All to Play For

by Heather Peace

  “Oh, I don’t know. A Tale of Two Cities, Nicholas Nickleby perhaps.” He could barely remember them. “David Copperfield, of course.”

  “Yes that’s my favourite, too. But it’s been done so well so many times, hasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” He was beginning to feel out of his depth and made a mental note to ask Selina for a set of Dickens synopses. A new arrival saved him from embarrassment.

  “Hi Sally, mind if I join you? – Oh sorry Chris, I didn’t see you there!” A thin pale woman with large anxious eyes sat next to Sally and unloaded her tray.

  “I’m so pleased about the new writing initiative!” she enthused. “I’ve been banging on about it for years, but you’re the first person who’s ever recognised its true importance. A nationwide trawl for new talent, what a marvellous idea.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous but have you decided who’s going to run it?” Chris looked surprised. “No no, of course not. How would it be if I drew up a few plans, designed a proposal?”

  “That would be very helpful,” said Chris, trying to sound at once gracious and noncommittal. “You are… ?”

  “Sonia Longbow, producer.” She went to shake his hand but changed her mind – it wasn’t necessary in a canteen. “I’ve been at EastEnders for a year. It’s a bit like going abroad, going off to Elstree; you don’t see anyone until you get back. But new writing is my real love.”

  “Splendid,” said Chris. He looked up to see Stewart Walker approaching and quaked inwardly, to his relief Stewart sat down with a few men at a nearby table. They were sniggering about something.

  Penny Cruickshank was the next person to steam over, and as her bulky figure squeezed into the space next to him he stood up. “I’m just about to leave, why don’t you sit here?”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Penny, disappointed. He left them to complain about leaving his dirty plates for them to clear away, and tried not to hurry back upstairs.

  Later on that afternoon Selina came in with his tea, and mentioned that she’d been reading some Tony Scott scripts sent by Basil Richardson’s office and that they had completely knocked her out. “It’s such real writing,” she said. “So warm and tragic and funny. It’s about these miners who lost everything when their pit closed, and how they try and make new lives for themselves. You must read it.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Chris. “But it doesn’t sound like a cult hit.”

  “No. But it could be your cutting edge contemporary serial.”

  “Let me have a look. By the way, did I see you having lunch in the canteen?”

  “Yes,” said Selina. “That was Jonathan. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.”

  Chris tried to be avuncular. “Great!” That sounded ridiculous, he was certain. She smiled, amused and flattered by his obvious liking for her. He smiled tightly and nodded repeatedly, unable to think of a single remark.

  “Actually, he says you once did him a big favour, but you probably don’t remember.”

  “Really?”

  “About ten years ago, when he was a student at the Edinburgh Festival. He says you both got arrested when some nutter started a fight in the street. You can’t have forgotten a thing like that!” Chris looked bewildered, and then it began to come back to him. He remembered the green-and-purple-faced student, and could see that he might have turned into Jonathan. “Apparently you sweet-talked the police into letting you go, and then paid for a taxi so he could get to his theatre in time to meet some important people. You probably saved his career.”

  “Good heavens. I had no idea.” Chris tried to recall what had happened after they all left the police station, but could only bring to mind that he had shagged a feminist, which was a first for him, and that it was his only act of infidelity to Catherine. How ironic, he reflected, that his boost to Jonathan’s career should be repaid by having his secretary stolen from under his nose. Such were the rewards of philanthropy.

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked Selina, to fill the silence.

  Chris pulled himself together. He was being melodramatic. Selina was her own person. Anyway, he was happily married. “No, thanks very much Selina, I have to go and see the DG in fifteen minutes, don’t I?”

  “That’s right,” she turned and walked to her desk.

  He found that the Drama Department was suddenly ubiquitous. He met producers in the restaurant, development executives in the foyer and script editors in the lift. Every one of them had a fabulous idea they were sure he would like. None of them actually made an appointment to see him as that would be going over Peter’s head, but they lobbied him assiduously until he was sick of the sight of them. The last straw came when he took a phone call from an apologetic Selina: she had put this woman off so many times, would he mind having a word? It was an agent called Muriel Barnet, calling about her client Billy Trowell.

  “You have to do something Chris,” she began, before he had a chance to say hello. “It’s absolutely disgraceful what’s going on. I’ve never had a client treated like this in thirty-five years in the business, and I can tell you, none of my clients will want to work for the BBC when this gets out.”

  Chris sighed. “Would you like to tell me what the problem is?”

  “Billy’s written the most wonderful four-parter for you. It’s exactly what you want for your contemporary serial slot. Very on the edge. It’s dark, hilariously funny and so moving. I think it’s his best work yet, and I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “I look forward to reading it.”

  “I can’t wait for you to read it, Chris.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m sure you know that Billy’s always worked with Stewart Walker, they go back a long way.” Chris didn’t know, but somehow he wasn’t surprised. Muriel rattled on, “Stewart has behaved abominably to Billy. He’s refusing to accept the final episode, won’t even authorise payment on it.”

  “Doesn’t he like it?”

  “So he says. He wants a complete rewrite. Billy and I think he’s totally wrong.”

  “It really isn’t for me to interfere in this kind of matter,” said Chris, allowing a little irritation to show in his voice.

  “The point is Chris, Billy won’t change the ending, he feels very strongly about it. Very strongly. More strongly than he feels about Stewart.”

  “You want to change the producer.”

  “I knew you’d understand! I know it’s not normal procedure, but it really would be in your best interests, Chris. It’s a fantastic project.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Peter about this, er, Muriel. It’s not my area.”

  “Well I know Chris, but Peter can’t seem to make up his mind whose side he’s on. If you would just have a word, I’m sure it can be sorted out.”

  Chris took this to mean that Peter had taken Stewart’s side.

  “Okay Muriel. Leave it with me,” he said, and hung up without the least intention of doing anything at all.

  “Selina!” he called, and she hurried in apologetically.

  “I’m awfully sorry, was she a real pain?”

  “That’s all right, it’s not your fault. How am I going to keep them away? Why are they pestering me?”

  Selina pursed her lips. “I’m sure it’ll stop when you’ve chosen your drama projects. Perhaps you could turn some down soon, put them out of their misery?”

  “Hmm.”

  “What about another meeting? Maybe they could pitch their ideas and you could make a shortlist or something?”

  Chris thought she had something there. Kill all the birds with one stone. “Good idea. Get Peter on the phone, would you?”

  She did.

  “Peter, how are you?” began Chris.

  “Never better. You?”

  “Fine, fine, although I have to say your lot aren’t backward at coming forward when they want you to know about their bright ideas.”

  Peter s
miled broadly and winked at his PA Vera, who was with him. He switched his phone to conference mode so that she could hear the conversation.

  “I do hope no-one’s made a nuisance of themselves,” said Peter mildly. “Funnily enough my office has been a good deal quieter lately.”

  “Yes, well, I do draw the line at masonic handshakes.”

  “No, really?” said Peter, glaring at Vera who was rocking with repressed laughter.

  “I want to have a meeting with the whole lot of them. They can pitch their ideas and I’ll respond on the spot, yes, no or maybe. We’ve got to put an end to it.”

  “Whatever you say, Chris. Will your office organise it or shall we?”

  “Selina will take care of it. Okay Peter. Bye.”

  Peter put his phone down and raised his eyebrows at Vera, who pulled a face.

  “He knows what he wants, doesn’t he?” she said.

  Peter nodded sadly. “Is he going to get it?”

  Vera shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  *

  Catherine still wasn’t pregnant and their bedroom was almost ready to move back into.

  They had been to a private clinic for check-ups, where the consultant had assured them that there was no physical reason why they shouldn’t conceive. He suggested that they were too tense and should try to forget about it for a few months. Very often, he said, the Through-the-Looking-Glass approach was the one that worked.

  Unfortunately for Catherine, the effort of trying not to think about it increased her tension markedly. One day she arrived at work, opened her briefcase and found a little note from Natasha: I love yoo mumy from Tasha. It was too much for her and the tears streamed down her face. Terrified that her colleagues and clients might interpret her emotional incontinence as a sign that she was no longer fully reliable, she feigned a migraine and went home again. It was her ovulation day. She knew her cycle so well now that she couldn’t help recognising the signs even though she wasn’t supposed to be looking out for them. She lay on the sofa bed and wondered whether to call Chris and ask him to come home, but reluctantly decided against it. He would be annoyed and probably think she had a screw loose, it was very uncharacteristic behaviour for her. In any case, he was bound to be busy. Instead she went to her health club for a sauna and massage; then she bought oysters for dinner, and a new dress.

  When Chris arrived home at eight o’clock he thought she looked radiant, and felt a great relief. At last she was getting over it. Oysters for dinner made a nice change, and he appreciated the effort she had made. She said she wanted to put it all behind them, and he agreed heartily.

  They were watching Newsnight together when Sarah the nanny dropped her bombshell: she was giving in her notice because she wanted to move north to be with her boyfriend. There was little they could do to keep her; they were truly sorry as she had been with them since Natasha’s birth. She was sorry too, especially to part with Tasha, but she wanted to start her own family and who could blame her? They all feared the impact on Tasha, who was very attached to Sarah. It was a severe blow, not only to their tremulous domestic tranquillity, but to the pleasant evening which Catherine had so subtly constructed in order to seduce her husband without him noticing.

  When they were in bed she snuggled up to him sexily but he kissed her once and said he wasn’t in the mood tonight. She tried to conceal her disappointment but he knew her too well.

  “Okay let’s give it a go.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “Only if you really want to.”

  “I do,” he lied, and began foreplay. Beneath his exploring hands she felt like a velvet cushion full of bedsprings, but he persevered manfully. She did all she could to help him, but ten minutes later he rolled over to his own side of the bed and gave up.

  “Sorry Cathy.” He stared at the wall.

  “Never mind.” She stared at the ceiling.

  In the silence they heard Natasha downstairs, coughing in her sleep. Chris struggled with his feelings. He was angry, humiliated, inadequate. He realised now what Cathy had been up to, and hated her for putting him through it. How dare she treat him like a performing seal? He steamed in silence. Catherine merely felt despair, coupled with the humiliation of having been rejected when at her most vulnerable: naked and aroused. She tried to forget her own feelings and figure out what he was going through, he must feel a terrible failure.

  “It’s all right darling,” she whispered, stroking his shoulder. “There’s always another time.”

  “Don’t fucking patronise me!” his outburst amazed them both.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sex isn’t something you do on demand,” he replied tersely. “It’s supposed to be a spontaneous act of love.” He sat up. “I can’t remember the last time I made love to you just because it felt right and I wanted to. It must be months ago. There’s no joy left in it.”

  Catherine’s body turned to stone. Oh God, she thought, it’s all fallen apart. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. He had never spoken to her like this before. She had nothing to say.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I’m fucking sorry too. I’m really, really fucking sorry that our happy, relaxed, satisfying love life is out the fucking window. You’ve turned it into sex by numbers. The only thing I want, the only thing in the whole fucking world, is for you to get fucking pregnant so we can get back to normal.”

  Catherine was too stunned to cry, but she was no doormat. “We both want the same thing then. What do you suggest?”

  He glared at her.

  “I know,” she continued. “Why don’t you wank into a bottle, stick it in the freezer, and I’ll inseminate myself with the turkey baster once a month. Then you won’t have to touch me at all.” She held eye contact defiantly until he had to leave the room, unable to think of an appropriate response.

  Downstairs he poured himself a large whisky and put the telly on. His mind was blank with fury. He carried the bottle with him and slumped on one of the huge sofas, wishing he had some cigarettes, although he hadn’t smoked for years. He switched the telly over to the satellite dish and began surfing through the channels, looking for anything that would occupy his mind. All crap. He settled for a Dutch entertainment show that was so bad it comforted his bruised ego. BBC2 was the Shakespeare of channels, and it was his channel. He poured another whisky and relaxed a little.

  The programme finished and was followed by an erotic performance of extraordinary explicitness by British standards. He watched, fascinated and embarrassed to start with, and then realised that he actually found it quite titillating. In fact he was becoming aroused. He gazed objectively at this very attractive woman as she undulated for the camera as if she was enjoying herself, and had an idea.

  Twenty minutes later he climbed back up to the loft room and put a turkey baster and a cup of semen down next to Catherine. She was lying awake, re-playing the row in her head and trying to make sense of it all.

  “There you are,” he said irritably. “It’s all yours. I’m sleeping in the living room,” and stalked off again. Catherine’s jaw fell open and he had gone before she thought to reply.

  At breakfast the following morning the atmosphere was dire. Sarah tried to keep a low profile, assuming that it was because she was leaving. Chris felt bad for her and tried to lighten up by asking her whether she would look for a new post in Edinburgh right away, unfortunately Natasha was listening and wanted to know what was going on. On realising that her beloved Sarah was leaving her she wept inconsolably and Chris set off for work feeling a total bastard for not waiting so they could break the news to her gently. Catherine said nothing about it but he knew exactly what she would be thinking.

  Even Selina’s pleasant smile failed to crack his misery, and the prospect of a morning with the Drama Department was enough to make him seriously consider calling it off. He wasn’t required to go through this process, he could deal entirely through Peter if he wished. However it would look a lot
better if he saw it through. This time the conference room had a huge table down the middle, equipped with water jugs and stacked plastic beakers. The woody smell of French tobacco hit him as he crossed the threshold. “Let’s have a vote on smoking. All those in favour?” A few hands began to rise as people caught on. He continued quickly. “All those against?” Twenty hands went up. “That’s clear enough. Cigarettes out please gentlemen.” Chris briskly opened the meeting, reminding them that he was looking forward to hearing their pitches for all the slots he had available. “Okay,” he concluded. “Let’s start with the contemporary serial. Who’s first? Or shall we just go round the table?”

  There was a brief pause, then Peter asked Fenella to summarise the situation.

  “We have a number of projects under option, with two leading contenders ready to go, more or less. One by Tony Scott, one by Billy Trowell.” Chris nodded, remembering his recent conversation with Billy’s agent with distaste.

  “Yes, I’m aware of both projects,” he said confidently. I have the Scott scripts in my office I’ll be reading them shortly. What about the Trowell scripts?”

  “Ah… how are they coming on, Stewart?” Fenella innocently passed the buck to Stewart Walker, who always produced Billy’s shows, although she knew perfectly well that they had fallen out badly and were not currently on speaking terms. Stewart adopted a thoughtful expression.

  “It will be compelling. Original. Dark, perhaps very dark. Challenging, certainly. Controversial. Powerful.”

  “When can I see the scripts?”

  “When they’re ready. I never circulate scripts before they’re at final draft. You can take my word, Chris. I always deliver what I promise.” Chris absorbed Stewart’s words sagely, and saw an opportunity to rid himself of the whole problem by simply doing nothing.

  “That’s fine, I understand. You must work in the way you choose. Who am I to interfere with the artistic process?” He smiled pleasantly and Stewart inclined his head in acknowledgement, his vanity allowing him to believe that Chris had come round to Stewart’s point of view. Chris was relieved that the Trowell problem could be shunted out of sight into the future. He already expected to go with the Scott project. Selina’s enthusiasm meant more to him than the egotistic hyperbole of those he considered drama queens. He was about to ask for cult series proposals when another voice piped up.