Behind Her Back

by Jane Lythell

  I wished that Simon had kept his counsel on that. I always made a point of filtering what was said in the morning meetings. ‘I need you to collate the comments into a single document, please. I plan to send them to Julius and to Lori Kerwell.’

  ‘Will do. I’d like to do a follow-up story with Beydaan. She’s had to leave home, you know, and she’s getting support from social services and an activist group. We don’t know for sure that her sister will be spared.’

  ‘Maybe in September, Moll. We need a light touch to the features in August: holiday fashion, summer food, good books for the beach, that kind of thing.’

  We spent the next forty minutes going through ideas for feature items. As they left my room, Harriet hovered by the door.

  ‘That Lori Kerwell came to see me,’ she said.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Middle of last week. She said fashion is a great area for marketing tie-ins and she wants me to introduce her to Guy. Should I set that up?’

  Guy Browne is our fashion expert and he’s been doing a weekly slot for us for the last six months.

  ‘We have to keep a clear line between editorial and advertising,’ I said.

  ‘I remembered you said that.’

  ‘If she wants to do tie-ins we need to keep control of it.’

  Harriet had found Guy for us and was protective of him and proud of the slot.

  ‘You know the fashion houses are beginning to trust us.’ She said it almost sadly. Harriet has hooded eyelids and I find it hard to read her face.

  ‘What’s worrying you about this?’

  ‘She’s pushy. She’s mentioned it twice already and I’m worried she’ll put pressure on Guy.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And want to go downmarket. I didn’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘Set up a meeting with the three of us. We need to agree some ground rules on how any fashion tie-ins will work. Don’t let her speak to Guy until we’ve got clarity on that,’ I said.

  I stood at my window and looked at the scene below. Londoners had ventured into shorts and summer dresses and sandals but somehow they lacked the style of the people Flo and I had seen at Bordighera. Most evenings we had sat on the terrace of our small hotel and indulged in people-watching and then we would stroll down to the family gelateria to buy ice cream. I loved the fact that young Italians would have an ice cream cone rather than a pint of lager as their evening treat. But I was back in London now and needed to get my head back into work mode.

  I thought about Guy Browne and how we might use him. When he did his screen test for us last year he had been wickedly witty about fashion disasters at the Oscars. He had made us laugh, but at heart Guy was a serious man, certainly serious about fashion. Harriet told me he had wanted to be a designer but for now his work was as a writer and a critic. There was something of the ascetic about Guy. He would arrive at StoryWorld on his racing bike and change before he went on air. He favoured asymmetric cuts and neutral palettes. One week, when he had done a fashion makeover with a member of the public, I thought his choice of outfit for her was verging on the extreme. It was very stark and hadn’t really worked. You would need to be a true believer in the High Art of Fashion to carry it off. But Fizzy has adored Guy from the beginning. She said he was so New York and cutting edge and that she was delighted at last to have someone in the StoryWorld line-up who pushed at the boundaries.

  Molly came in. She had collated the comments on her FGM story and I read these through with satisfaction. I attached them to an email addressed to Julius and copied to Lori Kerwell and wrote:

  Please see attached all the comments we received on the FGM story. A positive response. I do think we underestimate our viewers at our peril. Liz

  I deleted the third sentence. It sounded pompous. Lori Kerwell had been appointed by Saul Relph, and there was no point in getting into a fight with her.

  I put in a call to Fizzy’s home and Loida, her housekeeper, answered. She told me that Fizzy was having a nap. I heard a baby start to grizzle close by.

  ‘Hush, angel.’ She was picking up the baby. ‘Call in two hours,’ she said.

  In my lunch hour I went food shopping at a street market near London Bridge station. It’s a cheerful noisy place and over the years the stalls have become more international and foodie and you can get every kind of ingredient there now. I bought a slab of parmesan cheese, fresh pasta, onions, two fat white garlic bulbs and a bag of courgettes. I was going to try to recreate a fantastic courgette sauce that Flo and I had eaten one night in Bordighera. There’s a greasy spoon café tucked behind the fruit and veg stalls and I was surprised to see Lori Kerwell sitting at one of the tables. I stopped and peered through the window which was misted with condensation. She had a plate of egg and chips and was reading a tabloid newspaper spread out on the table in front of her. She didn’t see me.

  I got through to Fizzy at three o’clock and suggested I visit her. I kept my voice warm but still half expected her to rebuff me.

  ‘Are you up for a visit? It would be so lovely to see you and Zachary.’

  ‘God, I’ve been in purdah for weeks. I need to talk about something other than feed times and sleep cycles and the colour of his poo.’

  ‘Happy to oblige. I’m just back from holiday in Italy.’

  ‘Lucky you. Come for tea on Wednesday and meet Zac,’ she said.

  As I was leaving for the day, Harriet stopped me.

  ‘Lori Kerwell says can we meet tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s so soon.’

  ‘I told you she was pushy.’

  ‘OK, put it on the calendar for noon.’

  It was clear that Lori Kerwell was a woman in a hurry.

  Chalk Farm flat, 7.30 p.m.

  I’ve made a new arrangement with Janis, a local woman and now a friend, who has been looking after Flo since she was seven years old. I’ve always hated the idea of Flo coming home from school to an empty flat. And during the school holidays I can’t leave her on her own for the whole day. But now that Flo is fifteen we needed a new deal. We’ve agreed that Janis will come round at five-thirty, make Flo her supper and stay till seven-thirty. If I’m honest, this is more to reassure me than anything else.

  Flo was in her room Skypeing with her dad, Ben, my ex. Most evenings I cook something for myself as a way to relax. I had a go at making the courgette sauce and Flo joined me in the kitchen as I was draining the spaghetti.

  ‘Do you fancy some of this?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She sat at the table with me.

  ‘We need to fix a week for you to stay in Portsmouth,’ I said.

  Ben’s parents live in Portsmouth and are active grandparents. I depend on them a lot and they have offered to have Flo stay with them for a week. She still had nearly four weeks of holiday left so this was very welcome. My mum lives in Glasgow and sees far less of Flo and me, which I regret.

  ‘Granddad said this time we can go out in a rowing boat,’ she said.

  ‘That will be fun.’

  She watched me piling pasta onto my plate and adding the sauce.

  ‘Maybe I’ll try a bit.’

  Flo spooned three heaped teaspoons of parmesan on to her portion and we ate the spaghetti. I love to see her eat. It was tasty but my sauce did not reach the heights of the one we’d had in Italy. I will make it again and get better at it.

  I went into my bedroom and booted up my laptop. I couldn’t stop myself looking up Todd’s new girlfriend on Facebook. Todd and I had been lovers for about two years but he’d had to return to Sydney last autumn when his father was diagnosed with cancer. His father died in February and Todd said he would have to stay in Sydney for a few months to support his mum. His emails had become less frequent and less communicative and in May he wrote to say that he had taken up with a woman he first dated when he was in high school. He told me her name. She is always posting up photos of her and Todd doing fun coupley things with annoying captions like Happy with my new man. I l
ive in terror that one day I might accidentally ‘Like’ one of her posts and reveal myself as a stalker. I sat up and thought about what I was doing and was ashamed of myself. I shut down my laptop and made a resolution; I was not going to look at her account any more. Todd and I were over, had been for months. I was a single woman again.

  3

  StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

  Lori Kerwell arrived at my office at noon on the dot and I asked if she’d like anything from the Hub.

  ‘I’ve got a drink with me.’

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  I asked Ziggy to get me a coffee. Lori took out a can of Red Bull from her bag although she was already fizzing with energy. She pulled out her laptop, which was in a neon pink metallic case, and booted it up.

  ‘I’ve prepared a PowerPoint, done an analysis of the brands our viewers favour. Shall I start?’ she said.

  ‘Some background first,’ I said. ‘This is a fairly new slot and Harriet has been working hard to get fashion houses on board. We’re at the reputation-building phase and need to agree some ground rules around any marketing tie-ins.’

  ‘Guy’s slot is good. I’ve watched the last three months’ worth, but it’s not what our viewers are wearing, as I will show you,’ Lori said.

  ‘Perhaps not, but the point of Guy’s slot is to be aspirational. He brings glamour into the show. Viewers love to see what celebrities wear, to see gowns that cost the price of a car,’ I said.

  ‘But he does high street sometimes. I can recall at least three slots,’ she said.

  ‘It’s nearly always to show how you can create designer looks from high street shops,’ Harriet interjected.

  ‘And we’re keen to keep an exclusive feel,’ I said.

  Lori was looking at me, knowing we were engaged in a negotiation; I was struck again by her dark eyes which gave nothing away.

  ‘That’s the area I will focus on, those high street brands with aspiration. Let me show you what I’ve learned from our viewers.’

  ‘You need to know that Guy can’t be closely identified with any one brand. He has to be free to be critical to maintain his credibility. We agreed this when we took him on, but please go ahead.’

  Her PowerPoint lasted ten minutes. She had done a survey with a small number of viewers on which fashion brands they bought or liked. Harriet’s face is not expressive but I thought she looked glum as Lori clicked through. The last slide was a pie chart which summarised her findings and she talked us through this with great confidence.

  ‘I’ll use this to target our advertising and tie-ins,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for that. It’s always useful to be given an insight into our viewers’ tastes. Your sample, however, was small,’ I said.

  ‘This one was quick and dirty. I plan to do more in-depth surveys in the autumn.’

  ‘How do you want to use Guy Browne?’

  ‘I’d like him to front any fashion tie-ins I secure.’

  ‘What would that entail?’

  ‘It could be a range of things from in-store promotions, an internet Q and A with fashion tips, maybe even a roadshow doing makeovers with the public, you know the kind of thing.’

  ‘Guy is incredibly busy,’ Harriet said. ‘You know he’s fashion director at The Gloss? He’s always travelling to shows in Paris and New York.’

  I could tell that Harriet was appalled at the ideas Lori had rattled out, which also had a tired, old-fashioned feel to them.

  ‘We do have a limited amount of time with Guy, but I think the key issue is his requirement to stay unconnected to any one brand,’ I said.

  ‘We wouldn’t ask him to do any of this for free. The companies would pay him well, probably very well,’ Lori said.

  She had ignored my point about his need to be free to criticise designs and focused solely on the money aspect of any deal. I knew at that moment that Lori Kerwell and I would have difficulty reaching agreement. Appeals to her about editorial integrity would fall on deaf ears. She would, however, understand contractual obligations.

  ‘Our first ground rule has to be that Guy is not required to do these promotions. Contractually, he has the right of refusal,’ I said.

  She sits in an upright posture but she straightened her spine even more at my words.

  ‘That will make my job harder.’ There was a distinct edge to her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, but the brands you’ve identified can take advantage of our slot and put their ads around it.’

  ‘Yes of course, that’s a given. But this is about taking it to the next level. Those brands want some of his stardust.’

  ‘It only stays as stardust if he retains his status as high-end and objective,’ I said crisply.

  ‘I write a weekly report for Saul on marketing initiatives and he was the one who identified food and fashion as two key areas for me to work on,’ she said.

  She held me in her look, her dark eyes unblinking. I knew she had lobbed in Saul’s name as a tactic to get her own way. I took a sip of my coffee, which was cold, to give myself time to think.

  ‘I can see one way we could involve Guy. Say you ran a competition with a design college for a young designer of the year. I’m sure Guy would be willing to be a judge and it would make nice television.’

  ‘That would be very labour intensive,’ Lori said.

  ‘Yes, it would, but worthwhile, and we could run a series of items on it. It’s exactly the sort of thing a sponsor might like. Think about it. We’d work with you on it.’

  She clicked her laptop shut and put it into its case. She stood up and put on her jacket and handed me three copies of her PowerPoint presentation.

  ‘I’d like Guy Browne to see my presentation.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll get his feedback,’ I said.

  I watched her walk away and Harriet picked up the printed sheets.

  ‘Ugh, these brands are all either downmarket or mumsy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. My goodness she works hard. She’s been here, what, two weeks and she’s already watched back episodes of Guy and done a survey!’

  ‘I’m glad you said what you did. In-store promotions! I don’t think so.’

  ‘But we do need to try and work with her, somehow,’ I said.

  ‘Do I have to show Guy her presentation?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him when he’s next in.’

  After Harriet had gone I brooded on how Lori had invoked Saul’s name in our discussion. She was his appointment and she reported directly to him, not to Julius. They were both people who thought the bottom line was all that mattered. I recalled seeing her in that market café reading a tabloid. And out of nowhere I had a memory of a conversation I’d had with Julius shortly after I’d started work as a junior researcher. He’d said: ‘You can’t get all your stories from the Guardian. You need to read the Sun and the Express and the Mirror too. We’re broadcasters, not academics!’ This was a dig at me because shortly before I joined StoryWorld I’d given up my Masters in History. His comment rankled but Julius has a genuine talent for popular TV. He knows what issues and personalities our audience like and I’ve learned a lot from him.

  Around two, Martine called and said could I pop down to see Julius. She is his PA and his gatekeeper. He’s the only executive who still has a dedicated PA. I have a mirror by the door and I combed my hair quickly before I went down to his office. We all envy Julius his room. It’s the corner one with double-aspect windows and the best views of the river. It always looks pristine, too, because it’s painted every year while the rest of us have to wait longer to get our offices decorated. My office was looking distinctly tired at the moment. His furniture is all high-tech and contemporary except for his chair. This is an ancient leather Baedekar, a glimpse of the private Julius, and I’ve come to associate the chair with him. Julius likes the good things in life. He spends a lot of money on his clothes too. The pale blue shirt he was wearing was simple and perfectly
cut. He has the kind of face that can change from pleasant to menacing in an instant and I’ve spent years watching his expression; more so since our great confrontation last November. Today, his expression was pleasant.

  ‘You doing anything on Friday night?’ he said.

  ‘Vegging out at home with Flo.’

  ‘Only I’ve got a ticket to the People’s TV Awards. It’s yours if you want it.’

  He handed me the thick cream card with its embossed gold lettering. The ceremony was being held at the Grosvenor House Hotel and Julius, as director of programmes at StoryWorld, would be on one of the best tables. I felt a flicker of excitement as I held the invitation in my hand.

  ‘That would be fun. Thanks, Julius.’

  ‘I’m off now. I want to miss the traffic. Back next Wednesday.’

  ‘Are you going to the Lizard?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Flo and I were there two years ago, at Lamorna Cove, stunningly beautiful but no mobile reception at all; something to do with the geology.’

  He knew I was digging to find out more about his plans.

  ‘I’m taking Steven to the Eden Project. And no calls is fine with me. I’ve told Martine you’re in charge,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you both have a brilliant time and thanks for the invitation.’

  I left his office. Steven is his younger brother and he lives with Julius. Steven has Down syndrome and Julius’s love for his brother is the nicest thing about him. I wondered if Amber, the woman Julius has an on/off relationship with, was going with them. Somehow I doubted it. Amber is a stylist and a city woman through and through. I couldn’t picture her trekking round the biospheres of the Eden Project. This was the friendliest phase Julius and I had gone through for months. Last year we had a falling-out that was almost terminal. But he is a man who does not forget a grudge and I knew that this period of sunniness between us was unlikely to last.

  When I got back Ziggy told me that Simon and Betty, our agony aunt, had gone down to the Hub to go through viewers’ letters.

  ‘Betty asked would you join them when you got back,’ Ziggy said.