All to Play For

by Heather Peace

Billy summoned up his most charming smile for her. “Not as busy as you might think.”

  “Really!” Sally returned it. “Perhaps we should meet for lunch.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” said Billy, rashly picking up her hand and kissing it, which she allowed but didn’t enjoy.

  “I’ll call your agent tomorrow,” she said, hoping to disentangle herself. Billy hung on to her hand. Sally felt obliged to make small talk.

  “So – what made you decide to start writing?”

  Billy thought for a second. “It all began with masturbation fantasies. I thought, these are so good I should write them down for other people to enjoy.”

  For once Sally was lost for words.

  Jill decided to rescue her. “And you’ve never looked back, have you Billy?” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and laughing. Sally looked relieved and laughed too. “I think I saw Muriel looking for you,” Jill continued, attempting to steer him away.

  “She’s an old cow, Muriel,” muttered Billy.

  “Don’t be like that. She’s a very good agent.”

  “She hates me.”

  “Of course she doesn’t.”

  “Everybody hates me.”

  “They don’t, Billy, stop it.”

  “Apart from you. You’re lovely, Jill. Marry me, Jill. Please marry me.”

  “No, Billy. Definitely not.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing. You’re pissed. Shut up.” Jill finally caught Muriel’s eye and delivered her client up. Muriel looked annoyed.

  “Alright Billy, let’s find you a cab.”

  Jill thankfully left Billy protesting that he wasn’t ready to go home yet, and found me seeking her out.

  “Bloody hell fire,” she exclaimed, “I hope we’ve seen the back of Billy for the time being.”

  “It’s hard not to feel sorry for him,” I said.

  “Yeah. One minute you’re the big cheese everyone wants a taste of, and the next you’re stinking and riddled with maggots.”

  “Yuk.”

  Jill sighed and shrugged. “It’s a daft way to make a living, it really is. Why do we put ourselves through it?”

  “Why do you?”

  “Because we can. Because we have to, because it’s all we can do… stop me before I say something really stupid!”

  “Because it’s a sight more fun than doing a proper job, let’s face it.” We looked to where the husky cockney voice had come from, and found a short man in his thirties, wearing a sharp charcoal grey suit with no tie and several earrings. Jill smiled at him.

  “You’re right, why don’t I stop whinging?”

  “It’s a lark ain’t it?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “I suppose life’s what you make it, in the end,” I contributed, hoping I didn’t sound like a Sunday School teacher.

  “Too right,” he said. “I’m on my fourth career already.” He had an energy and warmth about him that was irresistible, and we both wanted to hear more. “I’ve been a floor trader in the city for the last five years, shouting futures. What a game that is. Made a packet though.”

  “I couldn’t do that in a million years,” murmured Jill.

  “Nah, it’s no place for a nice girl like you,” he said. “They’d trample you underfoot like a bit of bog paper.” His honesty was kindly meant, and we had to laugh.

  “Thanks!”

  “I started out as a street trader; a valuable apprenticeship that was.”

  “Really? Selling what?”

  “Anything you like. Some of it was even legal.” He grinned and winked, we didn’t know whether he was joking or not. His eyes sparkled with native intelligence and the confidence that comes from knowing you can hold your own in the roughest pub. The kind of man who could bounce back from any situation and turn it to his advantage. “Now I sell words. I make stuff up, and they pay me. I get up when I like, I fart around all day, spend a month in the pub and then knock off a script the night before the deadline. Nobody gives a shit as long as it arrives on time. What could be better than that?”

  “Shush,” said Jill, laughing, “don’t give your secrets away!”

  He wasn’t put off. An innocent frankness, no doubt reinforced by wine, drove him to confess. “I’m still getting used to it, I was brought up believing work was work, you know? Physical labour. If my old man could see me now!”

  “What would he say?” I really liked this bloke, he was a breath of fresh air.

  “He’d say, ‘you lucky little bleeder.’ Or words to that effect.”

  Just then Tony Scott put his hand on our new friend’s shoulder. “Ready, Jim?”

  “Yep, whenever. Fancy coming to Groucho’s?” he asked. We didn’t need to discuss it. Carmen was behind him, beaming.

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Okay Jill?” Jill nodded, checking her watch; her mother-in-law Ivy was babysitting, but she wouldn’t mind. We headed for the door, and found ourselves in a small crowd on the pavement waiting for taxis.

  After five minutes standing around we decided to walk there. We set off towards Admiralty Arch and Trafalgar Square, the men walking behind the women. It was a fine summer night and the air was fresh after the smoky gallery. The square was busy as usual, with tourists sitting on the lions drinking from cans and generally hanging out as if it were a happening place rather than a monumental roundabout. We headed briskly up Charing Cross Road, sharing gossip about people we’d encountered at the party. By the time we reached Shaftesbury Avenue, the Groucho Club no longer seemed such an appealing destination; the mood was changing and we’d had our fill of crowds. I could sense Jill’s interest in Tony, and I wanted to help.

  “Is anyone else hungry?” I asked.

  “I am,” said Tony. So was Jill.

  “Let’s go for a Chinese, shall we?” said Carmen. “I don’t mind.”

  We settled into a corner of a Gerrard St restaurant and selected a dozen dishes between us, then tucked into a bottle of wine. Jill sat opposite Tony and smiled shyly. He responded, but I couldn’t be certain whether he was really interested in her or if he was just being friendly.

  “I wasn’t sure,” he began. “Whether you were with that bloke Billy.”

  “Oh no,” said Jill. “Definitely not. He’s sort of a friend. Well actually, I once spent the night with him after a do at the Writers’ Guild. I’ve been regretting it ever since.” We all laughed.

  “We’ve all been there,” said Carmen.

  “Speak for thaself,” said Tony.

  “Go on,” said Carmen. “You must have slept with someone and wished you hadn’t?”

  “No. I’ve never regretted any of them. I’ve always been grateful!”

  “Last of the great romantics, are you?” said Jim.

  “You are, aren’t you!” exclaimed Jill. “How marvellous. We’re all so callous aren’t we, thinking we’re sophisticated and cosmopolitan.”

  “Cherish thy love,” said Tony wisely. “One day it might be all tha’s got left.”

  We all paused to take this in, and Jim laughed it off.

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “More wine, please waiter!”

  After we had eaten most of the food and dropped the rest on the table, Jim began to press Carmen on the subject of the screenplay she was writing for Anthea.

  “I don’t talk about it,” she said. “I’m superstitious.”

  “Come on,” wheedled Jim. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I swear by my last gram I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Okay. It’s about racism in the police force, and it’s based on the Stephen Lawrence murder. You know about that, presumably?” Everyone nodded. “I’m showing it as accurately as possible, without using any of the real people or events.”

  Tony and Jim looked puzzled.

  Jill laughed. “It’s brilliant,” she said. “It’s so simple. Tell them, Carmen.”

  “To get round the legal problems and everything else,” continued Carmen.
“I’ve swapped the races round. The victim is a white boy, and the police force is virtually all black. So are the accused murderers, and most of the population.”

  A slow smile lit up the men’s faces as they shared a look and nodded their approval.

  “That sounds very powerful,” said Tony.

  “And funny,” said Jim.

  “I hope it’s both,” said Carmen. “It’s not really a new idea, role reversal’s been done before, but not on telly. We think it’ll work.”

  “The main worry is whether the BBC will get cold feet about it,” said Jill. “Because the government’s going to hate it. Just imagine!”

  “Maybe there’ll be a new government by the time it’s broadcast? If there isn’t, there’s no hope for any of us, is there?”

  No-one wanted to argue with Tony’s analysis.

  “Okay, your turn,” said Carmen to Jim. “Spill the beans.”

  “Mine’s not in your league, but it’ll be neat if it comes off. It’s a bit naughty.” We all gazed at him expectantly. “It’s about a doctor who takes cannabis as treatment for his multiple sclerosis. It’s very good for that, you know. He wants to prescribe it for his patients, but of course he can’t. He feels a total hypocrite. So then he gets this farmer who’s going bust to grow it and make herbal tea-bags, and he sends his patients round to buy them: job done! Until the plods catch up with him, that is. But then at the end, when it goes to court, the film stops when the jury are sent out to discuss their verdict. Then it’s up to the audience to decide what they think about the situation – we’re hoping Newsnight will run a debate straight after the broadcast.”

  We all agreed it was a wonderful idea. I loved it. “What’s it called?”

  “The Medical Miracle,” said Jim.

  I stared, horrified.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing! I, er, just remembered something.” What could I say? I’d spent the last five hours congratulating myself on being removed from this show, which now turned out to be the best idea I’d heard in my whole career. I realised to my eternal shame that I hadn’t even read the proposal right through. It wasn’t at all like Maggie’s project, and I could have been working with this delightful, funny, original writer; it wouldn’t have clashed with my own project at all, and Jonathan knew that as well as I did. It was set in Wales and Jim was a cockney: that’s why they wanted me on it. I’d assumed Jim Johnson would be Welsh, or at least middle-aged and worthy. It hadn’t entered my head to connect this Jim with it. What a complete and utter idiot I’d been! I broke out in a cold sweat.

  Jill noticed it was ten to twelve and guiltily got up to go, explaining about her babysitter; Carmen said she’d share a cab, and I stood up to go too. Jill’s eyes lingered hopefully in Tony’s direction.

  “I’ll stop for a last one with Jim, and get the last train.” Tony said. “It’ll get me home just before Tracy goes to work.”

  Jill caught her breath, “What does she do?”

  “She’s a staff nurse. Bless her. She’s been supporting me since the pit closed in ’85. I’m hoping to earn enough for her to retire soon. She deserves it.”

  Jill took her leave, disappointed. Carmen kissed the boys goodbye, and I just tried not to cry before I got home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  While I was busy swanking round west London destroying my best opportunities, young Nik Mason was making a far better job of his career. Chris Briggs had picked up The Soap Ashes as his first new commission on being appointed Controller of BBC1, scheduling it before EastEnders with a Radio One disc jockey as host. It had proved a great success, and since Nik had managed to keep the rights, Rex and Haris were overjoyed and gave him a seat on the board of directors. Geordie had been devastated at being dropped, but Nik explained how he had tried and tried, but the BBC were adamant that they must use one of their own top presenters, and in the end he couldn’t lose the project over that. Geordie reluctantly accepted this and Nik took him for a weekend in New York to console him.

  Proud as Rex was of his protégé, he found himself outshone at his own game, and it gradually sapped his confidence. He couldn’t throw his weight around the office with quite the same conviction; he wasn’t always the last resort for consultation by production staff, and he saw a lot less of Nik, who was always tied up in one meeting or another. Rex began to arrive at the casino earlier and earlier.

  Nik had become ambitious. For the first few years he had allowed Rex to guide him, never really thinking about his career beyond achieving the next goal. After all, he had entered the industry by accident. Now he felt he was swimming with the current, it was easy, and he felt very aware of his own strength and power. He was a top professional and had earned his fortune already. He had a superb loft apartment in Wapping with a river view and a Porsche in the subterranean car park. He liked night-clubbing and dabbled in designer drugs, although he was very disciplined and never took too much or indulged too often. He had seen enough to know that he must never let the drugs take control.

  He lived alone. He preferred the bachelor life. He brought men or women home when it suited him and Geordie was still a regular visitor, but he had never yet fallen in love. He wasn’t looking for love. He didn’t need it in his life – in fact he knew it would only get in the way. He was perfectly content to live alone indefinitely. He enjoyed his own company and liked to relax in his apartment, playing loud rock music and sipping a cocktail while he enjoyed the river view. He would look up the Thames towards the City and Westminster, thinking of the famous people who also watched this river flow past their luxury homes – people like Michael Caine (his favourite actor) and Jeffrey Archer (his favourite novelist) – and wondering what the future held in store. Where might he be at the age of 40? Working for Rupert Murdoch? Dining with Rupert Murdoch? Buying out Rupert Murdoch?

  Nik lacked a good enough sense of overview to put his daydreams onto a substantial footing. He was good at dealing with people he could see, at working on his feet, but not so good with paperwork and long-term planning. Politics bored him, as did fine art, opera, and anything else that required a dinner jacket but wasn’t a casino. On the whole, he felt that whatever his approach to life had been so far it must have been the right one, because it had proved phenomenally successful, so he carried on in the same way without attempting to analyse anything. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ was another valuable maxim he’d picked up from Rex.

  When Nik’s father Les was finally acquitted of corruption by the appeal court, no-one was more surprised than Nik. He even felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he should have stood by the old man like his mother did? It made his nine-year absence from the family home all the harder to explain, and he reluctantly went to Ilford to visit Les and Doreen for Sunday lunch, taking a magnum of champagne and an exotic bouquet for his mother.

  “How wonderful!” she blushed. “Oh Nicky, you shouldn’t have. You really didn’t ought to spend your money on us, did he Les?”

  “He can afford it woman, look at him!” Les admonished, thoroughly uncomfortable in the company of this young man of the world who looked like a male model and carried himself like a senior businessman. He had never imagined that Nicky would turn out like this. Thankfully, he still sounded more or less the same.

  “Actually I’m known as Nik, now. Without a ‘c’.”

  “Ooh!” squealed his flustered mum, as if he’d been renamed by royal command. “However will we remember to call you that?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Doreen, embarrassing him still further.

  By the time lunch was over, the atmosphere had relaxed, and the three were beginning to get used to each other. For Doreen it was as if they had lost their son as a teenager and had been sent an angel in compensation. For Les it was an excruciating ordeal of suppressed emotion. For Nik it was painful and tedious. He still had feelings for his parents but he didn’t know how to express them. He wanted them to be proud of
him, but he didn’t want to commit to visiting Ilford on a regular basis. He didn’t know how to sit and chat with them. He felt terribly restless.

  Later he was glad to escape with Les, even if it was only down the road for a pint in the Dog and Duck. He had to submit to being greeted and admired by various old codgers before they could go and sit in a corner by themselves, but soon the beer began to work its magic.

  “Listen Nicky – Nik,” began Les, “I want you to know that I’m terribly, terribly sorry for letting you down all those years ago. I’ve never forgiven myself, and I don’t expect you to forgive me neither. I know I can’t make it up to you, but if I could, I would. There. Nine years I’ve been rehearsing that speech!” He tried to laugh.

  Nik shook his head. “No dad, really, no. It was me that let you down. I’m sorry. You see, to be absolutely honest, I thought you was guilty. What sort of son does that make me?” He smiled ruefully. Les understood that he was forgiven, that Nik was proud of his dad again. Nik respected the triumph in the appeal court and was now complicit in the pretence that Les was innocent. He gripped Nik’s wrist tightly for a full ten seconds, as they both stared into their beers.

  “New beginnings?” Nik raised his beer mug, and Les chinked his against it. They caught each other’s relieved gaze as they drained their glasses.

  Nik came home with a new point of view. In the end, it didn’t really matter whether his father had been guilty or innocent. The only vital thing was the result. The final verdict decided your character in the eyes of the world, and that was far more important than something that might or might not have taken place years before. It seemed to Nik that you could be one person at home, and another in public, but the public persona was the only one that counted. It dictated everything about your life. It was the real you, because it was the one other people related to. The inner you could be safely ignored, kept private; trouble only came from journalists prying into peoples’ lives, pointing out the anomalies.

  Whatever his dad had done and been through, and it must have been pretty damn tough, he had survived and conquered. He was still the same nice geezer, still had his health, his reputation, his house, and his wife. He couldn’t have his job back as he was now too old for it, but he’d been awarded a five figure sum in compensation and a full pension. He was well set up for a top quality retirement. He was a winner. Nik realised that he was, after all, his father’s son.