I waited expectantly for his pronouncements on Jill’s proposal, while he skim-read it again and collected his thoughts. Then he looked at me over his specs.
“An intriguing choice of subject,” he said. “Do you think the world’s ready for it?”
“I think so, yes,” I replied without drawing breath. “Why not?”
He smiled. “I think so too. Depending on how we handle it.” My heart beat fast at this hint. “I want to know more. I do have some reservations.” I nodded furiously and waited for pearls to fall from his lips, ready to catch and save them on strings. “I like the simplicity of it,” he continued. “But I wonder what the tone will be, given it’s about a controversial relationship. I wonder whether it might be very romantic, or have an edge to it. I’m not sure there’s enough going on to sustain three hours of drama. Tell me how you see it.”
He’d put his finger on the missing element, I saw that immediately. “What I want to do is make it utterly truthful and involving. It should be romantic but not sentimental – it should tear Sharon apart. It would be really awful breaking up her family, but she has to do it – and the audience must be with her every step of the way, regardless of their moral opinions. She breaks three taboos, but I want the audience to feel that in spite of everything, this relationship is so strong that the tragedy would be to deny it.”
“Like Doctor Zhivago.”
“In a way, yes!” I was thrilled by the analogy. “I want it to be funny here and there, and happy as well as sad. There should be a sense of triumph at the end, rather than escape – there are no baddies and goodies, it’s about fully rounded people. The point is that you have to engage with life and live it, not settle for half a life because convention dictates. That’s a message she wants to pass on to her little girl, even though she has to leave her behind.”
“Not easy,” commented Basil. “Not many people would agree with that.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’m not sure I agree with her myself, but I respect her decision. It has to be challenging, otherwise it’s just another soppy love story. It’s a fine balance, we’ll have to get it right.”
“What about Sharon’s husband?”
“He’s pretty appalled of course, and cut to the quick, but their love isn’t that strong otherwise she wouldn’t have found her true partner elsewhere. He comes round, up to a point – he’ll find a better partner too, in time. But he does feel very betrayed because he’s a decent bloke and he’s never let Sharon down. He’s a good father too, and he’s damned if he’s going to let her take Chloe away from him.”
“Hmm, it’s very linear, isn’t it?”
I sighed, realising how right he was. “We could use flashbacks? Or make things more complex – what if Luke’s connected to Sharon and John in another way – maybe Chloe’s actually fifteen, and he’s going out with her – then he falls in love with her mother?”
“Romeo and Juliet’s Mother!”
“Yes, well, maybe not. Shall I take it back to Jill and see what she can come up with?”
“Yes, do that. The other issue is the shape of it: it seems that three-parters are going out of style with the controllers, especially if we want to get this on BBC1. It’ll have to be twice ninety minutes instead.”
“No problem,” I assured him. “We just structure it with one cliff-hanger instead of two. Can we commission Jill at this stage?” I mentioned this with false nonchalance.
“Yes, as soon as possible,” was the unexpected reply. “I can still commission treatments without running it past this new editorial board they’ve set up, but who knows how long that’ll last. We must smuggle as many good projects through as possible while we can.”
“Wonderful, thanks so much!” I could have hugged him. Whilst it was going so well I risked another step, “I was wondering whether I might possibly be able to produce this one, if it gets that far?”
“I think that would be a very good plan,” said Basil, astonishingly.
“Would you be Executive Producer?”
“Certainly.”
“Wow. Thanks so much!” I couldn’t think of any other response. I was bowled over. You could have knocked me down with a flicked paper clip. I really hadn’t expected it to be this easy… it wasn’t.
“There’s another project I’d like you to have a look at,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“It’s something of Jonathan’s,” he said, and I held my breath. Oh no. “It’s going to be his first role as producer, and he needs a good experienced script editor. Preferably a Welsh one. I thought of you right away.”
What could I say? It had to be yes.
I tried to forget about Jonathan’s project whilst I got on with my own. Ordinarily I would have gone straight to his office to introduce myself properly and offer my services, but I decided to let him find me instead. I resented the idea of his being above me in seniority, given that my own experience was much greater. He might have worked with Basil for five or six years, but I had many more broadcast hours on my cv. To put it bluntly I considered myself better qualified than he was to produce his show, but I was expected to assist, hold his hand in case he made a bad decision, and tactfully save him from disaster. Add that to my Welsh chip and my dislike of posh Englishmen, and it made an explosive brew. Poor Jonathan!
It was a couple of weeks before he knocked at my door. By that time the editorial board had commissioned both of our projects to first draft. I had made up my mind that my show would go ahead, and his would be dropped. Mine would be a howling success, win BAFTAs galore, and his would be quietly forgotten. Does this sound a tad arrogant to you? Me too. Embarrassingly so. But that’s what happens when people are set against one another to compete for living space: they fight to the kill. Clever people are just as bad as anyone else. They knife one another metaphorically, which can be a fate worse than death.
He stuck his head round my door and said, “Jones the Script, I presume?” with a half-hearted twinkle and jolly eyebrows. I detached my eyes from what I was reading and stared at him, open-mouthed. How long had he spent working on that line? It was worse than I’d expected. He looked embarrassed and asked if he could come in. I recovered myself, gave him a seat and offered coffee, which he refused. He began making small talk in a polite effort to find common ground.
“Nice office you’ve got here.”
“Yes, not bad. Not much of a view, but at least it’s not too small.”
“Is that Snowdonia? Looks beautiful.”
He was looking at a little print my dad gave me that I like to keep on my office wall. “Cader Idris, actually. Have you been there?”
“No, but I know the tune, I think – it rings a bell from my schooldays.”
I was beginning to feel guilty for having made him do all the running. There was a status imbalance in making him come to my office, as if I were the senior officer. I rather enjoyed playing the cactus, if I’m honest. The truth is that the irritating aspects of Jonathan’s poshness had by this time evaporated, but I hadn’t noticed and didn’t want to know. I was happy to leave him in the box marked rejects. However, part of the script editor’s role is to act as the producer’s assistant, it’s understood that you’re on that career trajectory and you learn an enormous amount that way. It’s up to the producer to decide exactly what tasks you carry out, the more willing and versatile your response, the better. I had no right to give Jonathan a hard time, however prejudiced I was. I decided to start afresh.
“I’m really sorry I haven’t been to see you before. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own project – ”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting to see you before it was commissioned,” he assured me. It was gracious of him, there was no edge of sarcasm at all. “I don’t want to interrupt you, I’m just dropping off the proposal for you to look at. Maybe we can have lunch soon and talk about it?”
“Yes of course,” I said, surprised. “We can talk now if – ”
“No no, that’s fine. When you’re ready.” He smiled again and got up to go.
“Thanks, I’ll look forward to reading it.”
He left, and I thought with relief, that wasn’t so bad, he’s not going to power-trip me. Maybe he’s alright. I glanced at the proposal and decided to read it, I was expecting Jill to come in for lunch, and I had time to spare. I leaned back and propped my feet on the desk.
It was called The Medical Miracle and was by Jim Johnson, a writer I knew only by reputation. His story began with a Welsh hill farmer attempting suicide because of mounting debts. His son found him just in time and his GP managed to save him. The farmer then explained it was impossible to make a living from farming any more, and how he felt a failure since the land had nurtured many generations of his family. It was much bigger than a simple business collapse; it was a matter of identity, of national history…
I threw it down, stood up and walked to the window. I could hardly believe what I’d read. It was practically a carbon copy of Maggie’s Welsh project, which she’d put so much effort into, and which had been cruelly rejected by Chris at the big meeting. That was why she’d given up on development and gone off to Casualty. Jonathan was at the same meeting, wasn’t he? He must have heard it all. He’d pinched the idea, changed it a bit and flogged it under another title to BBC1. Outrageous! Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Perhaps he didn’t care. Maybe he thought it was acceptable to steal ideas. I picked up the slim proposal to finish reading it, but the phone rang, it was reception to say that Jill had arrived. I stuck the thing in a drawer and stomped off.
The canteen occupied the ground floor of one of the office blocks, and offered part of the menu available over the road in Television Centre. As we waited in the queue Jill pointed to a tiny newspaper cutting that someone had stuck on one of the pillars. It was the logo for the new national lottery, a hand with the first two fingers crossed. Someone had written underneath it: The New BBC Logo.
“Who said satire was dead?” I said. A few people around us laughed, and then Morag the sour-faced administrator stepped up and tore it down without a word. I looked at Jill and pulled my mouth down.
“Watch your step,” she whispered. “Don’t rock the boat.”
“You’re right,” I answered, shrugging pleasantly towards Morag. “Never attract the attention of Medusa. Not until you absolutely have to.” We moved forward and put our trays down by the till operator who checked off our dinners, and then headed into the seating area. A hand waved from the far corner.
“Oh look, there’s my friend Carmen Phillips. Do you know her?” Jill said. She was writing for Eldorado when I was there. She’s with Anthea Onojaife from EastEnders. Shall we join them?
“By all means.”
“Hi! Sure we’re not interrupting?” Jill greeted her friend with a peck on the cheek, and nodded to Anthea, whom she had once met at Carmen’s house. “This is Rhiannon Jones.”
I knew Anthea by sight from her time as a secretary, so it was nice to meet her properly now that she was a script editor too. We unloaded our trays as they made room for us.
“This is the only thing I really like about Centre House,” I remarked. “It’s as if the department has its own canteen. Great for running into people.”
“Yes, good for gossip,” said Anthea, her eyes slipping above and beyond me. “But it does have its downside, if you know what I mean.”
“Who’s just come in?” I had my back to the door.
“Donald Mountjoy and a bilge tank.”
Jill and Carmen giggled and stole glances at the two men, one lean and elegant, the other soft and saggy.
“Who’s the bilge tank?” ventured Carmen.
“How dare you call him such a thing!” said Anthea. “I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice tank.”
“He’s a management consultant,” I explained. “He’s been brought in to assess the department and find ‘efficiency measures’. I’m surprised Donald’s even giving him the time of day.”
“Maybe he knows something you don’t?” suggested Carmen, and I feared she could be right.
“So how come you’ve got time to sit around in Shepherd’s Bush when you’ve got three shows a week to turn out?” I asked Anthea.
“My contract’s up in a couple of weeks, and it’s just been confirmed I’m coming down here to do development for six months.”
“Brilliant! Who are you working with – not Fenella?”
Anthea’s eyes widened at the thought of working for her old boss again. She shook her head firmly. “Just on my own, working directly to Peter. He wants me to find black and asian writers and develop projects with them.” She glanced toward Carmen who took a mock bow, and I allowed my jaw to drop open – this was new. “They’ve just realised that they’re way behind the times and have to make up a lot of ground. The Commission for Racial Equality embarrassed the hell out of the governors recently, and the buck’s been whizzing from office to office ever since. Then I turned up at the right time, I suppose, Peter practically kissed my feet. He had to have a black script editor on the job or he would have looked ridiculous.”
“Surely you’re not the first black editor?” asked Jill.
“No, there have been a couple, but they didn’t stick around long. For one reason or another.”
“Now’s your chance!” Carmen raised her eyebrows and looked mysterious. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?” said Jill.
“We have had rather a fine idea,” admitted Carmen, looking at Anthea. “But is it safe to speak?” She looked under the table. “Can’t see any bugs. It’s about racism in the Metropolitan Police.”
I remembered Jonathan’s project and sat up suddenly. “Shhh! Don’t tell us here.”
“Why not?”
“People might be listening. It’s not safe.”
“Come on, it’s hardly an issue of national security,” said Anthea.
“I don’t mean that – people here have no compunction about nicking ideas and passing them off as their own. Really. I was given a proposal this morning that’s just like Maggie’s project. Hers got turned down, but this one comes from the golden boy so it’s been commissioned.”
“No!”
“Who’s the golden boy?” asked Jill. I shuddered dramatically.
“Don’t make me say his name… d’you know how he greeted me? Jones the Script!”
They all laughed, as much at my indignation as at Jonathan’s feeble joke.
“So who is he?” Carmen also wanted to know. Anthea’s eyes drifted beyond me again.
“Proulx the Prick, of course!”
Amid their laughter Anthea murmured, “He’s behind you… ” I froze.
“You’re joking,” I whispered.
“Sorry, I’m not. He just sat down.”
“Did he hear?” She shrugged. I dared to turn round briefly, and found that Jonathan was alone at his table, his back to mine. He must have heard me, but he was tucking into his dinner, pretending he hadn’t. I beat my head with my fists. What a stupid cow! Jill and Carmen thought it was very funny.
“Don’t worry, he’ll cope.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I’m supposed to be his script editor on it.” They gazed at me, commiserating. I wondered what to do. Should I turn and apologise? Yes, I should really. But I would look such a complete and utter fool.
Anthea patted my hand. “He might not have heard. It’s noisy in here.”
I smiled weakly, and decided to take that chance, avoiding certain humiliation. “Let’s change the subject.”
“You know my office is next to Stewart Walker’s?” Anthea said. “He’s not in today. Guess where he is.”
“Bangkok?” suggested Carmen.
“No.”
“Having a nose job?” I asked.
“No. That’s funny, though.”
“Where, then?”
“He’s defending himself at a tribunal. The last temp but one reported him for sexu
al harassment.”
“No! What’ll happen to him?”
“God knows. I just hope he gets over his filthy temper before he gets back. I can hear him shouting through the wall.” We grimaced at the thought of what his secretaries had to endure. There was a pause.
“Shall I get some coffees in?” I offered, getting up. I carefully avoided looking in Jonathan’s direction, collected my crocks and took my tray away. I returned with another loaded with four coffees, by which time I was relieved to find him gone. He had more sense and sensitivity than to stick around. I felt I’d let myself down, despite his despicable crime. I like to feel I’m on the moral high ground so I resolved to be more discreet – and to avoid him as much as possible.
Chapter Eleven
Jill felt truly happy knowing that she’d been commissioned to write the first draft of Lover Boy. Sharon and Luke had got under her skin, and the commission was somehow equivalent to giving them permission to live. She couldn’t wait to get started. Writing the treatment had been relatively easy. It had all flowed out of her in a satisfying stream, rather like reaching a toilet when you’re bursting for a pee, she observed to herself with a smile, as she took a little watering can out onto the balcony to water her pots of marigolds and tomatoes. The project marked a step up in her career, being her first BBC1 drama serial, and it was great to be working on something she felt a hundred per cent enthusiastic about. However she couldn’t start right away as she had to attend a parents’ meeting at Sam’s school that evening.
She’d lived alone with her son in her pleasant Crouch End flat since a relatively amicable divorce around five years previously. Her ex lived locally and saw their son every week. Sam was near the end of his first year at secondary school, and there were signs of adolescence beginning. Jill was conscious that she needed to give him space, but it was difficult.
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