by Sue Margolis
“Fantastic,” he said, sounding almost surprised, as if he’d pulled off a bit of a coup. I found myself thinking that maybe he was into me after all and that he was asking me out on a proper date.
“How do you feel about meeting early?” he continued.
“Sure,” I said, flattered by his fervor.
“I thought maybe you’d like to see the youth club. I’d really like to show you around and you can get some idea of the work we do.”
“The youth club? Oh—I mean, fine. Yep, that sounds good.” Suddenly, this wasn’t sounding so much like a date as a field trip.
“Might be best if you don’t bring your car,” Huck said. “Wheels have a habit of going walkabout over at Princess Margaret, particularly after dark.”
It occurred to me to call Greg and ask if I could borrow Tanky for the evening.
“If you take the bus, you can text me when you’re almost there and I’ll meet you at the stop.”
Since we were meeting after dark, I wasn’t about to protest at his gallantry.
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
I wished that Annie and Gail were here listening to our conversation. I wanted to say: “OK, wise guys, I’ve just been invited to take the bus to the youth club at the Princess Margaret projects, one of the most violent and notorious housing projects in London. Does that sound to you like he’s asking me on a date?”
“The thing is,” Huck went on, “and I know this is a bit of a cheek, but I’d like to pick your brains. You see, the charity that runs the club—it actually runs dozens nationwide—is monumentally strapped for cash. We get some lottery money and a small amount of government funding, but it goes nowhere. What we need is media coverage. That way, we can really raise awareness. It’s important people know how bad things are for the kids growing up in hellholes like Princess Margaret. I was hoping you might have some advice on how to go about it.”
“Absolutely. You give me the tour and afterwards we can have a bit of a brainstorm.”
“Afterwards,” he said, “I thought we could go for dinner at Chez Max.”
“Chez Max? As in Chez Max on Putney High Street?”
“Yes. Why? Is that not a good idea?”
“No. I mean yes. Chez Max is a great idea.”
Chez Max was a small, intimate bistro where couples cozied up by candlelight, giggled over the pinot grig and licked each other’s dessert spoons. In short, dining à deux at Chez Max was a semivertical expression of a horizontal desire. So Huck was asking me out on a date date after all.
“Actually, I’ve never been there,” he said.
Ah. “You haven’t?”
“No, but people tell me the food’s great. And it’s really quiet apparently, so we’ll be able to have a proper talk without being disturbed.”
So there would be no mutual spoon licking. My only consolation was that I had won my bet with Annie about whether or not Huck was into me and she now owed me a fiver.
• • •
Two days later I was back at work, along with the rest of the Coffee Break staff. The program had been pretty much off the air over Christmas and New Year’s. The couple of shows that were broadcast had been prerecorded before the holidays and were still in the old format. As usual, they were a bit ponderous and dry, but I was still convinced that the only thing the program needed by way of improvement was a few creative tweaks here and there. Even though STD had made it clear she wasn’t about to make a U-turn, I couldn’t give up. It was almost two months to the program relaunch. There was still time to change her mind.
To that end, I’d spent a fair amount of time over the break working on a new look for Coffee Break, which I hoped—naively perhaps—would satisfy STD’s need to make the program more popular and populist, without turning it into tabloid trash. I e-mailed my ideas to the other producers, who added some of their own, but at the same time they echoed my thoughts about being naive. The general view seemed to be that I was whistling in the wind.
I’d been at my desk a couple of minutes when Nancy popped her head around the door to wish me a happy new year.
“Not that anybody here has got much to look forward to,” she added. “Your proposals are excellent—I take my hat off to you, Sophie—but we all know STD won’t go for them in a million years. It’s just a matter of time before I’m out of a job.”
I begged her not to give up.
“I’m doing my best, but everything feels so damned awful right now.”
“What about the sex therapy? How’s that going?”
“Not great. I had such high hopes when we started, but Brian still finds it embarrassing to talk about my vulva, which in turn isn’t improving my genital self-image. Virginia suggested I have a clay replica made of it, which I could hang in the bedroom and Brian and I could take a few minutes to admire it each day. But to be quite honest, I’m not sure I fancy letting some potter fill my vagina with plaster of paris. Anyway, Brian’s homework for last week was to find a non-anxiety-inducing name for it, which Virginia thought might make things a bit easier. And do you know what he came up with?”
“What?”
“Becks, because it reminds him of beer.”
Before my face had a chance to break into a smile, the phone rang. It was STD summoning me to her office for a “quick chin-wag.”
“Sorry, Nancy,” I said. “Gotta go.” I picked up the folder containing my program proposals. “I know STD’s going to be a difficult nut to crack, but I’ve got some really good ideas here. With a bit of luck, I might just pull it off.”
“If you ask me,” Nancy said, “you’re going to need a damn sight more than a bit.”
• • •
I could hear STD well before I reached her office.
“OK, now I am madder than a Baptist in a brothel. Where the hell are those quarterly expenses figures? Wendy, will you get in here?”
I tapped on STD’s door. “If it’s a bad time, I can come back.”
“No, come in, Soph. Come in. I need to talk to you. Happy new year, by the way.” STD was standing in the doorway that linked her office with Wendy’s. “Where is she? Here I am, busier than a one-armed cabdriver with crabs, and she’s done a runner.”
“And a happy new year to you, too. Look, I’m sure Wendy’s only popped to the loo.”
“Well, I wish she wouldn’t do it on my time … Right, sit your body down.” I took a seat on the other side of STD’s paper-strewn desk.
“So,” she said, lowering herself into her leather swivel chair. “Where are we at? I’m assuming that programming-wise everything’s in a go situation for the big day?”
“I’d like to think so.” I handed her the folder. “This is an outline of ways I think we can revamp the show. As you can see, I’ve proposed that we ax the serial. I’ve acknowledged that the program badly needs more humorous, offbeat items. More important, we need to be catering to a younger audience and less caught up with stodgy items on gardening and natural history. But at the same time I want to see us continue to discuss important social and political issues. I want us to carry on campaigning. Over the years, we’ve affected government policy, which has in turn changed people’s lives. We can’t give up on that.”
STD looked less than pleased. “But I’ve told you precisely what needs to done. I thought I’d made myself very clear.”
“You did, but if you could just take a look … You’ll see that at the back I’ve designed a sample program, which I think just about hits the right balance.”
She moved her specs from her head to her nose and began sifting through the pages. “Right. So what do we have here? … Women talking about postpartum depression? A feature on raising autistic children? A studio discussion on women’s pay? What’s going on here, Soph? This isn’t the brief I gave you and you know it.”
“But if you’ll look you’ll see it’s got much more popular appeal. I’ve suggested we find a couple of producers who used to work on Britain’s Got Talent to give candid in
terviews about what goes on behind the scenes. We could invite Alia Hashim onto the show—she’s this Muslim stand-up who performs in the hijab. She’s the hottest new thing on the comedy circuit, and caused a sensation at the Edinburgh Fringe. She does all these gags about how her parents are panicking because she’s twenty-two and not married and how she feels like an out-of-date milk carton.”
STD looked like she was going to bust her girdle.
I decided to press on. “I’ve also suggested an interview with Leonard Cohen, who’s going to be in town in the spring. He’s doing a tour and promoting a new album. Once we’ve talked about his music, I thought we could try to get him talking about how it feels to still be a sex symbol at almost eighty.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” STD removed her specs. “I told you what I wanted and you have purposely defied me. Where are the human interest stories? ‘I stole my sister’s husband’ … ‘He tried to kill me on my first date’ … ‘I spend thirty grand a year on my nine-year-old’s clothes, but she’s not spoiled’ … Where are the soap stars talking about how they came back from the brink?”
“We can’t do it.”
“What do you mean, you can’t do it?”
“I mean that nobody who works on the show has the heart to see it destroyed and turned into tabloid trash.”
STD leaned forward. “Sophie, read my lips. Coffee Break is hemorrhaging listeners. This is the only way forward.”
I wasn’t about to be intimidated. “No, it’s not.”
“You’re questioning my judgment?”
“Yes, I am. Look, we all know that the show needs a revamp. All I’m asking is that you put your faith in me, along with my producers and reporters, and let us make the changes we know will work and bring in more listeners. If we fail, we’ll think again about your proposals.”
“A few months?”
“Six, tops.”
“You want me to risk God knows how much money … on a punt?”
“It’s more than a punt. I’m pretty sure it’s going to work.”
“I don’t make decisions based on ‘pretty sure.’ My plans for this program have been tried and tested all over the world. They are a dead cert.”
“So you won’t even discuss some kind of a compromise that works for all of us and most importantly the listeners.”
“There will be no compromise.”
“Come on, Shirley. I beg you not to dig in your heels like this.”
STD leaned back in her chair. “I’ve said my piece.”
“And that’s your final word.”
“It is. And from now on, I expect everybody on the team to fall in and start toeing the line. Do I make myself clear?”
I stood up. “Crystal.”
“Don’t let me down, Soph, or you may have to reassess your position here at GLB.”
• • •
I was upset and angry—not to mention scared to death of losing my job—but I wasn’t surprised by STD’s reaction. I headed straight to Des’s office.
“Don’t panic,” he said when I’d told him what had happened at the meeting. “She’s just sounding off and trying to intimidate you.”
“Well, she certainly succeeded.”
“She knows you’re good at your job and that the staff respects you. That’s why she promoted you. She needs you.”
“I’m not so sure. The way I see it, there is no way STD is going to change her mind. I was mad to think she would. She didn’t say as much, but if you ask me she’s gunning for a confrontation.”
“And if she is, we’ll be ready for her.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the workers control the means of production.”
“You’re suggesting we go on strike?”
“Possibly, if it comes to that.”
“And you really think people are going to support a walkout? Des, nobody’s had a pay raise in two years. People have got kids and mortgages. There isn’t a single person who could afford to go on strike.”
• • •
The bus pulled up at the stop. Huck was waiting for me, looking seriously hot in his beanie hat and stubble, his coat collar turned up against the wind.
We greeted each other with double kisses. He smelled of the cold.
“I really do appreciate you coming,” he said. “I realize it’s a hell of an ask dragging you out here, particularly after dark.”
I smiled. “Should I have brought Mace?”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Most people here know me.” I was aware of him looking at me. “You OK? You seem—I dunno—a bit anxious. Nothing is going to happen to you. Honest.”
I was anxious, but not about walking through the Princess Margaret projects. “Sorry, it’s not fear you see—it’s worry. I had no idea it was so obvious. It’s work. There’s a possibility we could be going on strike.”
“From what you told me the other day when we met, it sounds like it could be your only option if you want to save the show.”
“That’s what our union rep thinks. The thing is, if we walk out, I’ve got no idea how I’ll make ends meet.”
“Talk to the mothers who live here. They’ll tell you all you need to know about making ends meet.” He stopped. “Sorry. That was insensitive. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t know the first thing about being hard up. And the truth is that if we do go on strike and it gets to the point where I can’t manage, I have family who will rally around. My ex has family. I’ll always be able to put food on the table.”
“Well, if you need it,” he said, “I’ve got this great cookbook that I bought when I was a student. It’s called A Hundred Ways with Mince. I’d be more than happy to lend it to you.”
I said I would bear it in mind.
We started walking. I took in the smashed paving stones, the graffiti, the bits of litter and tinfoil stained with crack being carried in the wind like autumn leaves.
“Welcome to your local neighborhood ghetto,” Huck said. “First I would like you to note, if you will, the concrete landscape raw with suffering and social deprivation.”
“Believe me, I’m noting.”
“To our right you will see the general store with its barricaded windows. To our left, the church surrounded by razor wire.”
In the distance a child’s voice was crying out from one of the apartment block landings: “Mum, Dad … it’s cold out here. Let me in … Come on, you smackheads. I know what you’re doing in there.”
“The secret is to keep looking up,” Huck said.
I frowned a question.
“You always have to be on the lookout for kids throwing supermarket trollies off the roof. Then there are the ones who blow up cars with firecrackers or slash tires with knives right in front of the neighbors, in broad daylight. People are too scared to call the police for fear of retribution, so the kids don’t even bother to run away anymore.”
“Do you mind telling me how people manage to stay sane in all this?” I said.
“A great many don’t.”
I noticed a group of boys—fat trainers, hoods, jeans slung so low that the crotches practically came level with their knees. They were hanging around one of the stairwells. Two of them noticed us, broke away from their mates and came loping across.
“You know these boys?”
Huck nodded.
“Safe, man,” one of them said, knuckle-pounding Huck. “So what’s happenin’, blud?”
“I’m good. So you two coming to the youth center? It’s Saturday night.” He paused for dramatic effect. “We’ve got hot dogs.”
The boys started laughing. “Hot dogs? Nah. We gonna get pot.”
“OK, well, maybe I’ll see you later.”
“For real.”
The pair ambled off.
“I guess hot dogs can’t compete with weed,” Huck said.
Just then the smaller of the two stopped and looked back. “She chug, man.”<
br />
“Thanks,” Huck called out. “I’ll tell her.”
“What?” I said.
“He said you’re very attractive.”
I colored up. “Really? Aw, that’s sweet.”
“They’re not all bad kids,” Huck said. “The problem is that nobody’s offering them a future. Instead they’re caught up in a tide of drugs and hopelessness.”
“Meet the underclass,” I said.
“You got it. Some of them are third-generation drug addicts. They’ve had nobody to parent them. They don’t know what it’s like to live in a home where people go out to work. All they’ve ever known is violence and squalor. Is it any wonder they’re practically feral?”
I guessed not.
• • •
The youth club was a graffiti-covered concrete box with a flat asphalt roof that was riding up, and presumably letting in the wind and rain. The window frames were rotten and peeling. The windows themselves were covered in a lattice security screen. This was badly bent—evidence that attempts had been made to break in.
“Well, this is it,” Huck said, standing aside to let me in.
The first thing I noticed was the temperature. The place was freezing.
“Heating’s on the blink again,” Huck said, reading my mind. “The furnace needs replacing, but of course there’s no money.”
I stood looking around. The walls were bare. Seating came in the form of plastic public-institution-style stacking chairs. Most of these were covered in gum and cigarette burns. There were two Ping-Pong tables, both without nets, a giant TV blaring in one corner.
There were maybe twenty kids in tonight. The mood was lackadaisical. They were mostly watching TV. A couple of lads were shooting hoops. Two white girls, each with half a head of cornrows, were attempting to play Ping-Pong on one of the netless tables, but nobody knew how to keep score and they were starting to argue. Suddenly everything kicked off and one of the young youth workers had to intervene and restore order.
“You get the picture,” Huck said. “Tempers are constantly on a knife edge. It takes nothing to get these kids raising their fists or pulling a blade.”