Another Way

by Frankie McGowan

  ‘But she isn’t, not yet, anyway,’ Ellie said to Letty as they watched Jonquil walk away as briskly as nearly nine months of pregnancy permitted.

  ‘No, but then Jonquil would never allow a small thing like that to come between her and a headline. Now, let’s start with how we are going to approach this.’

  ‘But I thought, I mean Jonquil said it was to be in the style that she’s set.’

  Letty looked at Ellie over her glasses, removed them, folded them and tapped them thoughtfully against her teeth.

  ‘Let me put some questions to you, my dear. First, who produces this programme? Good. Are we talking about an eight-minute slot on a regional programme once a week, or "Panorama"? Excellent. And finally — and take your time about this — who wouldn’t recognize the ability to listen if it was ten feet high, and driving recklessly in the wrong direction along the central reservation of the M3? You catch on fast. Now let’s get down to business.’

  And they did. For over an hour, Letty took Ellie through tapes of Jonquil’s interviews. At first Ellie was blinded by the sheer speed and numbers of the tapes, but gradually she grew uncomfortably aware that Jonquil’s standards were abysmal, relying on beautiful, soulful camera shots of her in a variety of moods to give weight to her particular slot.

  Letty studied the screen without comment. Half way through, Ellie stole a sideways glance at her, trying to compose some remarks that would be constructive without being untrue.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Letty said with a sigh, reading her thoughts. ‘Bloody awful, isn’t it? Problem is the camera likes her and for some reason so do the viewers.’

  This wasn’t going to be as easy as it appeared, thought Ellie grimly. Finally when Letty switched the video off she said:

  ‘Perhaps if while I was doing it, we could emphasize more of a difference between the main show and this slot, it wouldn’t be quite so much of a hassle for Jonquil when she returns. I mean, if that style is her particular trademark, it might be better if I did something quite different.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, supposing this bit offered a complete contrast to the glamour of Taylor’s interviews with actors, authors, models. What if I took an issue each week and interviewed real people caught up in it?’

  ‘Is that what you’d like to do?’

  Ellie nodded.

  ‘I’d feel comfortable with that. I know I could handle interviews with the Good and the Great, but I can’t see the point of that if Taylor is already doing it. And,’ she added honestly, ‘he does it well. If I have any criticism of Jonquil’s tapes it’s that it seems to be just more of the same. There isn’t any contrast between the two.

  ‘These days I feel more in tune with people who have to grapple with all that life throws at them rather than the favoured few and I genuinely believe it would have a response, a strong response from viewers.’

  She waited, giving Letty time to consider all she had said, but finally Letty shook her head.

  ‘Wouldn’t work. It would sound like one long whinge. Real people are usually forgettable. If they weren’t everyone would have them on, a lot cheaper too. But I tell you what would work,’ she went on, seeing Ellie preparing to disagree. ‘What if you acted as advocate for someone with a problem and took it to the right people to get some answers? The problem must be local but the answer can come right from the heart of Westminster if necessary. All on film, it can be done anywhere. Saves money too. We haven’t got to keep dragging people down from London or Manchester or wherever they happen to be located. What do you think?’

  Short of removing her clothes in public, the last three months had left Ellie in no mood to argue her way out of a job. She assured Letty it was a brilliant idea. For the next hour they thrashed out the details, parting with an action plan for both of them: Ellie was to come up with some key issues ready to begin work the following week, and Letty was to plug the new spot on the next edition of PrimeMovers, to get the letters coming in.

  ‘And you were going to mention um... image?’ Ellie reminded the producer as they walked towards the reception area. Unlike the previous evening, there was now a constant stream of activity: messengers arriving, girls with clipboards trying to locate programme guests, office workers impatiently pressing the lift buttons. The bank of monitors above the reception desk was soundlessly transmitting not only TVW but the network lunchtime news bulletins.

  Ellie thought it was bliss.

  And now she was part of it. Not a very big part. But she had somewhere to call in to, somewhere to fit in. As long as she looked the part. She looked anxiously at Letty, who took in the black cashmere polo neck sweater worn over a short houndstooth check skirt, black velvet tights and flat black pumps.

  Ellie’s blonde hair was pinned back with a slim velvet bow at the nape of her neck and she carried a black silk parka, which she pulled on as she spoke. A night’s sleep had restored her customary energy.

  ‘Image?’ smiled Letty. ‘Your image looks just fine to me.’

  ‘Let’s hope it does to the viewers,’ Ellie laughed and, confirming that they would see each other the following Monday, they parted company, Letty to tell the MD that Jonquil was going to be fit to be tied and to watch out for the squalls and Ellie to try and remember how long ago it was since she had earned so little.

  *

  Later that afternoon, with Jill and the twins waving her goodbye, she headed back to London installed in the passenger seat of Clive’s Aston Martin DB6. So much had taken place in such a short space of time that Ellie was glad of the chance to sort out how she could best cope with working in Dorset while being stationed in London.

  Joe McPhee was keen to generate more local activity for a campaign that he had thrown his newspaper’s weight behind, but nevertheless they both knew they had to tread warily. No-one, least of all Ellie, had expected such a swift turn of events.

  Ellie as a local reporter, albeit on TV, stood in danger of being thought cynically exploitative if she was seen pushing the campaign too much, and even Oliver had warned her of the danger.

  ‘You’ve done more than anyone could have asked,’ he’d said warmly, as they sat in his office at the hotel having coffee, while Jill took Clive on a tour of the hotel. Now you’ve got to think of yourself. Don’t risk losing this chance. Anyway, when Miles and Chloe find out you’re on TV they will be impossible to handle. The idea that you might not be on TV will make them a living nightmare. So if you have any regard for me and Jill and our sanity, just think of yourself.’

  Ellie had then set off to liaise with Joe.

  Joe was totally in agreement with Oliver, but he had shrewdly guessed that if the campaign were to become a personality cult — which having Ellie so strongly in evidence it undoubtedly would — it could easily backfire. Public sympathy would be on their side if the campaign was a genuine local issue, not one of ownership.

  ‘I’ll get together with Oliver and organize the next stage,’ he told her. ‘I don’t think you can handle any more radio or TV interviews if they come up, or newspapers either. But it’s imperative that we have a proper public meeting and whip an official protest into the planning office. They always drag their feet, but who knows if Linton won’t suddenly turn up and get the ball rolling.’

  ‘Do you think he might?’ asked Ellie nervously.

  Joe shrugged.

  ‘We’ll find a way around it,’ he said philosophically, as they made their way to the Jollife Arms next to the Recorder offices for a quick lunch. ‘In fact, do you remember that woman who rang you on the programme, Carol Fallon?’

  ‘Gosh, do I?’ Ellie grimaced, following him to the bar. ‘She was so angry, I could feel the fumes down the wire. But how do you know she’s called Fallon?’

  ‘She rang me on Monday. Asked if there was anything she could do to help with the campaign.’

  Ellie gaped at him.

  ‘You’re kidding? She rang?’

  ‘For sure, she did. Anyway, it turns out th
at her husband died a couple of years back and he used to work with me on the old Sentinel in Glasgow — oh, years back. It was hearing you say my name that prompted her to ring.’

  ‘Aha. So it wasn’t me,’ Ellie giggled. ‘An old flame, eh, Joe?’

  Joe tried to look fierce and failed.

  ‘Nothing of the sort. But she was always one for speaking her mind, I do remember that. Anyway, she’s coming over to see me and maybe she can be inveigled into helping. Just like old times, Ellie,’ he laughed, carrying their drinks to a corner table.

  Ellie looked around the crowded lunchtime bar. In her day it had been rather shabby and boasted nothing more than crisps and nuts to go with a shandy. Now it had red plush seats, cosy booths, and while it thankfully had not yet allowed wall-to-wall muzak, it did do bar snacks which Joe assured her was a godsend, what with all those poncy wine bars springing up all over the place.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Joe,’ she sighed, remembering the quick after-work drinks she used to have here with the crowd from the Recorder before going back to her bedsit in the town for beans on toast. ‘I’ve come full circle, haven’t I? Who would have thought it?’

  Joe smiled gently at her. He’d known her parents, remembered when she was born, and the horrific car crash that had killed her mother. He’d been in his twenties then. Willetts Green was merely a brief stop en route to Fleet Street. But then he’d met Fay and the boys had come along and suddenly Fleet Street didn’t seem so important.

  It still hurt. One day a happy family man, outings, a job that absorbed him and the next, his wife had fallen in love with someone else and within a year it was all over. Joe had been left in the house in Sidlow, twenty minutes’ drive from the office. And his sons were fifty miles away in Bournemouth, with their mother and the man who had stolen them all away. That’s why he couldn’t remember all the details of John Carter’s problems, all that business with Stirling; he’d been grappling with enough of his own problems to last a lifetime.

  But he did remember Ellie’s mother. In looks Oliver favoured her, Ellie did not. Tall, but dark, green eyes and a warmth that had kept John Carter entranced all through their marriage and near enough destroyed him when she died.

  But Ellie had got the charm. Such charm and dignity. She would never have let Delcourt slide into such disarray.

  Memories of Emily Carter, wheeling the baby Ellie and Oliver beside her clutching her hand, through the village on warm summer days, in that big upright pram, came flooding back as he watched the girl beside him. The enthusiasm and energy with which Emily and indeed her sister Belle, had always embraced village life, meant Delcourt with its straggling gardens and apple orchards was willingly handed over for fetes and fairs and Emily herself had been a tireless organizer.

  Somehow Oliver and Ellie fitted into all of this and the village grew used to John Carter always forgetting the days he was meant to be helping at one of the village activities, or off painting along the cliff paths on the mornings when he should have been caring for Oliver. Then Emily could be glimpsed tearing through the village with no option but to take Oliver with her in the back of the old Ford on her way to teach at the local art school, which everyone knew was how they kept the wolf from the door.

  In Ellie, Joe saw the same reserves of strength, the same fierce pride that in spite of the dazzling life she had been leading in London, he knew — as Oliver and Jill had always known — was still there. Just like her mother.

  ‘Not quite, lassie,’ he said, smiling at her downcast face. ‘You’ve just come back to get your breath, that’s all. Just to make sure the roots are firmly in place. Otherwise how else can you measure success, if you don’t make sure that the starting point hasn’t been moved?’

  Ellie was silent. The one thing she had dreaded had happened. She was back at the beginning. A local reporter, lunching with Joe in the pub that had been ‘their’ pub all those years ago, trying to make her way back in the world.

  Well, not quite. This time she had a flat to go to. Friends to call. Not the ones that belonged to her old life, except for Rosie and Jed, but Gemma and Bill. Now there was Letty and probably Clive too.

  Clive was a strange person. A tall, amusing, attractive — what? Rogue, Ellie decided with a chuckle.

  He was forty two, divorced, with two teenage children who occupied most of his weekends and with whom he was quite openly besotted. She knew all that from when she’d interviewed him. He was also clever, cynical, a fashionable name, with a casual disregard for convention and perfectly capable of being blunt to the point of rudeness if he disliked someone or something.

  She liked him. Liked his easy-going manners, and the directness of going for what he wanted.

  At the moment, driving a shade too fast back up the M3, holding Ellie’s hand on his knee, it didn’t take a genius to work out what he wanted this time.

  I’m going to enjoy this, she decided. It will take my mind off the bank manager’s still-unopened letter, the phone call to the Strumpet, and the problem of how to exist on the pittance that TVW had offered.

  Good heavens, life was getting better all the time, as Gemma would say. It would also take her mind off the feckless Paul and... well, anyone else really.

  *

  Arranging to meet her at eight, sighing that he would endure Jed and Ashley’s company but only because those appeared to be the only terms on which he could see her, Clive dropped Ellie at St Rupert’s. There she had found Gemma, impatient to get home to Bill, cuddling her daughter who she pronounced was living up to the slogan on her T-shirt, and was longing to hear all Ellie’s news.

  Ellie thought she still looked shattered and cringed with Gemma when she gingerly moved her position in bed. Through gritted teeth, Gemma confessed that childbirth was nothing to enduring the stitches, which made sitting a nightmare.

  However, Gemma shrieked even more loudly when Ellie told her about the TV job. This disturbed Amy, who woke up protesting indignantly and had to be lulled back to sleep, while her mother and Ellie looked guiltily around at the other mothers in the ward.

  ‘It’s a start and you were right, Gem, once you start sharing your experience with people in the same boat, it gets easier to bear.’

  Gemma smiled smugly.

  ‘I might become an agony aunt when Amy is older. I just love dispensing advice. I can see it now — Gemma’s Gems of Wisdom. What do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ said Ellie, gathering up her bag and suitcase and hugging Gemma, ‘that it’s the worst headline ever, and the only little gem you’ve got is that one.’

  ‘Okay, Star,’ Gemma teased. ‘But watch this space, I’m planning a comeback, some time, some way.’

  Ellie waved and caught a cab the rest of the way home.

  It was strange not to come back to a litany of plaintive messages from Paul and to be getting ready to go out with someone else.

  This time, she told herself as she unpacked her overnight case and hung her red suit back in the wardrobe, no complications. Don’t allow anyone to put you down, expect you to be there for them, expect you to fit into their lives.

  Just remember what Theo says: ‘Not without your consent...’ She unpacked her make-up bag, deposited the scripts that Letty had given her to study on her bedside table and was about to put the black leather diary into her top drawer when she stopped. Inside the back pocket she found the white camellia. Flat, crinkled but intact. Holding it carefully in the palm of her hand, Ellie studied it for a long while as she sat on the edge of her bed.

  What a strange man. Obstinate, ruthless and influential.

  She should still be afraid of him. But she was now simply angry. Where others exerted themselves to be part of his life, she simply wanted him out of hers.

  Turning the camellia carefully over in her hand, she stroked the wrinkled leaves and tried to understand how someone so prepared to disregard the needs and the lives of other people could be sensitive and thoughtful enough to arrange such a gesture. It was don
e to disarm her, of that there was no doubt. A deliberate attempt to make her back off. But even if she had, he must surely know that Oliver would have carried on the fight?

  After wrestling with this tangled thinking for several minutes, Ellie had to admit she was no nearer understanding such a complex man. So many people had remained loyal to him when she had tried to confirm her belief that he was ruthless. All, of course, except Caroline Granger. The buff folder that had remained closed for the last three months was once again locked away in the files she had brought home with her from Focus. Many times she had been tempted to throw it away, because now she had nowhere to use it, her one weapon removed from her. So why did she find that fact was like a weight removed from her mind, rather than a source of irritation?

  The problem with you, my girl, is that you got yourself too close to him, became too aware of the charm. After all, what kind of man is it who can be heavily involved with a woman like Debra Carlysle and at the same time send white flowers to another? A professional charmer and a seducer of stupid women, she thought wryly.

  She was still holding the camellia, although the way she was loading it with so much significance could not be good for her. It was only a white camellia. He probably didn’t even know what kind of flowers he’d sent. Like her suit, his secretary had clearly been despatched to arrange the whole thing. Oh, just chuck it, she said impatiently, swinging herself off her bed, and walked over to the corner and dropped it into the waste paper basket.

  After which she made coffee, then rang Jed and said she would meet him and Ashley at a favourite bistro in King’s Road. She dialled Rosie’s number and persuaded her to come too, saying she wanted them all to meet Clive. Then she phoned Amanda, told her she had met the most divine man and yes, she was sure she would now have the courage to jettison all thoughts of Paul from her life.

  She didn’t even mind when Amanda said she would believe it when she heard it.

  Taking her coffee, Ellie went back to her bedroom, slipped on a pair of black trousers, pulled a white cable-knit cotton sweater over them, piled her hair into a coil on top of her head and with a cursory glance in the mirror, whirled out, closing the door behind her.