by Sue Margolis
“Too right,” he was saying now, re Nancy’s charm-before-the-storm remark. He flicked the switch on the kettle. “Take it from me that, underneath the smiles and superficial civility, the woman is a regular Nazi in nylons.”
“Oh, and FYI,” Nancy said to me, “she’s Australian. And get this—the woman is called … Shirley Tucker Dill. I mean, who was her father? The Jolly Swagman?”
“I just Googled her,” Des said. “She’s some hard-hitting corporate firefighter who goes around the world nursing ailing companies back to health. The media is her specialty. Oh, and apparently Shirley Tucker Dill is known in the business as STD.”
“Wow, people must truly adore her,” I said.
Nancy tugged at the ring pull on her Coke can and went hunting for a glass. “This is not looking good. She hasn’t said what her plans are for the program, but if this woman takes Coffee Break down-market and turns it into some trashy tabloid chat show, she’s not going to want me presenting it. I’m far too highbrow.”
It was true. Nancy was too highbrow, but did she have to be quite so snotty?
“Right,” I said, after Des had left with his mug of tea. “Guess I’d better go and say hi to Shirley Tucker thingy.”
“Dill,” Nancy obliged. “And maybe it’s best you don’t go in looking like you’ve just been rescued from the Titanic.” She put her hand into her jacket pocket. “Here.” She handed me an elastic hair band.
“Brilliant. Thanks.” I could never work Nancy out. Her self-centeredness drove everybody round the bend. Then she would perform some small act of kindness, which would leave people thinking she wasn’t so bad after all. Ditto when she got drunk and started kissing everybody.
“By the way,” Nancy said, halfway out the door with her glass of Coke, “you’ll find Shirley Tucker Dill in Liz’s old office.”
I put a brush through my still damp hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. I felt like a fourteen-year-old about to be hauled up in front of the school principal.
• • •
Shirley Tucker Dill’s door was open. I gave a polite tap.
“Hello, I’m Sophie Lawson,” I said, hovering in the doorway.
Shirley Tucker Dill looked up from the papers on her desk and pushed her reading glasses onto her head. She couldn’t have looked less haughty or chisel faced. Sitting in front of me was a plump, smiley woman—sixtyish at a guess—with big cotton-candy hair, her crepey bosom spilling out of a very mauve, very low-cut, cheap Lycra top. If she was the devil, she certainly wasn’t wearing Prada.
“G’day, Soph,” she said. “Come in, come in. We missed you at the meet and greet.” Her face still on full beam, she bustled around to the front of her desk and took my hand in both of hers.
“I’m so sorry about that.” I explained about the person under a train at Stockwell.
“No worries. Better late than never. Now, then, sit your body down and I’ll sort us out a cuppa. Dunno about you, but I’m as dry as a dead dingo’s donga.” I took that to mean that Shirley Tucker Dill was very thirsty indeed. I said that I would love a cup of coffee. She motioned me to the leather sofa. Meanwhile she went to the door that connected her office to the one belonging to her PA. “Wend—two coffees, please. Quick as you like. And where are those financial reports I asked you for?”
So she’d kept Wendy on. Wendy had been Liz’s PA.
“I put them on your desk,” Wendy’s voice came back.
“Oh, right.” Shirley Tucker Dill went to her desk and started leafing through the stack of papers.
“What’s going on? There’s nothing for 2008 or 2009. Wend, could you get in here?”
Wendy appeared and shot me the briefest of eye rolls. She was a young graduate, her heart set on a career in media management. Everybody liked Wendy. Liz had thought the world of her. She was obliging and easygoing, not to mention great at her job. Nothing got under Wendy’s skin. Until now, it seemed. After only a few hours in Shirley Tucker Dill’s employ, the poor girl was clearly feeling the strain.
“I’m sorry, Shirley. I must have forgotten to print it off.” This was a first, seeing Wendy flustered.
“Wend, I need you to get your act together. I’ve got a meeting with the finance director later. We’re meant to be going over the new budget proposals and you’re sending me in unprepared. I need that printout right away.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I’ve got the coffee.”
“No, Wend. You’ll do it now.”
“Fine.”
Shooting me another glance, Wendy left the room.
Since this was Shirley Tucker Dill’s first day in a new job, I felt that I should give her the benefit of the doubt and put her behavior down to anxiety. But deep down I suspected that Nancy and Des had got her pegged. Despite her superficial charm, Shirley Tucker Dill clearly had despotic tendencies.
She came over and lowered herself into the armchair opposite me. “You know, Soph,” she said, crossing her legs and revealing rather too much fat, dimpled thigh. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. From Liz. I called her last night to get the lowdown on everybody who works on the program. She sang the praises of the entire team, but she singled you out. Said you do a terrific job and that you’re very popular in the office.”
I felt my cheeks burning. I wasn’t good with compliments. “That’s very kind of her.”
Just then Wendy appeared carrying a folder. Shirley Tucker Dill didn’t say anything. She merely motioned her hand towards the desk.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Shirley Tucker Dill continued. “Liz was telling it the way she saw it. Look—as you’ll discover, I’m not one to beat about the bush, so I’ll get straight to the point. Liz suggested that you should take over as editor.”
It had occurred to me that as senior producer I might be considered for Liz’s job, but I’d rejected the notion on the grounds that GLB had appointed a media change consultant, not a media keep-things-pretty-much-as-they-are-with-a-few-tweaks-here-and-there consultant.
“I’d assumed you’d be bringing in somebody new,” I said. “You know—fresh blood and all that.”
“Why on earth would I want somebody new? By all accounts, you’re great at your job and I’m a firm believer in rewarding talent.” Could this mean she wasn’t planning drastic changes to the program after all?
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said.
“Now, as far as money is concerned, they won’t be able to offer you a pay raise right away. You’ll appreciate that these days the budget’s pretty tight, but if things work out there might be a small salary increase sometime next year. So, what do you say?”
“Shirley, I’m very flattered—”
“So, can I take that a yes?”
Not exactly. I couldn’t accept the job until I knew for certain that she wasn’t planning to turn Coffee Break into some trashy tabloid show. If she was, then I would have to turn it down. I wasn’t about to become Shirley Tucker Dill’s puppet and implement changes that would destroy the program.
“Shirley, there’s something I need to ask you. We all know that James Harding is insisting on a complete face-lift for the program, so I’m assuming that you’ll be making quite a few changes—”
With exquisitely bad timing, Wendy reappeared. She was carrying two cups of coffee on a tray, which she set down on the low table in front of us.
“By the way,” she whispered to Shirley Tucker Dill, “the chairman is waiting outside. Apparently you had a meeting arranged.”
“Good God! Of course we did. Well, don’t leave the poor man hanging around outside. Show him in, show him in.”
Shirley Tucker Dill and James Harding fell into each other’s arms.
“Jimmy, you old bastard!”
These two clearly went way back.
“Less of the old, if you please.” “Jimmy” grinned.
“So, why weren’t you here to meet me when I arrive
d?”
“Apologies. I was driving down from Manchester. The M1 was chockablock coming into London.” He took both her hands in his and stepped back. “You’re looking good, Shirley.”
“Flatterer. Truth is, we’ve both packed on a few pounds over the years. But thank Christ I still have more hair than you.” Shirley Tucker Dill turned to me. “Jimmy and I met when we were both interns at Radio Mersey in Liverpool. I’d come to the UK for a year as part of my university journalism course. Of course Jimmy was follicly challenged even then, bless him … So, I take it you know Sophie Lawson.”
James Harding, who appeared a good deal less at ease with this talk of his lack of follicles than Shirley Tucker Dill, turned to me and looked blank. “Yes … of course.”
“We’ve met a couple of times,” I said, stepping in to save the chairman from embarrassment. “At various GLB functions, but I’m sure you probably don’t remember me. I’m one of the producers on Coffee Break.”
“Actually,” Shirley Tucker Dill said, “Soph is the senior producer, but not for much longer. I’ve just offered her the job of program editor and she’s said yes.”
Before I could say anything, James Harding was shaking my hand and offering me his congratulations.
“Yeah, good on ya, Soph,” Shirley Tucker Dill said. “I’ve got this feeling in my waters that you and I are going to make a great team.”
“The thing is,” I said, “now that I’ve got you both here, there are a few questions—”
Shirley Tucker Dill was looking at her watch. “Soph, to be honest I really don’t have time to chat now. Maybe we could hook up again later. Right now Jimmy and I need to talk business.”
“Oh … of course. No problem,” I heard myself say. “I’ll leave you to it.”
• • •
I headed back to my office, furious with myself for not standing my ground. Shirley Tucker Dill and James Harding might have had urgent business to discuss, but, without being rude, I could have insisted they hear me out. Instead, I’d allowed this woman to dismiss me as if I were the office junior. I wasn’t easily intimidated, but despite her homey charm Shirley Tucker Dill oozed autocratic brusqueness, the certainty and self-belief that said, “Nobody messes with me.”
Intimidating as she was, there was no way that I could allow her to bulldoze me into accepting the editor’s job—at least not until I knew her plans for the program. She had suggested that we meet again “later,” whenever that might be. I wasn’t prepared to wait. I pulled myself up to my full five foot, four and a half inches and decided to call Wendy to see if I could get back in to see Shirley as soon as her meeting with James Harding was over.
Back at my desk, I dialed Wendy’s extension, but there was no answer. I decided to give it a few minutes and try again. Meanwhile, I started listening to a feature that one of our freelancers had just handed in. It was a cheery piece on the social consequences of the Black Death with particular reference to the persecution of ethnic minorities such as the Jews. I couldn’t concentrate. I could imagine a time when I might be able to turn my mind to pus-oozing boils, but this wasn’t one of them.
I was in the middle of dealing with e-mails when Greg called. He wanted to know if I’d received a letter from my lawyer outlining his maintenance offer for the children.
“I know it should be more,” he said. “And I’m working on it. The thing is, now that I’m living with Roz, I’m contributing towards her overheads, so at the moment it’s the best I can do. But if you think about it, things would be even tougher if I was still paying rent on that flat.”
I agreed that this was some consolation. The problem remained that once all the household bills were taken care of, there was no money left for emergencies. If the roof started to leak or the car needed work, our only option was to pay for the repairs by credit card.
Raiding the kids’ school fees fund was an option, but not one either of us could entertain. The idea of our children paying for our divorce and their education suffering as a result was unthinkable.
“What a bloody mess we’ve made,” I said.
“I know, but there’s nothing to be achieved by beating ourselves up. We have to move on.”
“I guess … But what about the lawyers’ fees? Have you thought about that?”
“Selling the tank should raise a few grand,” Greg said.
“How’s that going? Any progress?”
“A few people have shown an interest.”
“But still no actual takers,” I said.
“Soph, you don’t seem to understand that I’m doing my best here.”
“And for your information, so am I.”
I told him that I was planning to let Klaudia go. Not that it was going to be easy. We all thought the world of her and she’d worked so hard to keep the kids’ spirits up after Greg left.
I explained that Debbie-from-down-the-road had offered to do the school run and watch the kids each evening until I got home. She said she owed me big-time, since Klaudia had spent months ferrying Ella and Jack to and from school after she’d slipped a disc. “Of course, I said she didn’t owe me a thing, but she insisted. It seems like too good an offer to turn down.”
I also mentioned that I was dispensing with Mrs. Fredericks’s twice-weekly cleaning services. She was always going on about how impossible it was to reach the dirt in my house because the place was so untidy and full of crap. There really didn’t seem much point in keeping her on. I’d just have to make time to clean the bathroom and kitchen, vacuum, dust, change the bed linen, do the laundry …
Greg seemed pathetically grateful, but I couldn’t conceal my bitterness.
“Though why the children and I should suffer so that you can shack up with your new girlfriend beats me.”
“Soph, stop it. It’s not like that. I’m not doing this to spite you, and like I just said, living with Roz works out much cheaper than paying rent on a flat. And I honestly don’t think she’s being unreasonable asking me to contribute towards the bills. We have to accept that splitting up costs money. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I guess. I’m sorry.”
I glanced at my watch and realized that Coffee Break was about to air. Missing the show was practically a capital offense. “Greg, I gotta go. I need to listen to the program. Don’t worry about the maintenance stuff. I’ll e-mail my lawyer and tell him to accept your offer.”
As soon as I put the phone down, I tried Wendy’s extension again. Still no reply. Nancy had told me that Shirley Tucker Dill was planning to watch the program go out. Maybe she’d taken Wendy with her.
I needed to get hold of Shirley before the daily postmort. I couldn’t risk her announcing my promotion in the meeting. I decided to try and collar her before it started.
The moment the program was over, I headed for the elevator, hoping to catch her. People came and went, but there was no sign of Shirley Tucker Dill. Then Tess emerged. Tess was our most junior producer and today, for only the second time, she had been put in charge of the show.
Despite being not long out of university, Tess was showing great promise and I knew that she would be eager to impress Shirley Tucker Dill. I hadn’t had the heart to warn her that her star feature on a women’s puppet theater collective was unlikely to find favor with our media change consultant. Judging by the taut expression on the poor girl’s face, Shirley Tucker Dill had already had words with her about it.
“So, what did she think of the program?” I said, knowing perfectly well what the answer would be.
“She pretty much hated everything—even the serial.”
Tess looked close to tears. Shirley Tucker Dill would be coming out of the lift at any moment and I didn’t want her to see Tess crying. I suggested we duck into the ladies’ for a minute.
“She called the show ‘boring’ and ‘worthy,’” Tess said, leaning against a sink. “And she gave me a right roasting over the puppet theater piece.” Tears started to roll down her cheeks.<
br />
I put my arm around her. “Tess, this isn’t your fault. You’re a talented producer and we all know how hard you work. This is about our new media change consultant having issues with the whole character and makeup of the show. As we suspected, she isn’t a fan. God only knows what changes she’s got in mind.”
By the time Tess and I got to the conference room, Shirley Tucker Dill was already there, seated at the head of the long table and chatting to a couple of other producers. I would get no chance to speak to her now. I decided that my only option was to let her announce her plans for the program. If they were as radical as we all expected, I would have no option but to tell her—in front of everybody else—that I couldn’t take the job after all.
It was a couple of minutes before we were all assembled. The tension was palpable. I suspected that today’s studio managers had already let it be known that Shirley Tucker Dill had been less than impressed by the program.
“Good morning again,” Shirley Tucker Dill said, with that same disarming smile. “This is of course my first postmortem, so I’d be grateful if you’d be gentle with me.”
There were a few nervous titters.
“To kick off, though, I’d like to make a few comments about today’s show.” She offered another smile before steepling her fingers and regarding us over her reading glasses. “To put it mildly, it left me seriously underwhelmed.”
People shuffled in their seats. Looks were exchanged. Tess looked ready to blub again.
“OK, I’m not going to sugarcoat the pill. As I’ve already told Tess, the feature on women’s puppet theater collectives was about as boring as a wet weekend in Wooroloo. The piece on Chinese women being forced to have abortions if they disobey the government’s one-child edict was just plain depressing. Ditto the feature on people sleeping on the streets in London. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t do depressing.”