Having It All
Page 24
And the real revelation had been David himself. She had had no suspicion of his talents at mimicry or that he could do a complete Music Hall turn, and his suggestive rendition of ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’ made her laugh till tears streamed down her face.
But the nights had been the best part. Happy and tired from a walk in the grounds or a long game of charades, she slipped on her Victorian nightdress and was allowed to keep it on for a full minute before David got into bed too. And as he pulled it off again, she laughed and was grateful that the one thing that did not date from the Victorian era was the central heating. Still laughing they rolled from the bed on to the floor and did things to each other the Victorians would have greatly disapproved of until, tangled together, they fell asleep on the floor and woke up, freezing and giggling in the early hours and did it all again in the wide mahogany bed.
‘Hello Britt, sit down, can I offer you a glass of wine?’
Conrad took a sip from an elegant triangular glass which she recognized as part of Sven Dansk’s One Only collection. It had probably cost nearly as much as the desk it was sitting on. Metro must be doing well. It was on the tip of Britt’s tongue to say no thanks, I’m pregnant, but some instinct told her that this was information best kept to herself. ‘No, thanks, Conrad. A Perrier would be lovely.’
As Conrad poured her mineral water, adding ice and a slice of lime, she wondered again why she was getting the red carpet treatment. OK, so Conrad was delighted with So You Think You’ve Got Problems and they were working on other ideas for Metro, but until today she’d been treated just like any other independent producer, in other words a slightly annoying little company that prestigious and important Metro TV was doing the big favour by commissioning programmes from it at all.
And now this. It occurred to Britt that she’d only get treated this well if Conrad wanted to talk her into doing something she might not want to do. Work with Metro on some yawn-making committee designed to impress the great and the good perhaps? Britt had always fought shy of putting in endless hours of unpaid work just to look good in the industry, but maybe it was time she did have a higher profile. The only reason anyone sat on committees in this image-orientated world was to make contacts who might one day offer them a job. But surely Conrad wouldn’t ring her up at ten-thirty, cancel a meeting and call her in on Christmas Eve just to ask her to sit on a committee?
And then, out of the blue, a far more convincing thought occurred to her which would explain why he was resorting to these drama tactics and waving his power in her face like a gorilla on heat. Conrad wanted to get her into bed.
Britt suppressed a smile at the supreme irony of Conrad’s timing. Here she was sitting here, in the club and the father of her child had just disappeared to an unknown destination. She couldn’t think of a time when she felt less like having an affair.
But for once, Britt was wrong. No matter how much Conrad might appreciate her erotic appeal, his mind today was firmly on business not pleasure.
‘You’re probably wondering why I asked for this meeting so near Christmas?’ Conrad paused and let the question hang in the air. Britt wished he would cut the amateur dramatics and get to the point. She was beginning to feel slightly sick. Maybe when he propositioned her she’d just quip, ‘Fine, can you just hang on five minutes while I throw up?’
She sipped her Perrier water and pulled her skirt down in a deliberately maidenly gesture. ‘It had crossed my mind.’
Conrad laughed, enjoying himself and perched himself on his desk, adopting power position No. 6: always make sure you are above your opponent, and maintain direct eye-contact.
‘Have I told you how well I think Problems is going?’
‘It had filtered down to me, yes. I’m delighted to hear it.’
Conrad picked up a folder from his desk. ‘Can you guess what’s in this?’
Oh for God’s sake, Britt wanted to snap, is this Twenty Questions or what?
‘No Conrad, I have absolutely no idea.’
‘It’s an analysis by MacKinnon’s, the management consultants, of how your production company is run, Britt.’ Noticing that he now had her sudden undivided attention, Conrad smiled. ‘And I must say, they’re very flattering about your management skills. From a £20,000 start-up loan to £3 million turnover in three years is nice going. And the bottom line isn’t bad either. You’re quite a businesswoman.’
Britt fumbled in her mind for what to say next. What the fuck was Conrad up to? Was he thinking of buying them up or what? What would commissioning a report like this have cost? Ten grand? MacKinnon’s didn’t even sneeze for ten grand, it would have to have been twenty minimum.
‘I’m flattered you think so.’
‘I don’t think so. MacKinnon’s think so, which is far more important. I might have been swayed by your undoubted attractiveness but the grey men of MacKinnon’s came to this conclusion without even seeing you.’ Conrad sipped his wine and smiled appreciatively. ‘Mind you, accountants have no souls, you could lie naked holding a balance sheet and all the men from MacKinnon’s would see were the rows of figures over your left breast.’
Britt ignored the turn the conversation had taken and steered it back to safer ground. ‘And why are you and MacKinnon’s suddenly so interested in the performance of my little company?’
Expecting evasiveness or the suggestion that they at least call in their financial advisers, Britt was totally unprepared for the bombshell Conrad was about to blast her with.
‘Because I didn’t want to ask you to be Programme Controller of Metro TV until I was very sure of your business credentials.’
Unconsciously Britt put her hand to her mouth and started to bite her nail. ‘You want me to be Controller of Metro?’
‘Certainly. Subject to the approval of the Board of course, but I don’t anticipate any problems there. Not when they see this.’ He patted the buff folder on his desk.
‘But don’t you already have a Programme Controller?’
‘We have an Acting Programme Controller,’ Conrad corrected. ‘There is a difference.’
So Claudia was on the way out. Maybe she’d been falling down on her duties in Her Master’s Bed now that she was a little busy.
‘But why me?’
‘Britt, I’m surprised at you. I wouldn’t have thought you were the modest type.’
Britt realized she was blowing this interview. She shouldn’t have sounded so surprised. Why shouldn’t he ask her to run Metro? Because she had almost no experience of programme-making, that’s why.
‘I chose you because you’re a businesswoman first and foremost. But you can make programmes too. So You Think You’ve Got Problems proves that. It’s a rare combination, believe me. You see, Britt, I want someone who understands the bottom line. I’m sick of farting around with a bunch of lefties who think they have a divine right to pour money down the drain in the name of screwing creativity. They call it high production values. I call it overspending.’
He patted the folder again. ‘Do you know, Britt, not one of the programmes you’ve made came in over budget, and they were good shows too.’
‘You know what they say. No one gives you an award for coming in under budget.’
‘Well, I do. And if you can perform the miracle of bringing this company in under budget too, I’ll give you ten per cent of the underspend. Stuff the Cannes fucking Film Festival. That’s what I call a real award!’
Britt listened transfixed. He was serious. He was really serious. Jesus if she could pull it off, she’d be rich!
‘Anyway. You don’t have to decide anything now. Think about it over Christmas and I’ll bring you in to meet the Board.’
As Britt felt the excitement flooding through her, she knew she wouldn’t need to think about it over Christmas. She wanted the job all right. Thank God she hadn’t told him about the pregnancy. She’d have to sign the contract before he found out.
It wasn’t till she had got up from Conrad’s leather sofa,
still stunned and tingling all over with the sheer euphoria of it all, that she realized for the first time that the job she had just been offered had not so long ago been Liz’s.
As soon as Britt let herself into her flat she ran to the answering machine. The red liquid crystal display in the right hand corner told her that there were three messages. One of them had to be from David. Her heart beating, she rewound the tape.
The first message was from her office updating her on the details of a deal they had just made with IBM to shoot a corporate video. Impatiently Britt pushed the Fast Forward button, and cut off the beginning of the second message. Swearing under her breath she rewound it. It was Conrad’s PA asking if she could pencil in a meeting for 4 January to meet the Board of Metro TV. He certainly didn’t hang around.
There was only one message left. Holding her breath she waited for it to start. There was such a long silence that she knew it had to be David, wondering what to say, how to apologize. She felt tears pricking in her eyes and she realized that in her anxiety she had covered her mouth with both hands.
But it wasn’t David. It was a woman’s voice, timid and embarrassed, clearly unused to dealing with answering machines. ‘Hello, Britt. This is Mrs Williams. Your mother. Could you give us a ring, love? It would make your Dad’s Christmaaa . . .’ The tape had run out in the middle of her mother’s message.
Feeling the tears begin to flood down her face, Britt picked up one of the cushions from her white sofa and buried her face in it, sobbing uncontrollably. For what must have been twenty minutes she wept and wept until mascara streaked her face and the cushion was covered with black smudges flecked with lash-building fibres. And she knew that she was crying for herself because she was alone and pregnant and for her mother, whom she hadn’t talked to for months and whose life was so different from hers that she had never used an answering machine and had called herself Mrs Williams.
Slowly she pulled herself together and reached for the box of tissues she kept by the sofa in case anything spilt on it. Not even noticing the stained cushion she picked up the telephone and dialled home.
At first she thought no one was in, but then she realized her mother might be washing the front step or hanging the washing on the revolving line in the back garden. Finally someone picked up the phone.
‘Hello, Mum, it’s Britt. Mum, I’m coming home for Christmas.’
At the other end of the line there was a fractional silence as her mother took in this astounding information.
‘Oh Britt,’ her mother’s voice rang with pleasure, ‘oh Britt, love, that’s grand!’
By the time she got clear of the endless snarl-up of irritable motorists singularly lacking in Christmas spirit fighting their way North on the motorway out of London, Britt was beginning to feel better.
OK, so she might have to face the unpleasant fact that David wasn’t coming back. But then she didn’t have to have the bloody baby. She was only a few weeks gone. She could go ahead, accept Conrad’s job offer and quietly book herself into a clinic. She could tell anyone who asked that she’d lost it. She’d even get the sympathy vote.
Feeling more cheerful she flashed in irritation at a convertible Ferrari just in front of her with its roof down, for Christ’s sake, on Christmas Eve! It drew into the middle lane and slowed down until it was parallel with her. But she refused to give the driver the satisfaction of looking at him and put her foot down, though she couldn’t resist glancing into her wing mirror as she overtook him. It was a handsome young man, laughing, and the vain sod clearly knew she was looking at him because he blew her a kiss.
For a moment she wondered what he did to have a car like that. A footballer or a popstar perhaps. Or maybe a commodity broker from the City. He looked spivvy enough.
Suddenly lights flashed her from behind and the Ferrari was on her tail again, this time pushing to overtake. Britt shrugged in irritation. As a blonde in a Porsche she was used to this sort of thing. Boy racers who wanted to challenge you just to prove their machismo. Vaguely she remembered a joke someone had once told her. What’s the difference between a hedgehog and a BMW driver? Answer: with a BMW the prick is on the inside. For BMW read Ferrari, or GTI or any fast car driven by the usual aggressive yob with balls where his brains ought to be.
Normally Britt shrugged off challenges like this without giving the driver a second thought. But today she felt like showing him to be the wally he clearly was. It was a pure instinctive decision born out of her loathing of depression, of feeling a loser. She flashed in turn at the car in front and when it swung out of her way into the middle lane, she put her foot down and roared off, with the Ferrari behind her.
For three or four miles every car gave way to them, and Britt began to let the exhilaration of speed and the perfection of the Porsche’s engine restore her mood and confidence. She felt like a warrior queen, powerful and all-conquering, not subject to the petty rules suffered by salesmen in Sierras or dull Vauxhall drivers paying back a tenner a week on the never-never.
In front a big old-fashioned Rover, built like a tank, driven by an old boy with a cap and moustache, stood its ground, cruising along at a steady sixty-nine, with Britt’s Porsche and the Ferrari flashing their lights a few feet behind it. The driver’s only response was to point at the speedo in a pompous reminder of the seventy mph limit.
Annoyed at this irritating little man who had no right to be hogging the fast lane, Britt broke every rule in the Highway Code and overtook him on the inside. The Ferrari didn’t follow but stayed close behind the Rover, snapping at its heels like an angry greyhound.
Suddenly the old man lost his nerve and without even looking pulled sharply into the middle lane, directly into Britt’s path. Panicking she saw a gap in the slow lane and wrenched the car to the left hoping blindly that there was nothing behind her.
But there was. Not daring to look back she heard a terrifying squeal of brakes and three feet away the car behind went into a skid, its rear half slewing round across two lanes of fast-moving motorway as Britt froze and waited for the sickening sound of another car crashing into it.
CHAPTER 22
But the crash never came.
Instead Britt watched in horror as the driver of the car she had forced to brake struggled to regain control, the back part of the car still slewing round, with the deafening screech of rubber on tarmac, almost colliding with the car next to it and finally managing to straighten up.
Britt swung off the motorway on to the hard shoulder. The driver pulled in next to her, white-faced and shaking. His wife flung her arms round him and wept. Britt saw that it was a young man in his late twenties, driving a battered Renault 5. In the back were two small children and behind them the parcel shelf was covered with Christmas presents.
It was an image that she knew she would never, no matter how hard she tried, be able to forget.
She pressed the button to roll down the electric window and put her head out. Her breath was short and painful with shock, her lips white and bloodless. Oh my God, she mumbled, gasping for the cold reviving air. I nearly killed that whole family, and myself as well. And my baby, she thought for the first time, and my little baby.
Painfully opening the door she leaned down over the hard shoulder and was violently sick.
David sat in the lonely luxury of Logan Greene’s flat and wondered if he dared ring Liz at her mother’s. He longed to speak to Liz and the children, to tell them that he hadn’t forgotten them, that he had tried to bring them Christmas presents.
For a moment he wished that he had left a note or gone to find Liz at her mother’s after all. He might not have persuaded her to take him back but he would at least have shown he cared. Steeling himself he dialled the number of Five Gates Farm.
Liz’s mother had just put the last of her suitcases in the boot and tucked Jamie’s present on to the back window ledge to set off for Crossways. She’d been appalled when Liz had said he wanted a creature called a Teenage Mutant Hero Turtle.
Even though it was quite cold, she took off her coat and folded it up and put it on the passenger seat – she hated driving in a coat – made sure that she’d put her handbag in the car and went into the house for a last check-up. The windows were all closed, the central heating adjusted so that it only came on in the middle of the night to prevent burst pipes, and the back door locked. Mercifully she was too old and untechnical to bother with an answering machine like all the young people she knew had, horrid things. She sometimes suspected their chief use was for your children to pretend they were out if you took the liberty of ringing them. Anyway who would ever have anything urgent enough to say to her that it couldn’t wait till she was back again.