The Soap Ashes had gone like a dream, as far as Nik was concerned. It had catapulted him into the top band of up-and-coming producers; he laughed when he compared himself to the ‘old school’ staff in the BBC’s own Light Entertainment Department, whose power decreased in proportion to the rise of ‘Johnny come lately’ independents like himself. Young BBC producers were even denied royalties on their own work nowadays. They developed shows for a pittance and argued for them until they were hoarse, whilst a guy like him strolled in behind their backs, secured the gig, and strolled out again dripping gold. He loved it. All those public school accents silenced, those receding chins hanging open. He never showed it of course – that would be vulgar – but alone in his loft apartment he smirked into the mirror.
At this point in his life he had more or less forgotten the Edinburgh incident, and he certainly had no idea at all how close those individuals were to him whenever he visited the BBC. The humiliation had been swiftly overshadowed by events immediately after it. All that remained was a vague memory of having got into a fight for reasons he never quite understood, and being arrested with a group of strangers who then patronised him outrageously. One was an Oxbridge student of the worst kind, and another a boffin from the BBC, and there were some women too. He’d been a child of fifteen, they had no right to put him down so cruelly. This thought spiked his mind one evening as he relaxed on his leather sofa and zapped through the television channels, catching a report from the current Edinburgh Festival. A flicker of anger hurt his chest, and he realised that an ember still glowed deep inside him. He poured another Jack Daniels and pondered this discovery, wryly observing to himself that he must be getting old, if he’d started reliving the past. Dynamic young men only looked forward. It was irrelevant now, and he decided to put it behind him.
As the television presenter rattled briskly through a round-up of new comedians Nik’s thoughts turned once more to his own career, and what his next step would be. How could he improve on The Soap Ashes? How could he make bigger profits, and put Magenta at the top of the ratings chart? Could he keep on making hit shows, or was he a one-hit wonder? He wanted very much to become a notable figure, but on his own terms. He would not bow to the powers that be, nor change himself to suit them. He’d happened on exactly the right way to handle Chris Briggs by sheer intuition, so he would stick to that strategy, and trust his own talent.
The Soap Ashes would take care of itself now. It was a fixture in the schedules of BBC1, gaining up to ten million viewers per week, and it no longer challenged him. Time for a new departure. Not from Magenta. He was happy there and was making a small fortune so there was no reason to move, but he needed a new project, something big. Preferably at the BBC. Despite his feeling towards it, he’d always believed the BBC was the best broadcaster. He had to admit it represented the Best of British Culture, despite the arseholes who ran it. Now if he were in charge… a smile began inside him. What a shake-up he’d give it. All those frightfully charming toffs out of the seventh floor window, one by one. Not literally, but nice idea. He liked a good horror film.
He picked up an A4 pad and began making notes: New hit drama/entertainment show: GIVE EM WHAT THEY WANT. (Another of Rex’s handy hints for budding businessmen.) What do they want? What do they like? What they already have, apparently. So give them more of it. He wrote a list of his own favourite shows, wondering whether he could somehow copy them: STAR TREK, COLUMBO, THE PRISONER, and – he hesitated, but wrote SUMMER HOLIDAY, feeling slightly foolish for admitting how much he’d loved the film since he’d first seen it on telly, aged ten. Cliff, his mates, and a bunch of girls having a whale of a time together, driving a bus across Europe: his fantasy throughout adolescence, never realised. He stared at the four iconic titles and was instantly overwhelmed. Better try another approach. What would make this series a commercial winner? The current buzzwords were: LOW COST, HIGH VOLUME, DIGITAL, INTERACTIVE. He drew circles round the eight words and phrases, and a big question mark. How to fuse them all together into a show? He needed a writer, but he also wanted to own this project entirely (Rule Two). If he were the sole creator of the show he could claim copyright in perpetuity, and if it ran for years he’d become as rich as Croesus, whoever he was. He needed to bash something out before he let a writer near it. SERIES PROPOSAL BY NIK MASON looked good. He only needed a couple of paragraphs.
Next day Nik arrived late at the office, having stayed up till two a.m drafting and re-drafting his proposal, screwing up discarded pages and hurling them, Hollywood-style, at the waste paper bin. Finally he’d had a brilliant idea: that woman who’d written The Soap Ashes concept which he’d bought for peanuts. He’d forgotten her name, but she would be the ideal writer to knock this proposal into shape, and she wouldn’t expect much money. His secretary was soon able to find her contact details and put in a call.
Jill was very surprised to hear from Magenta. She’d seen the success of The Soap Ashes with a sinking heart, kicking herself mercilessly. The one decent commercial idea she’d ever had, sold for a mess of pottage. She was so depressed about it that she’d never even mentioned to anyone else that it was her idea. She’d toyed with asking Magenta for more money occasionally – mostly when bills arrived – but knew she’d be wasting her breath, so she was intrigued when Nik Mason wanted to meet her urgently, and went straight out into the summer heat and caught a bus to Camden Town. The High Street was thronged with catatonic young tourists, and it took a while to weave her way up to the sixties office block where Magenta occupied the top two floors.
Nik was pleasant enough: a smart, attractive young man with the face of a twenty year-old and the confidence of a forty year-old, he was polite, professional and disarmingly modest.
“Ain’t it funny how we’ve never met before?” he exclaimed, as if he’d been longing for it. She shrugged and sipped the coffee she’d been given, which was very nice.
“I normally work in drama.”
“That’s right, I remember. Well. I have a very small job I need doing – a day’s work, no more – and I thought of you right away. I just need a new series proposal tarting up a bit.”
“Okay… ” Jill frowned, wondering whether to say something about how much money he’d already made out of her.
“I’ll pay generously,” he continued swiftly, “I’m not looking to exploit you. How does five hundred sound?”
She nodded, relieved. It sounded a lot for a day’s work.
“Good!” Nik gave her his most appreciative smile. “Here it is.” He pushed a sheet of writing towards her, and she studied it carefully. “Any questions?”
“‘A London bus, full of sexy kids, travels through time’” she read thoughtfully.
“It needs to be unique. And very cheap. It needs enough legs to run for decades, and it’ll lead the field in interactive digital technology.”
“Oh!” Jill had no idea what he was talking about.
“You needn’t worry about that. Just write me a page about the basic storyline, make it sound irresistible. And make sure there’s a slot for a different guest star every week, like Columbo. But we won’t do murder – just now and then, maybe – keep it wide open. Just fill this piece of crap out a bit, can you? Keep the bus central – a big red one. It’s important for overseas sales.”
Jill said she’d do her best.
“Can you do it today?”
“Today?!”
“I’m in a bit of a rush.” The rush was to prevent Jill from discussing the deal with her agent, who was liable to query it this time. Best to get it all sewn up as fast as possible. “You can work here.”
Jill agreed, surprised by Nik’s brisk enthusiasm, but she was keen to impress him. It was a new way of working, and rather refreshing. What a contrast to the tortoise-like BBC. Nik showed her to a well-furnished but baking hot office, and she sat down at the desk.
Nik returned to his own office to find an unexpected visitor had arrived. Since Nik had appointed line producers to look a
fter Geordie Boy’s show their relationship had cooled off to some extent. He hadn’t seen Geordie for a few weeks, and wasn’t entirely pleased to discover him helping himself to the silver box of cocaine he kept in his filing cabinet. He stopped in the doorway to watch Geordie surreptitiously, noting that his hair was limper than it used to be, his face more lined, and his tan less natural. Instead of looking slim and lively, he was thin and agitated.
“You ain’t hooked on that stuff, are you?” he asked.
Geordie smiled humourlessly without turning round. “No man. Don’t you worry. I’m not on it every day, just when I’m tired. Have you seen the schedule I’m on? I haven’t had a holiday in two years.” He sighed with satisfaction as the drug uplifted him. “That’s better. I’ve brought you a new series idea. What d’you think?” He passed a folded bunch of pages to Nik, who sat behind his desk to read them. After a couple of minutes he looked up, waggled his head from side to side, and grimaced.
“I like it Geordie… ”
“But. There’s always a but.” He couldn’t resist adding a murmured: “But never the one you want.”
“It’s a bit bloody camp, ain’t it?”
“So?”
“It’s not really Magenta.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a meeting soon.” Geordie stuck out his lower lip and pondered. Then he got up and walked out.
“Geordie, come back mate. Let’s talk about it. I wasn’t giving you the brush-off, I just wanted to know the time!”
Nik followed Geordie out of the office but found he’d vanished. He checked with reception and then took the lift up to the roof garden, where he saw Geordie standing at the railings in what Nik thought of as his sulking spot. He didn’t notice that Jill Watkins was sitting on the fire escape below with her notes, seeking relief from the hot office. He walked up to the railing and stood next to Geordie, watching the canal traffic creep through Camden Lock.
“You needn’t have anything to do with it,” said Geordie emotionally. “Can’t it be my project? Haven’t I earned that, after all these years?”
“It’s a question of company profile.”
“No it’s not, it’s a question of your profile, you bastard!”
“Geordie, Geordie, come on love.” Nik put his arm round him.
“Get off me! Don’t pretend you love me! I’m sick of it!”
Sitting beneath them on the black metal steps, Jill kept very still.
“You know how I feel about you,” Nik tried to soothe him.
Geordie turned to face him. “Yes, I do. I’ve been kidding myself for a long time. But deep down, I know I’ve never been anything but a shag to you. It could have been so much better Nik, but you wouldn’t let it. You think you’re twice the man because you screw men as well as women. But you’re just another pathetic closet case.” Nik’s face was tight with anger. “This is it, Nik. This is breaking point. If you don’t back this show, I’m getting out of Magenta, and I’m taking it to a company that respects me.” Geordie’s hurt face struggled to maintain determination. Nik’s was icy calm.
“Fine. If that’s what you want, I can’t stop you.”
Geordie stared, tried to speak, then gave up and walked back to the lift, pulling a tissue from his pocket. Nik called, “Good luck,” and turned back to the view.
Jill’s eyes resembled golf balls as she sat without moving a muscle, wishing Nik would leave. Eventually she heard him turn and walk back indoors, so she scurried back inside her office and quickly spread her work out on the desk. Seconds later his head appeared round the door.
“How’s it going?”
“Oh, fine, thanks!”
Nick gave her a thumbs-up and withdrew, to her relief.
A meeting of the board of directors had been called for that afternoon, and Nik needed to prepare himself. He went for a wash and brush-up in the company bathroom, put on his dark suit and re-gelled his hair. A light squirt of good aftershave, a check in the mirror, and he was ready to greet the board members as they arrived.
The boardroom wasn’t grand, but it boasted the most beautiful polished rosewood table they could find, with a dozen matching chairs. As Rex said, the essential feature needed to be classy, the background didn’t matter so much. That proved you had your priorities right, and you wouldn’t waste shareholders’ money. In this day and age a lovely table and views across London were worth more than wood-panelled walls and oil paintings.
The distinguished board members were largely drawn from the fields of banking, business, and the media. Rex, red in the face, was the last to arrive, bustling in whilst they were all perusing the papers assembled by Haris and the company secretary. He sat down and removed his jacket, muttering, “I hope nobody minds,” revealing huge sweat marks on his shirt.
The main topic for the day was acquisition. It was understood that Magenta needed to keep growing continually, and they had been looking for other production companies to take over. Rex had used the subject to pass on his third rule of business to Nik: Apply Pressure. “That’s how diamonds are made,” he intoned, leaving Nik to work out the connection for himself.
Haris was proposing that they invest in a new production company called Sisters in Synch. They were small but had a number of commissions, and the word on the grapevine was that they had the most exciting talent and ideas around.
“Who are they?” frowned Rex, reading the notes Haris gave him. “Anthea who?”
“Onojaife. I don’t know how it’s pronounced.”
“Are they all women?”
“I don’t think so. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” sighed Haris. “Call it a niche market.”
“Sisters in the sink! Best place for ’em!” Rex cackled.
Nik exchanged a look with Haris. This was not the first time Rex had attended a board meeting with half a bottle of whisky inside him. Haris tolerated him with a resignation that was beginning to wear thin.
“Do you oppose, Rex?” he asked tersely.
“Suppose I oppose,” said Rex, chuckling at the rhyme. “Suppose I propose to oppose!” he beamed at the small assembly, especially at the distinguished representatives of legal and financial concerns whom they had gone to a great deal of trouble to recruit, when first assembling the board. They regarded Rex without amusement. He smiled pleasantly at them and continued firmly.
“Suppose my toes, tiddley pom,
Which nobody knows, tiddley pom,
Have lost their clothes, tiddley pom… how does that song go? Anyone remember it?”
“No mate, no-one’s got the foggiest what you’re on about,” retorted Nik.
“It has a familiar ring,” mused the chairman, Sir Geoffrey Spence. “I think you’ll find it’s from Winnie the Pooh.”
“I do believe you’re right, squire!” exclaimed Rex. “There!” he turned to Haris. “I told you this twat would be useful sooner or later.” He burst into gales of laughter as a dozen mouths fell open, staring at him. Haris put his head in his hands and apologised profusely to the chairman, who brushed it off with polite irritation.
Nik took Rex by the elbow and said loudly, “I don’t think that new medication the doctor prescribed agrees with you, Rex, why don’t I take you home?” Rex was hauled to his feet protesting, until Nik hissed into his ear: “Shut up you stupid git before you halve our share value. Say sorry. Now.”
“Actually I do feel a bit funny. I think perhaps I will go home. Please excuse me, gentlemen.”
“Not at all. Go home and rest, Rex. Get a good night’s sleep.” Sir Geoffrey was nothing if not gracious.
Nik drove Rex to his home in Chelsea, which was a mess.
“Why don’t you get someone to clean up?” he asked.
“I had a cleaner but she left. I dunno why. I don’t care. No-one comes here but me.”
Nik parked Rex on a big sofa and stuck the television remote in his hand, then made a cup of tea and put it down next to him.
“Look here, Rex,” he said sternly, standing above him with fol
ded arms. “You’re losing your grip, mate. You need to pull yourself together. What was it you used to say about dead wood?”
Rex tried to focus his befuddled eyes on Nik, who seemed to sway like a genie. “What?”
“Cut it out. That’s what you said. To keep a company healthy you got to prune out the dead wood. Make room for new shoots. Think about it.” He leaned down to make sure his point went home. “You, Rex, are becoming a real liability.” He patted Rex’s cheek gently, then turned and let himself out.
The next day Rex stayed off sick, and the next day, and the one after. Nik called Sir Geoffrey to warn him that it might be necessary to re-structure the company and give Rex time off, or even offer him a retirement package. He hinted that he personally would be happy to take on a more substantial role in the company, but he wouldn’t dream of acting against the interests of the man who had given him a start and had taught him all he knew. Sir Geoffrey said to leave it with him.
*
“‘Eight young people, including a four-piece rock band and some close friends, decide to spend the summer driving round Europe in a London bus, performing on beaches and in town squares. Four boys, four girls, all attractive but mixed in personality, talents, and racial background. In the course of the series they will fall in and out of love, write songs, have adventures, and grow in life experience and maturity.
“The summer looks bright, but it takes an unexpected turn when the bus drives through a worm-hole in the space/time continuum whilst travelling through a rocky pass in northern Spain. They emerge to find themselves in a small but beautiful fertile valley, with a river running through it.
“At first they don’t realise they’ve left Spain, and they’re delighted with the place; however, they need an audience. They explore the area and find to their amazement that they’re in a gigantic biome, from which there’s no escape.’” Chris looked up, “A biome – that’s one of these self-contained eco-systems, is it?”
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