Having It All

by Maeve Haran

  We’re not a bad combination, he thought, refilling her glass. Not bad at all. He looked around him at the almost obscene opulence of the restaurant with its gilded ceiling and rococo statuary and leaned towards her, dropping his voice.

  ‘This may not be the most appropriate place to tell you, but I’ve decided to go ahead with the homelessness series. I’m giving you three hundred thousand.’

  Liz couldn’t believe it. That was fifty more than she’d requested! She tried to take it coolly but she couldn’t prevent a grin from spreading across her face. She’d won!

  In her excitement she didn’t notice the head waiter looking at her anxiously or see him whisper to the hat-check girl to get her coat.

  ‘Mrs Ward . . .’ He stood at their table, clearly not relishing his task. ‘Your pilot wants you to go out to the helicopter. There’s an urgent phone call for you from London.’

  Liz jumped up and followed him. She could tell by the way his face tried so hard to betray no emotion that it had to be something serious.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Nurse, can you tell me where my son is?’ Liz tried to keep the hysteria at bay. Hysteria wouldn’t help Jamie. ‘He was knocked down by a car this morning.’

  Unconsciously the nurse looked at her watch. Five p.m. Mrs Ward had certainly taken her time. But then they saw it all in this hospital; women who abandoned their babies or wouldn’t feed them, feckless mothers of sick children who preferred to go out drinking instead of bothering with visiting time. This was a new one on the nurse, though. The executive whose schedule was too busy to fit in her injured son. She glanced at Liz’s expensive suit, cashmere coat and hand-tooled briefcase and decided she preferred the down-trodden mums who spent visiting time in the pub. At least they had an excuse.

  Liz saw the disapproval in the nurse’s face as she checked her lists and wanted to hit her. Blast the woman! Didn’t she understand that Liz was dying inside? That ever since she’d got that phone call two hours ago from her hysterical secretary who’d been trying to hunt her down all morning, she’d moved heaven and earth to get here?

  ‘Children’s ward, third floor.’ The nurse turned her attention to the next visitor.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  The nurse looked at her watch again pointedly. ‘No idea, dear. You’ll have to ask the ward sister.’ Too distraught to wait for a lift, Liz ran up the stairs two at a time and found herself facing a forest of incomprehensible signs. MB1. MB3. John Hazelbury Ward. No mention of the Children’s Ward, and no one to ask. Fighting her panic she ran down the endless corridor past cardboard boxes piled high with disposable kidney bowls and catheters, fighting back her tears of desperation. Finally, there it was in front of her.

  ‘Jamie Ward, please,’ she panted at the student nurse at the front desk. The girl pointed to the far end of the room.

  ‘How is he?’ The young nurse looked flustered and explained that she’d just come on.

  They don’t want to tell me, Liz thought, anxiously raking each bed for Jamie’s face. She caught her breath at the sight of a small figure swathed from head to foot in bandages, but no, thank God, it wasn’t Jamie. Then she saw his name above a bed. Her heart stopped and she felt cold. It was empty. ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Please let him not be . . . I’ll do anything. I’ll never leave his side again . . .’

  ‘Mummmmmeeeeee!’ From round the corner a small tornado with grazes all over its head launched itself at her carrying a lorry made out of Sticklebricks. ‘Look what Daddy and me have made!’

  Whirling round she folded him into an embrace that crushed the breath out of his body.

  ‘Ow, Mum, you’re hurting!’ complained Jamie.

  ‘Hello, stranger. Busy day at the office?’ Liz realized it was probably relief that made David tactless, but she wanted to kill him all the same. ‘Nothing wrong with this one apart from an egg on the head. Maybe it will teach him not to run out in front of cars. The doctor said he had a lucky escape.’

  ‘Why to God didn’t anyone tell me he was all right?’ Liz tried to hold on to a squirming Jamie, her anxiety turning to anger.

  ‘No one could find you. This summit you were having was so hush-hush that Panther’s Chief Exec hadn’t even told his secretary where it was being held.’

  Suddenly all her anger drained away and she kissed Jamie, no longer able to fight back the tears.

  ‘I should have been there. I shouldn’t have handed them over to Susie. They’re my children.’

  ‘Oh, come on now, Liz. It could just as easily have happened with you as with Susie.’ David lifted Jamie from her arms and kissed him. ‘Goodbye, trouble. Daddy’s got to get back and put the paper to bed. Mummy’ll take you home.’

  David wiped the tears from Liz’s eyes and kissed her. ‘Now, stop crying for God’s sake. It wasn’t your fault. I know you. Don’t start seeing this as a punishment from God for being a working mother.’

  Liz smiled weakly. He was right. She mustn’t be so ridiculous. As he said, it could just as easily have happened with her there. But still, he didn’t really understand what hurt the most: when her own child had needed her, she hadn’t been there and no one had known where she was. He could have died and she would have been a hundred miles away, swanning round doing deals in helicopters. For that she would never forgive herself.

  ‘Sorry, Conrad, but I need tomorrow off. I’ve got to take Jamie to stay with my mother to rest for a week. The doctor says he needs complete quiet.’

  ‘Can’t the bloody nanny take him? I thought that was what nannies were for.’

  ‘The nanny’s staying in London looking after Daisy. My mother can’t manage them both.’

  ‘What about the Panther deal? We’re signing the contract tomorrow.’

  ‘The Panther deal’s all sewn up. You don’t need me for the signing. Get a Page Three girl instead. Panther would much prefer a bimbo in a bikini to me.’

  ‘They trust you.’

  ‘Sorry Conrad, but this is important.’

  ‘And the Panther deal isn’t?’

  ‘Not as important as my son’s wellbeing, no.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She knew it was another blemish on her rapidly tarnishing career-woman image, but what the hell? Since the accident she’d promised herself she’d be there when he needed her. And he needed her tomorrow.

  As she drove through the beauty and peace of the East Sussex countryside to her mother’s, she felt the guilt and the tension evaporate. She’d always loved this part of the country. And now, with the leaves just beginning to turn golden in the late September light, Metro TV seemed like the figment of a particularly fevered imagination.

  As they finally turned into the driveway of Five Gates Farm she slowed down for a moment to look at her old home. Five Gates Farm was a rambling Elizabethan farmhouse, its ancient dusty pink brickwork criss-crossed with dark red in an elaborate pattern like a scaled-down version of Hampton Court, with huge, sloping chimneys that no craftsman would dare to build today. Queen Elizabeth herself was supposed to have spent the night here on one of her royal progresses through the South East, and although there was no hard evidence of this, the master bedroom had been called the Queen’s room ever since.

  Watching the peaceful house in its quiet fields, unchanged for hundreds of years, Liz wondered why she’d ever left. It had been a happy house. Every time she’d come home her mother had been there, on the front steps down to the terrace, waiting. And when she’d left, no matter what the weather and ignoring all pleas not to bother to come out, her mother had come out to wave goodbye.

  And then she saw her mother standing on the steps as she always had, and she waved to her and smiled. But she suddenly remembered why she had left all this peace and beauty behind. It had seemed too safe and cosy. She’d needed to find the noise and excitement, the danger and buzz of living in the city. And now life had come full circle.

  Her mother ran down the steps towards the car.
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br />   ‘Hello, darling! How’s Jamie? And how did your dreadful boss take the news that you were bunking off today?’ asked her mother, kissing her and helping her to lift Jamie out of the car. It surprised her that her mother, who wore floaty flower-prints and had almost white hair, knew expressions like bunking off. Too much watching daytime TV, she supposed.

  ‘He was livid.’

  ‘Poor Lizzie. I’ll help you put Jamie on the sofa. Then we’ll have time to go and feed my bantams before tea.’

  After her children had flown the coop Liz’s mother had taken to breeding bantams. Along with making cakes for the vicarage fete and patchwork for charity sales, it filled up her days since her husband died. And to Liz’s amazement she seemed perfectly happy.

  Liz kissed Jamie and laid him tenderly on the sofa. He seemed better but was still pale from delayed shock. A few days here would do him the world of good. A short stay here wouldn’t do her any harm either, but there wasn’t much chance of her getting it. For a moment she longed just to be able to put on some wellies and kick about in the leaves, crunchier than rice krispies, and to make a bonfire of her city clothes and laugh as she watched them burn. Then she would do nothing. Absolutely nothing. She stared out of the window and listened to the wind rustling in the trees like the sound of water. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had time to do nothing.

  Outside in the stable block her mother had converted for the bantams Liz watched her scattering feed from a weatherbeaten old basket as the brightly coloured birds came running, some even taking it from her palm. Her mother stroked them and cooed at them, just as Liz did when she was trying to sing Daisy to sleep.

  She felt a sudden pang of sadness that she saw her mother so little and that there were so many things in her life that she didn’t have time for.

  Sensing her mood, her mother took her by the arm and led her to the hen-house. ‘Come and see something rather wonderful.’ She opened the top half of a wooden door and leaned on the bottom half. Liz joined her. There, sitting on a manger of hay, was a scabby old hen.

  ‘She’s from the battery farm next door. I asked the farmer for a chicken to hatch out these eggs when the real mother wouldn’t.’ She threw a handful of feed to the chicken. ‘When I got her she couldn’t even scratch for grain. She didn’t know how.’ Her mother’s voice rang with pride. ‘Just look at her now!’

  Liz looked again at the pathetic, balding chicken so ludicrously proud of its brief moment of borrowed motherhood. And she felt her eyes fill with tears. Tears for her own lost motherhood and for all the things missing from her life. Peace. Warmth. Time. Spontaneity.

  She glanced over at her own mother. Liz’s generation had all felt faintly sorry for their mothers. Condemned to a dull life without achievement, sipping tea on the lawn while men had all the excitement out in the big wide world. It had seemed such an outrage to Liz that women lived like this – such a waste! She was never going to make the same mistake!

  And yet, who had more quality of life? Her mother who could choose what to do with her time and was the hub of this village community? Or herself: high-powered and hard-pressed, always earning a fortune with never any time to spend it?

  ‘Mum, what do you think of my life?’

  Her mother threw some feed to the bantams and looked uncomfortable. She’d never been one for face-to-face confrontations. Her generation didn’t worship the truth as though it were a religion, a cure for every problem. ‘Do you want me to be honest?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Liz, not knowing whether she meant it.

  Eleanor didn’t turn to Liz, but threw some more feed to the hens instead, looking straight ahead. ‘If you really want the truth, I think you’re wasting your life. You’re a big success and I’m very proud of you. But you never have time for the things that really matter. You forget birthdays, you forgot mine last year.’ Liz closed her eyes at the memory. She’d been so incredibly busy. But she knew that was no excuse. ‘And you’re always working. Even when you come for the weekend you bring work with you. You don’t even bring up your own children. I know that’s the way things are these days but you miss so much.’ Her mother took her hand, smiling ruefully. ‘And worst of all, you never seem to have any fun!’

  In the distance Liz could hear the phone ringing and her mother let go of her hand clearly relieved to have an excuse to get away.

  For all these years, thought Liz bitterly, I’ve been feeling sorry for my mother and now I find that she feels sorry for me. Where the hell were women going wrong?

  ‘It’s your secretary, darling. She says to tell you that you’d better come back. Conrad is up to something.’

  Liz sat staring at the budget for Cardboard People and wondered exactly what it was that Conrad was trying to pull. Yesterday, while she was safely out of the way in Sussex, he’d asked for a copy of it and two hours later the Head of Production had asked for a copy too. It couldn’t be coincidence.

  For three months, ever since she’d been in the job, she’d fought Conrad to get decent projects off the ground and he’d vetoed every single one except this. It had been her first and only victory. If she lost this, she’d lost everything.

  When one of the phones buzzed on her vast matt-black desk she was so deep in contemplation she jumped. It was her secretary reminding her she had a lunch with Britt.

  For once she didn’t feel like seeing her. Britt was selling. She wanted to start making TV programmes and hoped the old girl network would help her along.

  Liz looked round at the cool restful green of L’Escargot’s decor. The original owner had been told that green was impossible, had never been done in a restaurant, would lead to financial ruin. He’d gone ahead and followed his instincts. Now L’Escargot was one of the most successful restaurants in London. Upstairs was the place for striking gentlemanly media deals. It was a story that always cheered Liz up and she came to L’Escargot as often as she could – especially if she wasn’t paying.

  Today Britt was paying and as Liz sat listening to her sales pitch she knew once and for all that there was no such thing as a free lunch.

  ‘We’ve got this great – really great gameshow idea,’ Britt enthused loudly. ‘I know you’re going to want to snap it up before they hear about it at the BBC.’ To Liz’s dismay Britt was letting the incredibly elaborate main course she’d just ordered go cold on her plate as she talked. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve seen for years . . . caring and warm yet funny and outrageous –’

  ‘Britt,’ Liz interrupted, embarrassed. Britt was behaving like a double-glazing saleswoman with only one customer to sign up before she got the free holiday. ‘This is me, Liz, one of your oldest friends. Forget the hype, will you, and just tell me about the format.’

  ‘Fine.’ Britt bristled and ate half a forkful of her meal. ‘It’s called So You Think You’ve Got Problems. Three contestants are picked from the audience. You see, everyone in the audience has some kind of personal problem, and they tell their problems to a celebrity panel who give them advice. Then the rest of the audience votes on whether they should take it. Of course we’re playing it for laughs. Nothing too heavy. The celebrities won’t be experts, they’ll be comedians, actors, DJs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be another ritual-humiliation-of-real-people show, would it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because destroying ordinary people’s egos and making them look complete jerks in front of millions of viewers was last year’s idea. It’s passé now.’

  ‘Ah. Well, we have other ideas.’

  ‘Britt?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your Taglierini in Four Sauces with Wild Truffles is getting cold.’

  Britt gave her a reproachful look and toyed with her fork. ‘You don’t want to hear my ideas, do you?’

  Deftly Liz changed the subject. ‘Look, Metro’s having a party tomorrow night. It’ll be stuffed with useful contacts for you.’ And knowing you, thought Liz, you’ll probably select the most useful
and take him home with you. ‘Why don’t you come?’

  ‘OK,’ Britt brightened. ‘That sounds promising.’

  In the taxi back to Metro TV Liz flipped through the file of ideas Britt had handed her. In Liz’s view every one was predictable and uninspired. Hundreds of ideas like this hit her desk every week and she politely said no. Because of her friendship she’d given Britt’s special attention. Reading them it was obvious Britt should stick to what she did brilliantly, running the business end of things, and leave the programme ideas to someone else. Then she remembered that also because of her friendship she’d agreed to pass them on to Conrad for a second opinion. She only hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

  ‘Come on, Bert! For God’s sake, you must have something sexier for the splash than Yuppie begging!’ David turned angrily to the News Editor. ‘Yuppie beggars have been on the front page of the Sun for days. Where’s our story? The one no other paper has reported? Shit, we’re a newspaper, not fucking Reader’s Digest!’

  David looked round at the earnest young faces of the reporters and subs at the midday editorial conference and considered losing his temper. Their ideas for the lead were crap. None of them would know a good old-fashioned story if it got up and bit them. The trouble was most of them had come to the Daily News direct from university or journalism college with maybe a few months on a local newspaper before they thought they were too grand for the provinces and buggered off to find a job on one of the nationals.

  None of them, David thought angrily, had ever actually had to look for a story, piece it painfully together from fragments of gossip, interview and hard slog. They wouldn’t know what door-knocking in some God-forsaken council estate in the freezing cold to get some vital bit of information was like. They had never had to break the news to an unsuspecting wife that her husband had just been killed on the M25, or doorstep a bent councillor in front of his wife and kids.