by Sue Margolis
‘But I’ve been working on it,’ she said, her tone pleading now. ‘You know I have. I’ve got this stonking old bats’ story that’s almost ready to go. It’s just that Wicca’s World has been taking up so much of my time.’
Of course this was a lie. Although her enthusiasm for the Wicca’s World series was considerable, the only thing which had been taking up all her time over the last few months was her love affair with Fallopia.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for excuses, my dear. You have been given numerous chances to make a fresh start here at Channel 6. But you have simply refused to knuckle down and toe the line. Now you’ve finally shot your bolt and it’s time for a parting of the ways. I’m afraid we shall not be renewing your contract in May. As a gesture of goodwill, however, we are prepared to let you finish making Wicca’s World.’
She slumped into her chair. Not only had she failed to pull off the million-pound cook-in sauce deal, but there wasn’t even the remotest chance of her finding a new job while the media continued to be gripped by the Real People Initiative frenzy. Eric Rowe wasn’t simply ending her contract, he was putting an end to her entire career. It was over, finished, kaput. The sudden realization cut through her as surely as any knife.
‘Please, Eric. Please don’t do this to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ll do anything you want. If it’s sponsored London-to-Brighton supermarket trolley races, you shall have them. Stories about petrol prices and noise from ghetto-blasters: I’ll get Plum on the case right now. From now on I’ll hand in all my cherry Genoa chitties, I promise. But please, please don’t sack me. I’m begging you, Eric. I need this job. All my life all I’ve ever wanted is to be rich and successful. You can’t simply destroy me like this. You just can’t.’
‘As I said, Naomi, you had your chances, but you blew them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to get to.’ He stood up to go.
Before Naomi could stop herself she had ingested her pride in one go, leapt out of her chair and was sitting on the floor, gripping Eric Rowe by his leg.
‘Please, Eric,’ she begged, hysterical now. ‘Just give me one more chance. I promise I won’t let you down.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He did his best to pull her off his leg, but she refused to budge. Even as he dragged himself to his office door she was still holding on for grim death.
‘Please, Eric. Please. I think I’m going to be sick.’
They continued like this, her pleading and pretending to retch, him struggling to get her off him, for several yards down the corridor. It was only when two Channel 6 security guards happened to pass by and see the commotion that she was finally dragged off.
***
‘Plum, Bacon Bastard. Now,’ she yelled as she stormed into her office. Having sat in the Ladies’ for twenty minutes, her panic and desperation had subsided. In their place had come wild fury with Eric, her sister, Tom, Tony Blair and the RPI, the cook-in sauce people - everybody except herself.
It was a moment before she realized that Plum was sitting with his feet up on her desk, coughing his heart out as he tried to smoke a huge Cuban cigar.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she roared. ‘Get your bloody feet off my desk. Put that thing out and go to the canteen.’
‘Sorry, Nay-ohmi,’ he spluttered, spraying her with gobbets of cigar-infused spittle. ‘No can do.’
She stopped in her tracks.
‘Oh, I get it,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve heard about me being fired, haven’t you, and this is some kind of celebration. No doubt the moment I’m out of the door, the corridors will be one long conga line.’
‘Well, it is a celebration, Nay-ohmi, but it’s not about you getting the sack... it’s more that I’ve been promoted, really. Eric says that because you’ve worked me so hard over the years - you know, getting me to find all those groped virgins and whatnot - that I deserve a reward. When they find a new presenter to replace you, I’m going to be her producer. He also said I could take over your office with immediate effect. I think that means now, doesn’t it, Nay-ohmi?’
She let out a high-pitched squawk, picked up a container full of biros from the desk and threw them at the door.
Plum didn’t move. His feet still on the desk, he said, ‘Tell you what, Nay-ohmi, I could really murder a Bacon Bastard too.’
‘Oh, really?’ she said sarcastically.
‘Yeah, but don’t put any mustard on mine. I prefer brown sauce. Preferably HP. Now then, I like it spread on the bread, not the bacon. Goes nice and soggy that way. Oh, and with it I’d like a large English Breakfast tea. Bring me lemon and milk and then I can choose how I want it. And perhaps I’ll have a packet of prawn cocktail Monster Munch and a couple of mint Wagon Wheels for later.’
At that moment the phone rang.
‘Take that, would you, Nay-ohmi, there’s a dear?’ he said imperiously, waving his cigar in the air.
Naomi stormed over to the phone and snatched the receiver.
‘Naomi Gold,’ she barked. There was silence for a second while the caller identified and explained himself.
‘Sorry, Sergeant Catsick... oh, all right then, Capstick... You’ll have to run that by me again: My mother’s where?’
***
Beverley had spent an hour trying to persuade her mother and her cronies to come off the roof, but they made it clear that they would only come down when the media - preferably in the shape of Naomi and a film crew - turned up. In the end Beverley realized there was nothing for it but to stand there and prepare for a long wait. It could take hours, Beverley thought, for Naomi to gather up a crew and fight through the traffic.
Finally, just after one, the door which led to the staircase burst open. Standing in the doorway, swaying and gripping the handle for support, was Naomi.
When she finally put one Bruno Magli in front of the other she didn’t so much walk as lurch on to the roof. Beverley assumed her sister was suffering an acute attack of height-induced dizziness as she watched her take a few wobbly steps on her four-inch heels. She’d moved less than a yard before she lost her balance completely, tripped over a handbag somebody had left lying on the asphalt and fell flat on her face. Beverley dashed over to help her.
‘’S’OK,’ Naomi shouted to Beverley, as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and let out two loud hiccoughs. ‘Stay where you are. I didn’t feel a thing.’
Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out a half-bottle of Absolut, unscrewed the top and brought it to her lips. She was wearing the same red suit she’d had on the day they had lunch at the Morgue, only now the front was covered in dirt from the roof. Her black tights had a huge hole in one knee.
‘You’re pissed,’ Beverley said, stating the gobsmackingly obvious.
‘You’re not wrong, Bev. You’re not wrong,’ Naomi slurred. ‘But at least I’m not an unlisted dress size.’ She prodded Beverley’s barely visible bump through her long denim shirt and roared with drunken laughter.
‘In case you’d forgotten, I’m five months pregnant,’ Beverley said acidly.
‘Oh yeah... so you are, Bev. So you are.’ Once again Naomi put the vodka bottle to her lips and threw back her head.
‘’Course,’ she said, shaking a finger at her sister, ‘up the spout’s what you have to be these days if you want to get up the ladder.’
Beverley looked down. Naomi was weeping snail trails of black mascara.
‘What are you going on about?’ Beverley said, her tone a mixture of weariness and impatience.
‘I reckoned I was being so bloody clever,’ Naomi said, waving the Absolut bottle in the air, ‘persuading you to get pregnant instead of me. I thought if I got up the duff, Channel 6 would refuse to renew my contract. And guess what...’
‘What?’
‘The fucking bastards still refused to renew it.’ She gave a loud, bitter laugh. ‘An’ jew know why, Bev, jew know why? I’ll tell you fucking why...’ She paused to hiccough. ‘They refused to renew my contract because... ge
t this... because I wasn’t pregnant. Talk about fucking irony.’ She took another swig of vodka and laughed again.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ Beverley said. ‘Nobody gets the sack for not being pregnant.’
‘Oh yes they do... when that pointless, feebleminded yokel Eric Rowe decides pregnant presenters are the way forward because of the wholesome image they project. Can you believe it? The whole bloody country adores me... but that’s not good enough for that sheep-shagging bumpkin.’
Beverley was in the middle of processing this not inconsiderable weight of information when she heard banging, crashing and shouting coming from the doorway.
‘OK... let go... I’ve got it.’ A young lad in a baggy T-shirt and flares standing just outside the door was bent over a huge stainless-steel box which he was dragging towards himself.
‘Right,’ he shouted down the stairs. ‘Now the mike.’
A moment later he had taken hold of a long pole with a large fluffy microphone on the end. As he laid it gently on the floor by the box, three more people appeared. Two of them were men. One had a Sony Betacam TV camera on one shoulder. The other was carrying a Nagra tape recorder. A woman in combats and trainers was carrying a clipboard and a mobile phone. Strung round her neck was a stopwatch.
‘Film crew, great,’ Beverley said. ‘Once you’ve got the old people’s story they’ll come down off the roof. So how long do you reckon it’ll take to set up and get going?’
No answer.
Beverley looked down. Naomi was lying on the roof floor as if it were a bed, her legs drawn up to her chest, clutching the Absolut bottle. Her eyes were closed. Beverley tapped her cheeks.
‘For Christ’s sake, wake up, Naomi. You’ve got a bloody report to do.’
‘I’m finished, Bev. Finished,’ she mumbled, almost incoherent now.
Beverley sat herself on the ground and cradled her sister’s head.
‘No you’re not,’ she soothed. ‘No you’re not.’
Lying there sobbing, an overgrown foetus in grubby Armani, Naomi had never looked so sad and pathetic. Beverley couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
‘Oh, God... I thought this was going to happen. She was already pretty slaughtered when we got in the car.’
Beverley looked up. The woman with the clipboard, whom Beverley took to be Naomi’s producer, was standing beside her. She held out her hand and helped Beverley to her feet.
‘The day centre story’s been hanging over for ages,’ the producer went on, ‘but Naomi never got round to doing it - even though she knew Eric was insisting on her coming up with a story about the elderly. I think she ignored it partly to spite him. Anyway, when she found out what was going on here, she rounded us up in a last-ditch attempt to do the story, win Eric over and save her career.’
They both looked down at Naomi, who had started to snore loudly.
‘Some hopes,’ Beverley said.
***
At Beverley’s suggestion, the producer, whose name was Harmony, phoned Fallopia and asked her to come and fetch Naomi. She’d just come off the phone and was in the middle of telling the crew not to bother unpacking their equipment when she noticed the GEVULT members standing at the edge of the roof.
‘What do we want?’ Lenny was shouting through a megaphone.
‘The bastards out,’ the old people roared.
‘When do we want it?’
‘Now. Now. Now.’
Harmony broke into a broad smile.
‘Wow. Look at those codgers go,’ she chuckled. ‘This story is far too good to give up on. I mean, even if there isn’t going to be another series of Naomi!, I’m sure I could sell it somewhere else at Channel 6.’
‘So where’s Naomi?’
Harmony and Beverley turned round to see Queenie, who had spotted the film crew and come limping over, bursting with excitement.
‘Has she gone off to do her hair and make-up?’
As the final word left her mouth she saw Naomi lying on the ground.
‘My God, what’s happened?’ she said, her voice full of panic. ‘Is she ill? Somebody should get a doctor. For heaven’s sake, shout down to one of the ambulancemen.’
‘Mum, don’t panic,’ Beverley said. ‘She’ll be OK. She’s been drinking. She’s passed out, that’s all.’
‘Drunk?’ Queenie exclaimed. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll explain later.’
‘So who’s going to cover the story?’ Queenie said anxiously. ‘What about our publicity?’ She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.
Harmony, on the other hand, was staring at Beverley’s stomach.
‘Can I help you?’ Beverley inquired.
‘Oh, sorry. Now I’m really embarrassed. It’s just that I was trying to work out if you were pregnant...’
‘Or fat?’
Harmony went red and nodded.
‘It’s OK,’ Beverley said. ‘I’m pregnant - just not very, that’s all.’
‘God, that’s great,’ Harmony said. ‘Look, this may sound daft...’
‘What?’ Beverley asked.
‘Well, I was just thinking that since this is such a brilliant story, since your mother and her friends are so desperate for the publicity and since you are pregnant and therefore fulfil all Eric Rowe’s criteria for a presenter, why don’t you try your hand at doing the interviews? It would take no more than five minutes. You just vox-pop the old folk, ask them what’s been going on at the day centre and what they’re trying to achieve by protesting, finish with a short piece to camera and Bob’s your...’
‘Me? Interviewing? Yeah, right,’ Beverley laughed dismissively.
‘No. I mean it,’ Harmony said. ‘Look, nobody at Channel 6 even knows we’re here doing the story. If you make a hash of it, there’s no harm done. Go on. Have a go.’
‘Ooh, Bev... why don’t you?’ Queenie urged. ‘Look, what have you got to lose? And think, if you pull it off you’ll be getting us the publicity we need, and saving my reputation.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Beverley laughed. ‘It’s an absurd suggestion. I couldn’t possibly get up in front of a camera. Naomi never stops telling me how inarticulate I am. I’ll go all to pieces. It’s out of the question...’
‘If you do it,’ Queenie said, ‘we’ll come down. I promise.’
Beverley stood considering her mother’s proposal.
‘You would? You’d persuade everybody to leave the roof?’
‘Yep.’
Beverley contemplated for a few more seconds.
‘No, it’s crazy,’ she said finally. Her tone was adamant. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll clam up. I won’t be able to put one sentence in front of another. I’ll be useless. Naomi’s the egomaniac, not me. And look at what I’m wearing - baggy trousers and a bloke’s denim shirt. My hair’s all over the place. I can’t do it...’
Harmony bent down over one of the metal equipment boxes and took out a can of hairspray and a huge make-up bag.
‘Please?’ she pleaded.
***
Five minutes later, her hair brushed and heavily lacquered, to say nothing of Queenie’s quilted coat shoved up inside her denim shirt to make her pregnancy look more obvious, Beverley stood blinking in front of the camera, the blood pounding in her ears.
Chapter 24
‘...And so we come to the end of a story which I think you will all agree is quite remarkable. These elderly rebels, this proud band of Grey Panthers standing beside me today, have, over the last seven months, fought a ferocious, passionate and above all top-secret battle. It required courage, fortitude and grim determination. As we have heard, there were times when the struggle became almost too much to bear. There were days when they felt cowed and disheartened. But the word “defeat” had no place in their vocabulary. Theirs was a cause which had to be fought for and won. Let GEVULT be an inspiration to us all. This is Beverley Littlestone for Channel 6, at the Sidney and Bessie Hamburger Jewish Day Centre in Temple Fortune, north London.’
‘And cut,’ the producer shouted.
At the cameraman lowered the Betacam and the sound man took off his headphones and nodded enthusiastically, the old people burst into spontaneous applause. Beverley stood in front of them, still shaking with nerves.
‘Beverley... my Beverley,’ Queenie cried, coming up to hug her daughter. ‘I can’t believe it. I never knew you had it in you. You’re a star, darling. An absolute star.’ Beverley looked at her mother. Queenie had tears in her eyes.
‘She’s right, Beverley,’ Harmony said, putting her stopwatch back in her pocket. ‘That was an incredibly professional piece to camera. You’ll have the whole country weeping buckets when this goes out.’
Beverley looked at her, stunned.
‘You mean I was actually good?’ she said. ‘You’re not just saying that to be polite?’
‘Believe me, Beverley, you were great. Your interviews with the old people were superb. You were gentle with them, but you still managed to get the facts. It’s hard to believe you’ve never done any television. I tell you, I can’t wait for Eric to see this.’
‘You think he’ll be pleased, then?’
‘Pleased? Believe me, he’ll be knocked out. You’re pregnant, articulate and pretty - everything he’s looking for in a new presenter. If I were you I’d stay close to the phone for the next couple of days.’
***
While Harmony and the crew started packing up, Beverley walked to the far end of the roof. Her board of lacquered hair flapping in the wind, she stood gazing out across the rooftops, blushing with pride. So, the useless, inarticulate fat matzo pudding wasn’t so useless after all. Of course Tom had been telling her for ages that all that stood between her and a successful career was confidence, but she’d always laughed at him. He loved her. Or did before she dumped him. What else would he say? But Harmony didn’t even know her. She had no agenda, no reason to flatter her. Beverley smiled. She realized how, over the last weeks and months, her self-esteem and confidence had grown. It had begun when she made the decision to have the affair with Tom and culminated in her finally being able to stand up to Naomi. Although she was too modest to admit it to anybody else, deep down she wasn’t surprised she’d found the courage to perform in front of the cameras.