Acquired Tastes

by Simone Mondesir

  'My association has a media monitoring panel of concerned members, and several of them have sent me this disgusting advertisement which is tantamount to an incitement to immorality and lewdness.'

  Rarely had Sir Norman witnessed a trap so skilfully sprung or to such deadly purpose. If Mrs Proudfoot had been a man, she would have been a great general. She could even have been a great general's wife, he thought wistfully.

  Philip stared at the newspaper cutting in front of him. His first instinct was to say it could not possibly be anything to do with his company - no one who worked for him would place such a crude advert. But as the words burned themselves deep into his consciousness, he knew there was one person who would - Vanessa.

  His hands grew clammy. He wiped them on his trousers.

  'That… that advertisement was placed by an over-enthusiastic producer who misunderstood the nature of the project,' he said desperately. 'It was an unfortunate error of judgment on her part. She will, of course, be severely reprimanded.'

  'An unfortunate error indeed, Mr Pryce.' Mrs Proud-foot leaned forward, an unpleasant smile on her face. 'Pray tell us, what precisely is the nature of this series?'

  'It was suggested by some research being conducted at Heartlands University, so it has a thoroughly sound academic pedigree,' Philip ventured limply.

  Mrs Proudfoot snorted dismissively. 'I hardly think that recommends it. Universities are the breeding ground for most of the ills of our society.'

  'The Prime Minister has an honorary degree from Heartlands.' For the first time Basil Grimshaw joined in the discussion.

  Mrs Proudfoot gave him an uncharitable look, but Philip turned towards Grimshaw, sensing that from this quarter at least, he might get a more sympathetic hearing. He knew he could expect no mercy from anyone else at the table.

  'I take the view that one of the benefits of television has been that it has allowed millions of viewers to explore the jungles, deserts, mountains and oceans of the world from the comfort of their fireside armchairs. This series will instead explore the hitherto unexplored landscapes of the mind … so to speak.' Philip held his breath.

  Basil Grimshaw nodded vigorously. His head looked in danger of falling off his long, thin, scrawny neck.

  'I must concur,' he said. 'Television always seems to concentrate on the literal world to the exclusion of the inner, spiritual worlds we all have within us.'

  'I don't think Mr Pryce is planning a series on philosophy begging your pardon, Mr Grimshaw,' Mrs Proud-foot said tartly. 'This advertisement is about sex.'

  'But surely you must admit that sex is a powerful motivation for the human animal, Mrs Proudfoot, whether for good or for evil. It is that element of human sexuality we are setting out to explore, in order that we can understand it better.' Philip tried not to remember some of the elements of human sexuality he had read about in the letters that had been arriving.

  'Sex is sex,' Mrs Proudfoot declared. 'I don't believe in mincing my words. A nettle should be grasped firmly and pulled out by the roots. I demand we take action to stop this programme, Sir Norman.'

  'I think we should avoid doing anything too precipitate,' Basil Grimshaw remonstrated mildly. 'After all, it is possible to throw the baby out with the bath water.'

  'Well, I believe in striking while, the iron is hot,' retorted Mrs Proudfoot.

  This exchange of proverbs was interrupted by Jenny Haigh passing a note along to Sir Norman. He studied it for a few moments and then loudly cleared his throat.

  'Mrs Haigh has just reminded me that as this meeting was called informally, and the matter was not officially placed on the agenda, no ruling can be made at this moment in time.'

  He looked across at Jenny Haigh who nodded her head.

  'But Sir Norman … we can't possibly … my members …' Mrs Proudfoot protested angrily.

  Sir Norman harrumphed loudly. 'I wholeheartedly agree, Mrs Proudfoot. Something must be done.'

  He looked at Jenny Haigh for help, but she was scribbling notes.

  Sir Norman harrumphed again. 'Well, if we can't order the withdrawal of this programme here and now, I propose that we, that is the members of the committee here present, come along to the recording of the said programme, after which we will officially make recommendations to place the matter on the agenda at a meeting of the full committee. I think that is a fair decision all round, don't you?'

  Philip smiled wanly.

  'I would welcome any observations you would care to make, Sir Norman. I'm always happy to co-operate with those seeking to improve the quality of our television service.'

  His death sentence had been commuted to one of hard labour.

  Twenty-One

  'You did what?' screeched Vanessa.

  Philip looked pained. In the old days at the BBC his judgement had never been questioned. He rearranged his blotting pad and pencil holder before looking up.

  'I have agreed to allow some members of the committee to attend the recording of the first show. In the current political climate one has to learn to bend with the wind, and I believe I have made an astute political move that will stand us in good stead.'

  Vanessa put her hands on Philip's desk and loomed threateningly over him. 'I come up with the best money-making idea you've ever had and you give those narrow-minded, sanctimonious, self-opinionated killjoys free rein to destroy it.' Her voice had a serrated edge.

  Philip winced. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was in danger of losing control of the situation again. 'Vanessa, may I remind you that if it had not been for your ill-advised and ineptly worded advertisement, this would not be happening.'

  Philip saw one of Vanessa's eyelids flutter. She took her hands off his desk. He swiftly pressed his advantage home.

  'May I also remind you, that not only have you antagonised one of the best and most professional presenters in the business to the point where she may not sign her contract, but you have also signally failed to persuade Dr Archibald to part with the rights to his research. Without them, there will be no series and consequently no job for you.'

  Vanessa sat down.

  'As it happens,' Philip continued, sensing he was enjoying a rare moment of dominance, 'I think we may now be able to offer Dr Archibald an improved deal - one which he will be more than willing to sign.'

  Vanessa made a weak attempt to interrupt, but Philip held up a masterful hand. 'I have been giving the question of the presentation of the programme a lot of thought, and I have decided that it will be given added weight and credibility if we have a second presenter with the appropriate academic credentials. Dr Archibald is the obvious candidate.'

  Vanessa sat upright. 'No way…'

  'I will brook absolutely no argument on this point, Vanessa. I have taken an executive decision.' Philip leant back in his chair with a satisfied air.

  Vanessa was silent for a moment. Then she carefully crossed her legs. Philip tensed. He sensed a counter attack.

  'Have you told Gabriella about her co-host yet?' enquired Vanessa silkily.

  Philip shifted uneasily in his seat. He had been trying not to think about how Gabriella would react.

  'Not yet, but I am sure she will understand the wisdom of my decision,' he replied with a confidence he did not feel. 'After all, look at Oprah. She has some sort of expert on most of her shows explaining why people behave the way they do, and it hasn't done her any harm,' he added defensively.

  The phone buzzed. Philip gratefully answered.

  It was Heather. 'There's a Mr Eddie Spittle on the line, Mr Pryce, he wants to know if the advertisement is for real.'

  Philip went pale and closed his eyes.

  Eddie Spittle was a journalist on the World on Sunday newspaper. He was universally known as the Ferret, a nickname he had earned not only because of his physical resemblance to a small, grey, beady-eyed creature with an unpredictable temper, but also because of his reputation for sniffing into dark secrets and sinking his sharp pen into warm flesh.

  Philip k
new that if he refused to speak to him, Spittle would probably run the story anyway. He opened his eyes. 'Put him through,' he wearily instructed Heather, 'and then if Hugo is around, ask him to join Vanessa and me.'

  The voice on the other end of the line was thin and nasal with a hint of Lancashire.

  'Philip, we haven't had the pleasure, but I thought we could make up for it over a drink and you could tell me about this new programme of yours. Sounds like a real corker.'

  'Mr Spittle,' Philip began. He hated people who used first names without a formal introduction. 'An interview at this stage would be a little premature. The series is still on the drawing board and I would hate to pre-empt anything.'

  'Oh come now, Philip,' the voice was treacly with enforced bonhomie, 'there's got to be something you can tell me. Rumour has it that Britain's answer to Gina Lollobrigida - Gabriella Wolfe - is back in town and she's been lunching with you. Any connection?'

  'I really wouldn't like to make any comment.' Philip tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  'I can always call her agent,' Spittle countered. 'She's a bit of a has-been these days, so I bet he wouldn't mind a few column inches to boost her earning potential.'

  Philip was outflanked. Gabriella's agent, Lance Cox, would probably offer Spittle anything he wanted. Philip had taken Cox to lunch as the opener to discussing Gabriella's contract and he had been very difficult, hinting that Gabriella had other offers on the table when both of them knew that this was untrue. Perhaps Cox knew the newspapers were sniffing around and that any publicity would increase her profile as well as her price - perhaps he had even alerted the Ferret to the advert.

  'You could say that discussions are under way with Miss Wolfe, but that nothing has been signed, as yet,' he said slowly.

  'You mean she's asking more than you're giving?'

  'I'm not prepared to comment on the figures involved. That would be tantamount to breaking a confidence,' Philip protested.

  'And a big spread about Gabriella, the raven-haired beauty, Queen of the chat show, returning from her European exile would push the price up, eh?' Spittle prodded. 'If you can offer me something more, I'd be prepared to hold fire for the time being.'

  Philip thought fast. If Spittle was on to him, the other tabloids wouldn't be far behind. Perhaps he could do a bit of damage limitation.

  'Look, Mr Spittle…'

  'Eddie, please …'

  'Look, Eddie,' Philip began again, 'this series is going to be very exciting and will break new ground in television. I expect a lot of media interest once we're up and running, but I would consider a favourable working relationship with one newspaper if we could agree to certain provisos.'

  'If that means I get exclusives on all stories, I'm sure we can agree,' said Spittle.

  'Something like that,' hedged Philip. Once he had got a deal with the Network, the kind of publicity Spittle could give the series would guarantee high ratings, but right now, any publicity was likely to bring the full weight of Sir Norman and his committee down on him. Philip blanched at the thought.

  'It has to be better than something,' Spittle pressed. 'I would want an absolute guarantee of exclusivity.'

  'I think that could be arranged,' said Philip guardedly. 'Although I hope you would be prepared to respect the sensitivity of our subject matter at this early stage. I wouldn't like to jump the gun on publicity so to speak.'

  'Discretion is my middle name, Philip, and I think I follow your drift. I get the stories but you want a say in when they are published?'

  'And of course, you understand this isn't in any way a formal agreement?'

  'A gentlemen's agreement you mean?' asked Spittle. 'I can live with that. Contracts aren't worth the paper they're printed on. Anyway, you sound like a man I could trust Philip, and I'm sure you know what would happen if you broke the agreement.'

  The threat hung large and visibly in the air.

  Spittle replaced the telephone, a satisfied look on his face. Ignoring his intercom, he bawled through his office door at one of his researchers.

  'Tebbit! I want absolutely everything we've got on Gabriella Wolfe, that's with an “e”, and anything you can find on some wanker called Philip Pryce. That's P-R-Y-C-E. From the sound of his voice I bet he's an ex-BBC leftie poofter. And get your bloody skates on.'

  Back on the other side of London, Philip slowly replaced the receiver. There was a low whistle and he looked up to see Hugo standing in the doorway, his arms folded.

  'Was that the Eddie Spittle?'

  Philip nodded.

  'Bit dangerous doing deals with him, isn't it? They say it's safer to sell your soul to the devil.' He came into the room and draped a long leg over the edge of Philip's desk.

  'I can handle him,' said Philip with an attempt at bravado that was unconvincing even to his ears. 'This way he'll keep the other tabloids off our back and all I need to do is to drop him the occasional little titbit. He might think we have a gentleman's agreement, but he can hardly be classed as a gentleman, so I consider any agreement null and void.'

  Hugo raised a questioning eyebrow at Vanessa, who just shrugged. 'Anyway, apart from the Ferret, what's up?'

  Philip made a visible effort to pull himself together. 'I have decided to give Dr Archibald a try-out as a second presenter. I think he will give us the intellectual weight we need.'

  Hugo's eyebrow shot up again. 'Does Gabriella know about this added intellectual weight yet?'

  Vanessa ostentatiously examined her nails.

  'No. But as I've already told Vanessa, I can handle Gabriella,' snapped Philip peevishly. 'What I want to know from you is how this will affect the studio set. We ought to get the designer working on it immediately.'

  'Well another presenter rather puts the kybosh on the design Jasper and I have been talking about,' Hugo said, running his hands through his hair. He began to pace up and down. 'I find it difficult to get my head around the concept of a second body. No strong visual images spring to mind when I think of a psychiatrist.'

  'He's a psychologist,' interjected Vanessa.

  'Whatever,' Hugo continued. 'But my real problem is Archibald. The visual statement he makes is that he should be living underneath the arches at Waterloo Station sleeping on newspaper and surrounded by empty meth bottles.'

  He stopped pacing and closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his hand to his forehead. Then he snapped his fingers.

  'I've got it: Freud is our key. We can use that awful beard and crumpled corduroy to our advantage with a kind of mad scientist look. I know this stylist who can work wonders with the roughest material. I'll give him a bell. We could also have this kind of post-modernist version of a psychiatrist's couch. There's this little place in Covent Garden which makes amazing furniture. It's run by a friend of mine.'

  He excitedly punched some keys on his electronic organiser. 'I like it, I really like it, although we'll have to revise the budget for the set. This wasn't included in the original costings.'

  Before Philip could remonstrate, Hugo strode out of the room. He looked at Vanessa. She got up to leave.

  'Have we got any participants we can actually use without a raid from the vice squad?' he asked in a small voice.

  Vanessa gave him a superior smile. 'Philip, trust me. Little Vijay is beavering away out there in fantasy land even as we speak, and the letters are still pouring in. I've just read this great one from some frustrated woman wittering on about defrocked nuns, you'll just love it. I'm sending Vijay to see her tomorrow. I promise you, we can't lose.'

  She blew him a kiss and swept out of the room.

  Twenty-Two

  Jeremy dug his hands deep into his pockets and disconsolately kicked one of Zelda's large oriental floor cushions. It emitted a little puff of dust, but otherwise failed to satisfy his urge to hurt something. He tried kicking an ugly brass urn which contained a disintegrating display of dried grasses. It made a more satisfying sound but hurt his big toe. He limped over to the window and sto
od, staring sightlessly out.

  He had thought he and Alicia were getting on so well. They had established such a nice, comfortable daily routine. Getting up late, eating a cooked breakfast on a scale he had thought long since dead, followed by a gentle walk to Camden High Street where they did a little food shopping and then bought the newspapers which they read over a cappuccino and a plate of freshly baked croissants, before coming back to the flat where Alicia prepared lunch.

  Most afternoons Alicia went to the British Museum Reading Room for a few hours, while he finished reading the newspapers, or watched an old film on the large colour television Alicia had rented when he complained he had nothing to do when she was out. In the evenings, Alicia seemed happy in the kitchen, preparing some mouth-watering concoction which they would eat watching television. It was bliss. Or it had been.

  About a week ago a change had come over Alicia. One afternoon when he assumed she had gone to the British Museum as usual, she arrived home in a taxi with a camp bed contraption which she set up in the front room, and to which he was banished that night.

  When he had said he would make love to her if that was what she wanted, she got upset and demanded to know whether it was what he wanted. He tried to explain that he wanted whatever she wanted, but that seemed to make her even more upset. Either way he couldn't win. He just didn't understand women.

  And then there was this ridiculous plan she had cooked up to try and find out what Vanessa and Fergus were doing. It was all very well to wish something horrible would happen to someone who had hurt you, but you couldn't actually go around doing things to people. It could get you into trouble.

  Jeremy took his hands out of his pockets and squared his shoulders. He would make one more attempt to dissuade Alicia. He strode into the hall and knocked on the closed bathroom door.

  'Alicia, I really think we should talk some more about this. I thought we had agreed to put all that business with Vanessa behind us.'

  'We agreed to nothing, Jeremy. That was your suggestion, not mine.'

  Alicia leaned over the washbasin as she tried to get a better view of her face in the bathroom mirror. She never wore make-up apart from a little face powder to stop her nose getting shiny, and she was finding the intricacies of foundation, blusher, highlighter, eye shadow, eyeliner, lip-liners, lipstick and mascara, a little hard to master.