provision has not been made for these refugees is because of a certain slowness to react and cumbersome bureaucracy from the UN, but also—and essentially—because of the slow responses of governments. The reason why food is not in place, actually, is because our government, and the French didn't send what they were supposed to send when they said they would.”

Kate Fortune was looking very intently at the nail on her index finger. She bent it towards her and starting picking at it with her thumb. Julian was starting to play with his electronic organizer. Eamonn was not one of the world's great orators.

“If you look beyond that,” Eamonn continued, “if Nambula wasn't
saddled with a massive foreign debt, because of the loans made by the World Bank during the oil boom in the seventies, then they wouldn't be using all their fertile land to grow cash crops and would have more than enough food to deal with their own refugee crises.”

“Well, that should be easy enough to put across entertainingly in half an hour,” said Rajiv.

“Oh, but listen, everyone. Don't you think, really, for all that, it's the children who really get through to people?” said Kate Fortune. “I don't think we want to get all bogged down in politics, do we? It's the children we should be thinking about.”

“Stupid woman,” muttered Barry.

“Honey, what about Elizabethan-style playlets?” cried Vicky Spankie, looking at Oliver with sparkling eyes. “The roots of famine personified—War, Debt, Bad Governance!!”

This hugely amused Barry.

“Lo! I am Bad Governance! Begotten of a fat greedy despot in a gold-plated Roller,” he thundered, in that famous overenunciated delivery.

“Lo! I am Incompetence—” Dinsdale began.

Kate Fortune got to her feet, blinking back tears. “I'm sorry. I really don't think we should be making jokes when . . . when children are dying.”

“All right. Yes, let's all settle down,” said Oliver, glancing at Vicky, who was looking red-faced and furious.

Bill Bonham piped up, “What about trying to do something more with what's preoccupying the world at present, linking the whole thing with a spiritual karmic quest? Doing good, feeling good about yourself. It could be presented as more of a journey.”

“Yes, thank you, Bill,” said Oliver, adding under his breath, “Any more completely lunatic suggestions while we're at it?”

“I have to say I don't think we should be doing this at all, actually,” said Corinna.

There was silence.

“I really think it's, like, counterproductive,” she went on. “This is a Tory cock-up and then we say,‘Oh, it's OK, guys, we'll fill up the gaps, no sweat, you know.' I mean, puh-
lease.
”

“And, of course, we're only giving the illusion of filling the gaps, aren't we?” said Oliver. “Aren't we talking drops in the ocean?”

“It is true that the total amounts raised by Live Aid and Band Aid was less than five percent of the government overseas aid budget for that year,” said Eamonn Salt.

Everyone stared at him, taking it in.

“But Live Aid did a lot of good, didn't it?” said Julian, looking hurt.

“Yeah,” said Dave Rufford expansively.

“Of course, Live Aid was a tremendous help,” said Edwina Roper. “It completely changed the face of giving. It was tremendous fun. It opened up a new sector of young donors which didn't exist before. It did tremendous things for all the agencies.”

“Yeah. It was like this rebellion. We were telling the Tories, ‘Look, cunts, we're not 'avin this,'” said Dave.

“Oh, yes, it had its moment”— Corinna was yawning through her nose— “but the moment has passed. Now every two-bit model in the business is gushing around the world doing photo shoots with the starving. It's gross. I mean, it's cultural imperialism at its absolute worst. It's, like, we the celebs save the little monkeys, you know. Self-congratulatory crap.”

A crestfallen air fell on the table.

“Yeah, that's right, actually,” said Rajiv. “I'm with Corinna on this. I'm having no part of it.”

“So you think there's no point?” said Julian, dismayed.

“Well. It's something we do have to consider,” said Oliver. “All this ‘Make way, let me help, I'm famous.' Maybe it
is
irresponsible.” He looked almost relieved. I couldn't believe this. It had all been there and now it was slipping away.

“It's, like, crap. It's like a false reassurance for the public,” said Rajiv.

“Exactly,” said Corinna, looking smug. “
Why
isn't that ship there?
Whose
cock-up is this? This is what we ought to be asking, not demanding fivers from pensioners.”

“Right. Robbin' the poor to bail out the cunts,” said Dave Rufford.

“Well, quite,” said Corinna. “I mean puh-
lease.
”

“Absolutely crazy!” said Barry, rising to his feet and thumping
his hand down on the table. “Have you all completely taken leave of your senses?” He stood motionless, staring around the room with one eyebrow raised. “Have you gone mad? A camp,” he said, raising one hand in the air, and staring ahead, “a camp in darkest Africa, thronging with people, starving to death. They ask us for help. . .”—his voice dropped to a whisper— “and we say no? If you stood before a dying child and he held out his hand, and asked you for food, which you had, would you say
no
?”

He paused, turning his head from one side to the other, glaring round the room. “Well, let's bloody well get on with it then,” he roared.

“But this is exactly what I'm saying,” said Kate Fortune. “It's the children—”

“Oh, puh-
lease,
” muttered Corinna. “I mean, that's just propagating the neocolonialist—”

Dinsdale jumped to his feet. “First word of sense I've heard from the old fool in fifty years,” he bellowed. “Of course we must do what we can, my darlings, what can you be thinking of? We must help! We must
thrrrow
ourselves to the fore!”

“Yeah, I'm with you on that, Dinsdale. No point being bleedin' right-on about it when the poor fuckers are starvin' to death,” said Dave Rufford.

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely.”

“I agree,” said Julian. “I'd love to do something. Oh, blast.” His phone had started ringing again.

It was plain sailing after that. Oliver was growing more and more ambitious. He was talking about doing a satellite broadcast from the camp. He was being absolutely wonderful. Even Corinna was beginning to come round.

Kate Fortune rose fussily to her feet. “Well, I'd like to say here and now that I would be more than happy to go out to Nambula.”

Barry's head crashed down onto the table.

“We can discuss who's going to go out later,” said Oliver. “What about the main show? We can have a few people's party pieces and monologues, but we need something central and theatrical.”

“Shakespeare,” said Barry. “It should be the Bard.”

“What about a Shakespeare sketch?” said Julian. “A comic one.”

“Like it,” said Oliver. “Maybe speeded-up Shakespeare. A fifteen-minute
Hamlet
? Obviously we'd have to have other things around it, but that could form the core.”

“I'd love to do my Ophelia,” said Vicky.

“Oh, yes! So would I,” said Kate.

“Surely you're more of a Gertrude, darling,” someone murmured.

On it went. I didn't care. It was all going to happen now, that was what mattered. And the thought crossed my mind that if Muhammad and the representatives of RESOK found themselves in the Famous Club they would be just as bad. The Keftian tent moving, the political engineering was all part of the same thing. The Keftians wanted not to be hungry, not to be sick so that they could live, improve their lot and their status, and show off, indulge in life's little vanities like everyone else.

“So”—Oliver closed his large matte-black notebook and banged his hand on top of it— “thank you, everyone. We meet again here, at the same time, next week, by which time we will have a running order and scripts on the way.”

“Hang on. Who's doing the casting?” said Liam Doyle.

“Me,” said Oliver. “Thanks very much, everyone, meeting adjourned.”

Under the table Oliver slipped his hand onto my knee. I lifted it and put it back on his own.

Immediately afterwards, he cleared his throat and said, “By the way, before we all get too excited remember this all has to be cleared by Vernon Briggs or we can't go ahead. And this is a man who thinks
Hamlet
is a small cigar, and a comic sketch means a mother-in-law, a banana skin and three racial stereotypes. We'll keep you posted, anyway. Thanks very much, everyone.”

Now why did he cast a dampener like that, just when we were all fired up?

T
hings were beginning to happen at CDT. Oliver had found us a spare office four doors down from him. A PA and researcher, drafted from the
Soft Focus
team, came in and made phone calls from time to time. It was my job to sort out sponsorship for the flights, liaise with SUSTAIN and produce fact sheets for the celebrities. I turned up every day to find the room slowly filling up with the stuff of television production, charts and files and bits of paper, but there was a diffident air. The day after that first big meeting Oliver was curiously unavailable. He put his head round the door once but he was too busy to talk. We had two weeks left.

The days were painless enough, crowded and straining with tasks and people, but I dreaded the darkness, when the stars were the same stars they were seeing over the camp. I'd hated it getting dark ever since the explosion in Kefti. Whenever I thought about that, it was like hitting a new bruise. Bad chemicals rushed through me and took a long time to seep away. At night I lay awake, seeing Se-fila. There was still no contact with the camp. Maybe messages had been sent, lying in a pouch on the backseat of a Land Rover, pushed under a pile on Malcolm's desk. The silence meant nothing. Horrors could grow secretly in those inaccessible places, then burst on the world fully formed, as if they had grown overnight.

Every morning I rushed to the newsagents, and scanned the papers. Always there was nothing. I had spent two hours with Oliver's
contact on the
News
. She seemed keen. I had told her about the Kefti crisis and about what I was hoping to do with the fund-raising, and she'd rung me back about it later in the day, but after all that nothing had appeared. No news was coming out of Nambula. It made me nervous. Sometimes it made me wonder if I was going mad and had imagined it all.

The next day there was a tiny piece in the News in Brief column in one of the broadsheets.

NAMBULA REFUGEE CRISIS

Relief workers in Eastern Nambula are reporting threats of an influx of over 10,000 refugees displaced by civil war and locust plague from Kefti, a rebel province of Abouti. Workers say that relief supplies are inadequate and warn of a disaster on the scale of the 1985 famine.

The day after, there was a two-column piece on the foreign news pages of
The Times
under the byline of a correspondent in El Daman. He put the numbers on the move at twenty thousand and quoted nonspecific “aid workers” as saying food supplies in the camps would run out in two weeks. There was a slightly pointless quote from me, followed by the fact that I had resigned from SUSTAIN because I was frustrated with the inactivity. There was a quote from the government in El Daman giving the usual line about Nambula not having enough food to feed its own people let alone anyone else's. Then there was a statement from the UN.

“Reports of a movement of displaced people from the highland areas of Kefti towards the Nambulan border are impossible to verify at this time because of the instability of the region.” A UN source spoke today of a “heads-in-the-sand” attitude amongst officials and bungling bureaucracy.

Maybe this would provide some momentum. I rushed into the office with a new confidence. No one was around. I called Oliver
to tell him but Gwen informed me he was in conference all morning and would talk that afternoon.

The phone rang. It was Eamonn Salt.

“Have you seen
The Times
?” I said, excitedly.

“Yes indeed. Doesn't reflect too well on SUSTAIN, does it?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“They mention that you resigned from your job and there's no quote from us.”

“But I told you I'd been to
The Times
and the
News
when I first got back. Did you call them?”

Silence.

“What's the problem?”

“I think we should get the press side of things sorted out. We need a proper press launch. Can we talk to Oliver about it?”

“He's busy this morning, shall I fix a meeting?”

“Yes, indeed. And in the meantime I think it's best if you call all the celebrities and make sure no one shoots their mouths off till we've worked out the policy.”

I rang round all the numbers I had, some of them agents, some of them answerphones, asking everyone not to talk to the press, so as not to steal the thunder before the big launch.

I spent the rest of the day working on the fact sheets, and talking to Circle Line about the airlift and the sponsorship deal. It was all going well on that front. If we gave them assurances about coverage and got hold of the first consignment of food, they would have a flight ready to go in a fortnight.

But still the
Soft Focus
staff drifted in and out, oddly aimlessly, and no one seemed on the case. Everything seemed on hold.

At five o'clock Oliver rang.

“Hi, can you come in for a moment?”

He was leaning back on the L-shaped leather sofa with his arms behind his head. He wasn't wearing a jacket.

“Come in, have a seat.”

I sat down on the other leg of the L, and handed him
The Times
report.

“Great, isn't it?” I said, as he read.

“Well, it's not great for the refugees,” he said, and handed it back to me.

There was a knock at the door and Gwen appeared with two cups of tea.

“You can go if you like, Gwen,” he said. “Isn't it your French conversation tonight?”

“Super, thanks,” she said lovingly.

“You doing anything tomorrow night?” he said when she had gone.

“Why?”

“Good. We'll have dinner.”

“Why?”

“I want to talk.”

“What about? Talk now.”

He sighed, stirring his tea. “I've had your Eamonn Salt on the phone, talking about a press launch,” he said.

“I know. When do you think it should be?”

He suddenly got to his feet and strode over to the plinth. “Do you pay any attention to what I say?” he said.

I looked at him.

“I told you nothing was definite. We have simply been looking into an idea and that is as far as it goes. It's most unlikely that it will work. The idea of having a press launch at this stage is ridiculous. I never told you this would go ahead.” His mouth was twitching. “I feel harassed. I feel my hand is being forced.”

I could feel myself breaking out into a sweat. If this failed it was too late to try anything else. I couldn't believe it. We'd held that meeting, a dozen major celebrities had agreed to take part. We had an office, we had people from
Soft Focus
starting to gear up. The PA was looking into having a satellite dish sent to Nambula from Nairobi. But it was in his power to stop it. I said nothing. This was how he had always been. One day he'd be talking about spending the rest of his life with me, then the next day he couldn't even be bothered to phone.

“So we'll have dinner tomorrow and talk,” he said.

He was looking at me very oddly. What was going on now? I said nothing.

“I am asking you to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

I put my head down.

“ROSIE, I AM ASKING YOU TO HAVE DINNER WITH ME.”

Unbelievable that we could get back into this, as if it were a dance, a game of computer chess. He would do this, and I would do that and off we went. I did know what I was taking on. But surely he couldn't behave like this with all his program commissions?

“What exactly is the problem with the program?” I asked.

He turned and looked at me blankly.

“Why is it most unlikely that it will work?”

“Ah,” he said. “Vernon Briggs.”

“Vernon Briggs.”

“Yes. It's just not his bag—actors, arts, messages about debt. There's no slack in the budget and we're gearing up for the franchises. There's no way he's going to agree to this.”

“But he must know it's happening. You must have talked to him. What did he say?”

“It's not his sort of thing.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

He said nothing. A little idea popped into my head.

“Oliver. Have you spoken to Vernon Briggs?”

He kept his head down.

“Oliver. I am asking you a question. Have you spoken to Vernon Briggs about Charitable Acts?”

Silence.

“Have you?”

Still nothing.

I picked up the phone and dialed the switchboard.

“Vernon Briggs's office, please.”

Oliver looked at me, aghast but curiously impotent.

“Ah. It's Oliver Marchant's office here. Could Oliver pop in and have a word?”

“One moment, please.”

I waited with my heart thumping. It was awful to have believed it was all going to happen and then have it whipped away.

“Vernon can see him in ten minutes.”

“Thank you. And Rosie Richardson will be coming too.”

I looked at Oliver, sitting with his head down.

“We're both nuts, you know,” I said. “If anyone saw this they would lock us up.”

He looked up and grinned sheepishly. “I know.”

“Come and sit on my knee,” he said then.

“Oh, sod off, you revolting old madman.”

*

Vernon Briggs heaved himself up from behind the black, gilt-edged desk and came to greet us, clapping his hands together and rubbing them.

“Hello, playmates!” he said, in the hoarse Yorkshire voice. “Bored to tears up 'ere. Fancy a drink?”

“No, thanks. You remember Rosie Richardson?” said Oliver.

“Oh, lawks a' mercy! The woman who could have been the mother of my child if she'd played her cards right. What a sight for sore eyes. You two getting back together, are you? Come to ask for Uncle Vernon's blessing? How are you, my love?”

Vernon Briggs had not improved with time, apart from the addition of a Bavarian-style handlebar mustache.

“Like it?” said the program controller, fingering the waxed tip. “It's a cunt tickler.”

The carpet across which he was proceeding was deep pile and black, with a mock zebra-skin rug in the center. I glanced back at it quickly. I hoped it was mock zebra-skin. “Hello, son,” said Vernon, reaching up to clap Oliver on the shoulder. “Nice to see you. To see you . . . ?”

Oliver said nothing.

“Eh, eh. None of that, son. None of your sulky sulks. Not till you've done your time, come up through the ranks, shown you know your public-school arse from your Oxbridge elbow. That was a load of old cobblers you came up with the other night. Seen the ratings, have you? Two point four million! Gah! Bums on seats, boy. Bums on seats. That's what we want, not your pseudo-intellectual twaddle.”

On the walls were gilt-framed seventies-style prints in shades of pink and purple. They featured long-haired, long-legged girls and pink items: girls getting out of pink sports cars, girls sipping pink cocktails out of triangular glasses, girls leaning on pink cocktail bars, buttocks outlined through tight pink dresses. It was such a shame that Corinna wasn't at the meeting.

“Take a pew, take a pew.”

We sat before him, on black lacquer and gold Chinese-style chairs.

“Come on now, dicks on the table, what's up?”

Oliver sighed. “You and I have been talking about the franchise bids,” he began. I had been very firm with him in the last ten minutes.

“We have that, son. Quite right. We have that. Ten out of ten,” said Vernon, winking at me. “Sharp as a needle, this boy. Tell you what, son, I'll let you off your Latin prep tonight for showing promise.”

Oliver straightened his tie uncomfortably.

“As you know, with the franchises in mind, I've been looking for projects which we can get on the air quickly, showing a commitment to public service broadcasting and obviously worthwhile issues.” I'd never seen him so unconvincing.

“Eh oop, eh oop. He's coming on. Starting to learn to do what he's told at long last.”

Oliver shifted his long legs in his finely cut suit. “I have, er, a definitive project which could achieve that for us.”

“Well I never!” Vernon put on a posh voice. “He has hay definitive prowject which will aychieve all that for hus. Give me names, son, names.”

“Barry Rhys, Dinsdale Warburton, Vicky Spankie . . .” Oliver was saying.

“Aye aye? Spankie wanky. Keep it in the family.”

“Julian Alman, Liam Doyle . . .”

“Don't tell me, let me guess.
It's An Arty Farty Knockout?”

“Kate Fortune . . .”

“Now yer talking. Ooof.'Scuse me. Just adjusting me kegs. And where does the worthy bit come in, then?”