“So what’s changed?”
He shrugged. Jill decided to quit before the conversation became a confrontation. She told herself not to get uptight about it, it was probably just his hormones, and made a mental resolution not to talk to him as if he were a child. “Fruit salad or cinnamon cheesecake for pudding?”
“Yuk. Got any Fab lollies?”
Jill gave up.
Chapter Twelve
The BBC Writers’ Party is an annual tradition, intended as a thank-you to acknowledge the vital contribution they make. Generally very badly paid and frequently messed around, writers work alone with no security of any kind; they have agents to look after their interests but they pay them a high price. You won’t find many writers enjoying the same standard of living as the average agent. Apart from the few who hit the big time writers tend to be nervous and introverted – and who could blame them – they’re powerless until the public cries out for them, and how often does that happen? So they like to be noticed by their employers once a year, and to come and enjoy some free plonk and a good gossip with the outside chance of making new contacts and picking up more work.
I was there, along with a few senior script editors and most of the drama producers, to be nice to them. That year it took place in a large art gallery in The Mall which was deeply trendy but not especially smart, so there was little to fear from clumsy revellers in the way of damage. On the walls hung a series of large unattractive canvases which no-one paid any attention to. I was looking out for writers I knew, and hoping to avoid Jonathan, as I’d succeeded in doing for a couple of weeks since my faux pas in the canteen. The room was filling up quickly as people entered through a security cordon at the top of a short flight of stairs. I saw Jonathan arrive with his girlfriend Selina, Chris Briggs’ assistant. They looked like a pair of film stars on holiday, casually elegant and entirely relaxed, in contrast to the neurotically tense demeanour of the guests. I found them horribly fascinating. It’s not that I wanted to be tall and slim and blonde and socially adept – I’ve always been happy with who I am, honest – I just resented the pecking order, that’s all. Looking back it seems pathetically small-minded. I pretended to look at the art until they had been safely absorbed by the crowd. My avoidance strategy didn’t work; two minutes later Jonathan approached me and I had to say hello.
“I just wanted a quick word, Rhiannon,” he said, and I braced myself. “I’ve been thinking, it’s really not fair to expect you to work on my project when you’re so busy. I’m happy to find another editor if you prefer.”
I was speechless for a moment, and then delighted. His expression showed concern for me and gave no sign of ill-feeling, so I took his words at face value and accepted gratefully. I knew he was letting me get away with bunking off – but what producer wants an uncooperative script editor? He was doing the sensible thing in the circumstances.
He smiled regretfully. “Maybe another time?”
“Maybe, yes,” I replied, not sounding too keen. I watched him ease himself politely through the crowd to Selina, and breathed a big sigh of relief. Now I could enjoy myself. I watched the staircase for new arrivals; they were coming down thick and fast now.
Jill came with Carmen, who looked beautiful with her hair up and gorgeously coloured African jewellery set off by a tiny blue dress. Jill wore a silk outfit, a black dress with a light grey jacket, and pearls. She’d had her hair cut short and styled round her face, which suited her and made her look quite youthful. At least, she had thought so until Sam said she looked like her mother. They paused at the top of the stairs before descending into the now heaving mass of people conversing in a patchy haze of cigarette smoke.
“Can you see anyone you know?” Jill asked Carmen.
“Anthea’s at the far end. Rhiannon’s over there. Oh – there’s Tony Scott!”
“Really? Do you know him?”
“No, I saw his picture in the paper. Let’s go and say hello.”
“Hang on – he’s talking to Billy Trowell. Can we wait until he’s gone?” but Carmen was already beetling down the stairs. Jill followed.
Jill was introduced to Tony, the miner-turned-writer, who was built like a small rugby player, handsome yet diffident. She thought he was gorgeous despite his broken nose, and was keen to talk to him. She was denied this pleasure by long-haired, overweight Billy, who put his huge arm round her and gave her a sloppy kiss which spoiled her make-up.
“Thanks, Billy,” she said sarcastically, wiping her face with a tissue.
“Sorry darling. May I say how incredibly attractive you look tonight?”
“Thanks.” Jill swiftly assessed how much Billy had had to drink; she reckoned four or five. How was she going to keep him at arm’s length? Carmen was already in animated conversation with Tony about his award-winning debut, but Jill couldn’t quite hear it because Billy was whispering loudly in her ear, inviting her to sneak off with him for a quick shag in St James’ Park.
“Billy, darling, I’ve just got here. I need a drink.”
“Let me get you one,” said Billy promptly, swinging round towards the makeshift bar at the back of the room, and spilling the drink of a stout woman who was berating Peter Maxwell.
“Billy, for Christ’s sake!” said his agent, wiping her suit down.
“Sorry Muriel, I’ll get you another.”
“I don’t want another. Get me some water. That doesn’t stain.”
“Fizzy?”
“Of course fizzy.” Muriel turned back crossly to Peter only to find he had vanished.
Jill shuffled up to Carmen and Tony but was pursued by Muriel, who read her name tag. “Jill Watkins. I’m sure I know that name. What have you written?”
Jill took a deep breath. “Eldorado and Casualty. At the moment I’m writing a two-parter for Basil Richardson and Rhiannon Jones.”
“Very good, very good,” said Muriel, impressed. “May I ask what it’s about?”
“It’s a romance, really; star-crossed lovers.” She didn’t want the idea spread around after what had happened to Maggie’s project. Until now she’d thought it was silly to be precious about ideas, but now she felt it was wiser to play safe.
“Ah yes,” said Muriel wistfully. “You can’t beat a good weepie.”
Jill was stuck for an answer to this, but it didn’t matter.
“Who represents you?” asked Muriel, never one to beat about the bush.
“Paul Grant, YTS,” replied Jill reluctantly. Muriel raised her eyebrows briefly in a superior manner.
“Any time you’re thinking of moving up, give me a ring dear.” She winked at Jill, who smiled embarrassedly, both flattered and appalled.
“I’ll get you three times what they get you. They’re far too polite. Far too polite.” She nodded and widened her eyes, which were additionally magnified by her large spectacles. It was alarming.
“Here we are,” shouted Billy, lurching towards them with three glasses in his hands. Muriel and Jill took their drinks with alacrity before the liquid and containers parted company.
“Come along Billy, I want you to meet Chris Briggs,” announced Muriel, leading him off to Jill’s great relief. She turned to Carmen and Tony again, and managed to join in this time. “I loved your serial Tony. Really loved it.”
“Thanks very much,” he said, smiling at her softly. His Nottinghamshire accent was straight out of DH Lawrence and sent her weak at the knees. “I couldn’t have done it wi’out Basil and Jonathan. They taught me everything.” His lack of affectation charmed her.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Jill, “But I hope it is – I’m working with Basil at the moment, I’d love some of his genius to rub off on me!”
“Tha couldn’t do better,” said Tony. “What’s it about?”
Jill launched into a description which was more detailed than it needed to be, to keep Tony’s attention. She glanced at his left hand to see if he wore a wedding ring; he didn’t. His hands were thick and gnarled.
&
nbsp; “You have amazing hands,” she remarked. “Not like most writers – soft and sappy!”
“Awful aren’t they? Miner’s hands. Covered in scars.”
“Oh no, they’re beautiful,” said Jill too warmly. “They’re real, working hands. You should be proud of them. I think you are really, aren’t you?”
Tony smiled sheepishly. “Tha’s too bloody sharp by half. Can I get thee another glass of wine?” Jill accepted happily and turned to Carmen as he left. She was talking to a smart young woman Jill didn’t know.
“Hallo, I’m Sally Farquar-Binns,” she said. “Lovely to meet you,” and shook Jill’s hand.
“Aren’t you a script editor?” asked Jill.
“I used to be,” explained Sally. “Now I’m a development producer, on the lookout for new projects.”
“Oh,” said Jill. “Anything in particular?”
Sally pursed her lips and shrugged. “Series, serials, films. There are a few actors we’re very keen to find vehicles for.”
Jill nodded. It sounded terribly vague, but she seemed a nice woman.
“You’re working with Basil and Rhiannon at the moment aren’t you?”
“Yes. It’s going well so far – but it’s early days.”
“Sounds super. From what I’ve read about it in the lists, you know.”
It was news to Jill that the department circulated details of all its projects, but perhaps that wasn’t surprising. They smiled at each other. Jill felt obliged to elaborate. “Thanks. I’m in the middle of the first draft at the moment, and I’m sort of falling in love with the main character. He’s kind of my dream lover.”
“Oh wow!” said Sally. “Amazing!”
Jill wished she hadn’t said anything. It sounded ridiculous. She was glad when Tony arrived with a drink for her, and took a gulp. Sally was in there like a shot, shaking Tony’s hand and giving him the best angle of her most intelligent expression. In a matter of seconds she had commandeered him so successfully that his back was turned completely to Jill. She sighed and looked at Carmen, who commiserated with a grimace.
The crowd’s attention was called for the host’s speech, which Jill had been looking forward to ever since Maggie told her who he was. She was keen to see the young producer who had been so nice to her when she was pregnant and under arrest in Edinburgh all those years ago. Apparently he had now become a BBC mandarin. The party took a minute or two to quieten down, as many of the writers were well-oiled and enjoying their rare opportunity to sound off in person instead of in print. Finally a non-descript man in a grey suit, standing at a microphone at the top of the stairs, coughed and lifted his hand.
“Hello everyone, and welcome. This is my first writers’ party as Controller of BBC1, and I hope you like the decor – a bit of a change from the usual!”
Jill was surprised, she would never have recognised him. Then again, she hadn’t paid him much attention at the time. She wondered whether he would recognise her, and decided it was very unlikely. They had both changed in their transition to respectable middle-aged media types. Jill frowned at this realisation; her younger self would have been very critical of her older self. She would have seen her television work as drearily mainstream, and even now she saw Chris as a faceless manager, a bean-counter with power. It dawned on her that she had a genuine connection with Chris which she could use, if she wished. Granted, it wasn’t a strong one, but it would be enough to start up a conversation. What could she gain from it?
She realised she had missed the beginning of Chris’ speech, and castigated herself for fantasising about self-interest instead of paying attention.
“As you know, the BBC values its talent very highly indeed, and we’re delighted to see so many fabulously gifted people here tonight. After all, we wouldn’t win any prizes without you lot writing the scripts!” He paused for a reaction, and the crowd obliged half-heartedly. “I know we don’t always pay the highest fees – ” this brought a much louder, spontaneous response – “But rest assured, we care the most. We believe in writer-led drama, and always will.”
As he blathered on Jill’s hopes rose. Chris was evidently one of the good guys. Perhaps he would be interested in her and speed her project along.
Carmen nudged her. “Look, it’s Salman Rushdie!”
“Where?”
“Over there. He’s with Basil.”
Jill scanned the crowd and was excited to see a short, balding Asian man in a group of distinguished older writers and producers; she was amazed that he was attending despite the fatwa against him.
“You’re right! God, I hope no-one takes a pot at him here.”
“I expect he’s got bodyguards.”
“Can you see them?”
“Must be those tall serious guys who look incredibly sober.”
“I thought they were from the Nation of Islam.”
They turned and listened to Chris again. He was telling the writers that they were the life-blood of the BBC and he was looking forward to all the fabulous top-rating shows in the pipeline. He also hoped they would have a great evening, but to please refrain from molesting the ducks across the road, as they were the property of the Queen. The assembly chuckled gamely at his awful joke, seeing no point in upsetting Chris. It was always best to humour the top brass.
A blonde woman with wispy hair excused herself as she eased past Jill to get near the bottom of the stairs, down which Chris was walking to accompanying applause. Descending into the light fog of tobacco smoke he pretended not to see her until she grabbed his arm. Jill eavesdropped, admiring her doorstep-ping technique.
“Chris, hello, I did enjoy your speech.”
“Thank you, er… ”
“Sonia. Longbow.”
“Ah yes, of course.”
“The art gallery makes a lovely change. Far more interesting.”
“I’m pleased you think so.”
“You remember the new writing initiative? I wonder if I might have a quick word about it.”
“Actually I’m in a bit of a – ”
“It won’t take a moment, and I know it’s very close to your heart, as you said at the time.”
“Indeed.”
“You see, I have a terrific list of really talented new writers, drawn from all over the UK; twelve are shortlisted and they all have projects they’re ready and waiting to write for us. The trouble is the development funds have stalled. The new controller hasn’t released them.”
“That’s really a matter for him, not for me Sonia.”
“Yes I know, but I thought since you’d kicked it off you might have a word.”
“It really wouldn’t be appropriate, I’m afraid.”
Sonia’s voice became a fraction more vehement. “The thing is we’re breaking a promise. When the initiative began we told all the applicants there would be twelve commissions offered to the winners.”
“I don’t recall it being a competition.”
“No, not as such, but we did promise commissions to twelve successful applicants under the scheme. It’s all the same.”
“We haven’t announced any winners, though. That’s the main thing.”
“No, I haven’t told any of them yet. That’s why I want the assurance of funds, so that I can get them started.”
“I’m sorry Sonia, it’s out of my hands now. Excuse me.”
Chris politely left Sonia and tried to walk purposefully into the middle of the crowd. She glared at his back, mouthing an unmistakable swearword.
Jill took a deep breath and spurred herself into action. Now or never, do a bit of schmoozing, that’s what parties are about, she thought, tapping Chris on the shoulder. “Hi!” she said shyly. “Remember me?”
Chris frowned. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
Jill patted her belly and grinned. “I was eight months pregnant last time we met,” she chuckled, not really knowing what she was going to say next. “It was in Edinburgh. We got arrested.”
Chris looked pained, the
n half-smiled. “That’s right. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, thanks.”
“Your baby’ll be big now.”
“Yes, he’s twelve. I must say, you’ve done awfully well for yourself!” She wanted to kick herself for sounding such an idiot.
“Thanks!” said Chris, “Lovely to see you again!” and he was gone.
Jill sighed. Effing useless. She’d never get anywhere, she might as well stay at home.
In the corner near the toilets there was a slight disturbance, and a couple of bouncers were heading for it. It was Billy, waving his fist at a disdainful, louche man. Jill could just about hear Billy drunkenly upbraiding him.
“Don’t patronise me, you smarmy intellectual git. I know when I’ve been royally shafted. Channel Four won’t fuck me about, you know!”
The quietly controlled response appeared to indicate that Channel Four was more than welcome to Billy’s talents.
“Peter! Tell this bastard he’s a bastard.”
Peter Maxwell, looking a little tired and emotional himself, resignedly joined the pair and putting a hand on his shoulder, attempted to calm Billy down. Jill was fascinated. The other man must be Stewart Walker, who she knew had produced most of Billy’s work. Billy was no longer a rising star – in fact he was a falling star. Jill sympathised to that extent. Whatever Peter was saying had the required effect, and the bouncers withdrew. Billy looked up morosely and nodded. Then he kissed Peter, Russian style, tweaked Stewart’s cheek in a manner bound to irritate him, and strode towards Jill, who hastily hid behind Sally Farquar-Binns and pretended to be busy.
Sally didn’t disappoint her.
“Hello, it’s Billy Trowell, isn’t it? May I say how much I admire your work!” she began. “Death of a Baby was so moving.”
“Thank you my dear,” growled Billy, cracking a world-weary smile. “It’s good to know there are still people in the BBC who can recognise talent. Sally.” He acknowledged her name tag and twinkled his eyes at her, swaying ever so slightly.
“I’m in development,” said Sally. “But I expect you’re terribly busy.”
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