Acquired Tastes

by Simone Mondesir

  Vanessa had entertained high hopes for the will reading, but they were cruelly dashed. Jeremy's father left the bulk of his fortune in tax and tamper proof trusts to his grandchildren. The income from the trusts was bequeathed to Jeremy and his older brother James, on the proviso that they, too, produced sons or, failing that, a reduced proportion on the production of daughters.

  As Jeremy's older brother James, and his redoubtable wife Lucinda, had already produced four boys, it looked as if they would be the principle beneficiaries.

  Jeremy's suggestion that, in the circumstances, they, too, might now consider having children - a long but secretly held ambition on his part - had not met with quite the reception he would have wished.

  'Children, what on earth led you to think I might want children?' demanded Vanessa.

  'Well, you know - the patter of tiny feet and all that, don't all women want children? We could easily move to the country to make room for a litter,' Jeremy said brightly.

  Vanessa's lip curled. 'If you wanted a good breeder you should have married someone like your brother's wife. I mean, four children in six years, frankly, I think that's obscene. Have you taken a good look at Lucinda lately? Her boobs will reach her knees if she doesn't stop breast-feeding soon.'

  Jeremy looked pained. 'That's a bit strong Vanessa. I mean, fair's fair, Lucinda is a jolly good mother. Those four boys take a lot of looking after.'

  'That's exactly it. Who has to walk around looking like a beached whale for nine months? The woman. Who has to clear up all the mess and the puke? The woman. Who has to …'

  'All right, all right,' Jeremy interrupted, 'I see your point, but I assumed you would have someone to help. I'm still in touch with old Nanny Greig. As a matter of fact, it's her birthday next week, and I thought I might pop over with some chocolates or something. I could float the idea by her then.'

  Vanessa's voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'Wonderful. I do so love your bright ideas, Jeremy. Not only do you want me to ruin my figure bearing assorted little Swifts, but you also want me to turn my house into a geriatric home for senile nannies. Sometimes you astound me.'

  Vanessa had received the impression that he and his brother James had been largely raised by their beloved Nanny Greig, and Jeremy, who was the baby of the family, had been particularly attached to her. When he spoke of her it was in reverent tones.

  Now she waited for him to get angry and for a moment she thought she had succeeded. The colour drained from Jeremy's face and his jaw moved in an agitated way. But he simply stood up and walked over to the window where he stood with his back to her.

  After a moment he spoke. His voice shook with suppressed emotion. 'Vanessa, there are times when I think my mother was right. She said you would never understand the duties of being a wife, and although I'm prepared to put up with a lot, insulting Nanny Greig is going too far.'

  Vanessa leapt to her feet. She was fed up. Everything about Jeremy was suppressed. Before their marriage she had succeeded in getting him to forget his inhibitions and indulge in some wild sex, but only by plying him with large amounts of booze and dressing up in fish-net stockings and high-heeled boots. However, once they had got married, everything had changed. She no longer seemed to be able to provoke him, not even into a good argument.

  She went to the door. 'Frankly Jeremy, I couldn't give a damn for your mother, your nanny or anyone else connected with the great Swift family. Please read my lips: I do not now, nor will I ever, want children,' and with that, she slammed the door behind her.

  Jeremy had never been the same again. The marriage lasted another three years before Vanessa threw him out, and during the final year, communication between them had shrunken to words of one syllable and the occasional lawyer's letter, which was why she could not understand the reason for Jeremy calling last night and begging to see her.

  Her instinct had been to tell him where to go, but curiosity had got the better of her, so she told him to be at her flat at six that afternoon, which would give her time to change before what she hoped would be a hot dinner date that evening.

  Vanessa glanced at her watch. The taxi was edging forward, negotiating the traffic around Hyde Park Corner inch by inch. It would take at least another ten minutes to get to the office, which meant she was going to be late for the production meeting. Philip Pryce would not be a happy man.

  She snapped open her compact and deftly reapplied her lipstick. In some ways, Philip reminded her of Jeremy. They were both irritatingly diffident when it came to dealing with women. She had been working for Philip for nearly a year now and he still hadn't made a pass at her.

  She had dismissed the possibility of Philip being gay - the usual grapevine had yielded no gossip to this effect - and no matter how much they tried, nobody could be that discreet; word always got out.

  Anyway, Vanessa decided, as she studied her face in her compact mirror, she had never yet been wrong about a man. No, if the problem was anywhere, it had to be with Philip. It was just a question of discovering his particular taste in sex.

  They had met at a post-award party she'd gate-crashed. It was an opportune meeting as she had just seen a confidential memo about staff restructuring in the ITV company where she was then working. It had been difficult to read upside down on her boss's desk, but she got the distinct feeling that she would not be considered vital to the new structure.

  Vanessa always trusted her instincts. Knowing when to leave a job was one of her talents, it was always better to do it before any of her indiscretions became public or before anyone checked up on her curriculum vitae. Life had taught her that it was better to be economical with the truth when it came to her experience and qualifications, and up until now, life had proved a good teacher. There was always gossip of course, but she moved so frequently, it barely had time to catch up with her before she moved on to the next job. She had always found parties, rather than job interviews, happy hunting grounds for advancement, as they allowed her to show off her particular qualifications far better than her curriculum vitae.

  Alcohol had the advantage of both lowering critical faculties and inducing indiscretions, the second of which could later be used to her advantage. Vanessa invariably found that once she had seen a man with his trousers around his ankles, he found it difficult to look her in the eye and was only too happy to help her in any way she asked. Vanessa never considered it blackmail, as she never had to threaten anything.

  Getting into parties to which she had not received an invitation was another of her skills. It was just a question of looking right and claiming very loudly that you were joining someone suitably impressive inside as you waved away the hand reaching out for your invitation. The trick was not to hesitate and to walk through the door, even if someone tried to stop you. It never failed to work. However, on the evening she met Philip, Vanessa was beginning to wonder whether it had been worth coming to the party. She had introduced herself to the recipients of the most important awards of the evening, and found herself looking down at the bald pates of a group of portly middle-aged men, still lachrymose after the fulsome and sentimental eulogies they had made about each other at the ceremony earlier.

  Only one of them had shown any interest in her, and judging by his lopsided leer, she suspected he had already had more than one too many glasses of cheap champagne. Vanessa had just begun to make her excuses when yet another prize-winner joined the group.

  'Philip. Congratulations!' The man with the lopsided leer slapped the newcomer on the back, almost causing him to drop the bronze statuette he was carrying. 'If you keep this up you won't have any room left on your mantelpiece.'

  General laughter greeted this sally. They could afford to be generous, they were all winners tonight.

  Philip lifted his award aloft. It resembled a globe artichoke. 'Not quite the Golden Rose, but who knows, maybe next year,' he replied to more laughter.

  Vanessa surreptitiously studied the newcomer's appearance which teetered on the edge of flamboyance. He
wore a pearl-grey suit, matching shoes, grey and pink paisley waistcoat and grey silk tie, all of which toned perfectly with his grey eyes and grey hair. Although not particularly tall, unlike the other men in the group, he had not let turning fifty go to his waistline, and his skin was firm and glowed with the effect of expensive skin care products.

  The man who had first greeted Philip put a conspiratorial hand on his arm. 'I never had you marked as one who would make a go of this independent production lark, but you certainly picked the right moment to get out of the BBC.' He relinquished his hold on Philip's arm and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. 'But then, rumour hath it that two years ago there were some nice little sweetheart deals on offer for those in the know.'

  Philip looked indignant at this. 'Leaving the Corporation was a choice about artistic freedom. My creative muse has not yet left me and I still felt there were some programmes that I had to make. If I had stayed, I felt I would have had to accept an executive position and unlike some, I have never been one to enjoy pushing bits of paper about.'

  'Oh, but they say there's money to be made if you know how.' The speaker was not to be deterred. 'Have you heard about Tony - he left at about the same time as you didn't he? Word has it that his company is doing so well, he's traded in his trusty Volvo for a Porsche and has been seen power breakfasting in LA.'

  'Well, he would, wouldn't he,' joined in one of the other members of the group. 'Porsches are so vulgar, I wouldn't be seen dead in one. They are the yuppy equivalent of a Cortina.'

  'I think Tony's a little too old to be described as young and upwardly mobile, don't you?' added another member of the group.

  Everybody laughed, united in jealousy against a former friend’s good fortune.

  'Some of us want to make quality television, others just want to make money,' Philip added, glad that the uncomfortable probing had stopped.

  'And some of us succeed in doing both,' said Philip's inquisitor, slipping an arm around Vanessa's waist and puller her closer. Vanessa could feel his sweaty palm through her paper thin silk dress. She gave him a saccharine-sweet smile.

  'We'd all better watch out for this little lady,' he said, 'she'll soon be snapping at our heels. A little bird told me that she was one of the team that came up with LTV's latest success, Camera Shy. The format's already been sold to about twenty different countries, including the States.'

  The group all looked at Vanessa with renewed interest. She smiled demurely. She hadn't said she had actually come up with the idea for the series, but she had been at the meeting where it was proposed, so saying she was part of the team was not strictly a lie. All the same, she didn't want anyone asking awkward questions so she disentangled herself from the arm encircling her waist with a playful slap, and held out her hand to Philip.

  'I'm such a great admirer of your work, Mr Pryce,' she said, trying to remember if she had ever seen one of his programmes. 'I thought your last series was wonderful.'

  Philip's chest visibly swelled and he cradled his award a little tighter. 'Thank you. The recognition of one's peers as symbolised in this,' he patted the bulbous artichoke, 'is the greatest award one can achieve.' Not for the first time that evening his eyes grew misty with emotion.

  The group nodded in agreement.

  'Our beloved industry is changing. It's time to make a stand for creative excellence and quality, before the Philistines and the money-men plunder the rich citadel of public service broadcasting and lay waste to our honourable traditions.'

  As he spoke, Philip's voice rose. It was his favourite part of his acceptance speech and it had taken so long to write, a little repetition couldn't possibly hurt.

  The group signalled its assent with a few 'hear hears' and a general clearing of throats. But small talk exhausted, they drank deeply from their glasses and their eyes began to sift the room, assessing new contacts to be made, old acquaintances to be greeted and people to be avoided. One by one, they began to drift away. Vanessa sipped her wine, conscious that Philip was covertly studying her. He wasn't really her type, but…

  He cleared his throat. 'I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, Miss Swift…'

  'Vanessa, please, ' she urged with a smile.

  'But I'm looking for some bright young things to join my company, Right Pryce Productions, and if Elliot says you're good, well, that's recommendation enough for me. I can offer the right kind of package too,' he added hastily.

  Vanessa offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the sweaty-palmed Elliot whom she had never met before that night. Trying not to look too eager, she switched on a dazzling smile.

  'Elliot can be a very naughty boy, you shouldn't believe everything he says,' she said, wagging her finger playfully.

  'Oh, but I'm sure he wouldn't have said… Please tell me if I'm speaking out of turn.' Philip's colour had deepened.

  Vanessa put her hand on Philip's arm and dropped her voice to an enticing low.

  'As a matter of fact, I might just be open to offers. Without wishing to name names, there are some people in my company who seem to want to stifle creativity and new ideas, so perhaps it's about time I spread my wings.'

  Philip placed his hand over hers and nodded glumly. 'Talent often goes unrewarded.'

  Several delightful lunches later, Vanessa had joined Right Pryce Productions and nearly doubled her salary.

  At the thought of her salary, Vanessa fished around in her capacious bag for her mobile phone. She needed to keep Philip happy. Of late, his normal jaunty demeanour had been replaced by that of a hunted man. Last week she had received a peremptory summons to his office where he had dispensed with his normal preamble of pleasantries.

  'It would appear from our accountants that your expenses since joining us have been nearly double your not inconsiderable salary. But despite being Head of Programme Development, you have not as yet generated one viable programme idea. Can you suggest a reason for this sad state of affairs?'

  Vanessa had crossed her long legs and pulled her already short skirt higher up her thighs. It was a negotiating ploy she usually found effective. It reduced the opposition to either confusion or lust and both achieved the same result - she got her own way. But Philip's eyes remained resolutely and uncomfortably fixed on her face.

  She pushed her skirt back down and re-crossed her legs. Other tactics were obviously called for. She smiled serenely.

  'Philip darling. You know how it is. If you want to impress people, you just have to take them to the right kind of place for lunch. How would it look if I invited a Channel 4 Commissioning Editor to lunch at McDonald's? Think of your credibility rating darling, it would look like Right Pryce couldn't hack it. I mean, we're talking image here.'

  'And I'm talking survival.'

  Philip leaned across the desk, his eyes narrowing in a most unbecoming way. 'I'll give you the bottom line, Vanessa. I want a workable idea for a television series, on my desk, one week from today, or else we will have to reconsider your contract. Do I make myself crystal clear?'

  Vanessa suppressed a shiver at the memory, and punched the office number on her portable phone.

  'Yo?'

  'Heather?'

  'Yo.'

  'This is Vanessa.'

  The other end of the phone went quiet, but Vanessa was sure she could hear Heather, Right Pryce's typist-come-receptionist, masticating gum.

  'What do you want?'

  'The correct question is: to whom do you wish to speak? Not whadyawant,' Vanessa snapped.

  'Yo. So, to whom do you wish to speak?' Heather irritatingly mimicked Vanessa's voice to perfection.

  'I do not wish to speak to anyone. I merely want you to convey to Mr Pryce that I have been unavoidably delayed, but that I, and my proposal, will be with him in about seven minutes. Is that clear?'

  'Yo.'

  Heather replaced the receiver, swung one Doc Marten's clad foot on to the desk and continued to paint her fingernails black.

  In the back of the taxi, Vanessa rummaged
in her bag once again and found an elderly biro and the paper napkin on which she had scribbled in the restaurant. She had to think fast.

  Philip was a stickler for memos and ten-point plans. Any meeting was prefaced with a flurry of both. She looked at the crumpled napkin. Philip was hardly going to accept it as a substitute, but if she had an idea or two worked out, it might help.

  She chewed the biro for a moment or two as she considered what she had written: 'act out sexual fantasies'. What else was there to say? Then a thought struck her - she needed a catchy title. You could sell anything if the packaging was right.

  She stared out of the window, desperate for inspiration.

  The taxi came to a halt yet again, this time beside a fruit stall in Oxford Street. Its artfully arranged display of mouth-watering-looking fruit was attracting a lot of tourists. Vanessa watched as the stall-holder deftly served his customers from boxes concealed behind the stall, gesticulating angrily at a large sign saying DO NOT TOUCH if anyone had the temerity to try and pick their own fruit.

  Vanessa smiled and wrote FORBIDDEN FRUIT in large capitals.

  She glanced at her watch and stuffed the napkin back into her bag before leaning forward and rapping sharply on the glass partition.

  'Stop here, it will be quicker to walk,' she commanded.

  The driver shrugged and pulled in to the pavement. 'It's up to you lady. We're only here to serve the public'

  Vanessa flung the exact fare through his open window and almost ran the rest of the way down Soho Street, across Soho Square to the little alleyway off Charing Cross Road. Right Pryce had its offices there, on the top floor of a building above a sex shop and a dubious import-export business which claimed to offer unusual novelties.