All to Play For

by Heather Peace

  “That’s it exactly,” replied Nik. Chris continued reading.

  “‘They are able to survive quite easily as everything they need is available, but they need to find out where they are, and how to get home. This mystery and motivation underlies the entire series. Once they discover they’re in a biome they realise it could be anywhere in the universe, and it must have been created by someone – or something – for a purpose.

  “It’s not long until others find themselves in the biome via the same route. Later, other worm-holes link the biome to other parts of the universe and the possibilities are endless. Romance, humour, warmth, music, fun, fear and conflict: all human life is here, and quite a lot of alien life, too.’”

  Chris paused and nodded, then flicked through the following pages which included costings.

  “Very impressive price, Nik. A drama series for the twenty-first century, for sure.” Nik thought so too. “But I couldn’t possibly commit this far ahead.”

  “If we start by making thirteen eps, the price triples.”

  “I realise that, but still… ”

  “This show has everything, Chris. You can see that, I can tell. It’ll knock the soaps into oblivion. It’s sci-fi, drama, and entertainment – all wrapped up in one fabulous show, with great music. It’ll have a big name guest star every week – we can put anyone in, sports stars, celebrities – not just actors. And we’ll find eight new young faces and turn them into big stars.”

  “Like Friends.”

  “Friends in space! But much better stories, Chris. This ain’t a little sitcom, it’s a major drama series. Ambitious, I grant you, the story potential’s infinite. I’m going to be completely honest with you. I know I can sell this show, and it’s going to be massive. But I’d like you to have it. I’ve enjoyed making The Soap Ashes for you, I really have, and I want you to have this one. BBC1’s the place it should be. But I do mean to keep the rights, you know that’s non-negotiable where Magenta’s concerned. I’m giving you first refusal. You’ve been very happy with The Soap Ashes, and I’ll guarantee you’ll be even more pleased with Bus Stops Here. That’s the working title, by the way – we’ll find something more charismatic.”

  Chris nodded. There was no denying that The Soap Ashes had been very good for BBC1, and he was very tempted to snap this project up. It smelled of success. Never a man to throw caution to the wind, however, he reminded himself that Nik had no experience of drama whatsoever, and the show could only be made if he committed to a staggering 26 hours from the outset, which was unheard of outside the USA. It would soak up a large proportion of his drama slots, and other shows would have to make way for it. On the other hand, if he let this go, he might lose the precious ratings lead that BBC1 was fighting to maintain against its old rivals ITV, and he was all too conscious of ever-increasing competition building up from Channels 4, 5, and the proliferating cable channels. Supposing he declined this show, and one of them picked it up and scheduled it against EastEnders? It could ruin him.

  The price for this series was cheaper per hour of drama than any other, if he accepted the volume. Magenta really knew how to cut corners. Their entertainment shows were good quality for popular, accessible entertainment, but could they deliver drama which would match BBC standards?

  “Who produces, Nik?”

  Nik picked up this signal that Chris had identified a significant weakness, and leapt to strengthen it. “Not me, that’s for sure – I’ll be an exec producer but this needs a drama pro.”

  “An in-house team. A co-production.”

  Nik wasn’t giving half his show away that easily. “Very happy for you to name the producer, Chris, you have the best in the world here, and I’m happy to give you the last word on the most vital member of the team.” Chris’ eyes brightened, surprised to hear Nik backing off. He was the toughest negotiator Chris dealt with. “But I need them on my team, they’ll have to resign from the BBC and become a freelance employee of Magenta. Anything else just gets too complicated, you know what I mean.”

  Chris was disconcerted by this proviso, but it sounded logical. It would give him the best of both worlds, in a way. He nodded thoughtfully. Nik saw that he was going to capitulate, and he chose to show respect for Chris’ higher status.

  “Would you like me to commission some scripts? I realise it’s a big ask, expecting you to make a decision on the strength of an idea and a successful working relationship – ”

  “No no, I can see the potential. And I know how fast you work at Magenta. Enviably fast!” He shared a wry smile, took a deep breath, and put both hands flat on his desk as he looked Nik in the eye.

  “I’m in,” he said, simply.

  Nik restrained his smile and offered his hand: “You’ve made the right decision, Chris. This show will be the making of us both. It’s going to be the biggest ratings winner since Morecambe and Wise.”

  They shook hands warmly, if a little nervously, and Nik took his leave. Chris wandered to his window overlooking the car park and Wood Lane. His heart was beating rather fast and he questioned his decision. Should he have consulted his staff? That would have entailed weeks of meetings and arguments, ultimately a waste of time. Chris’ intuition was clear, the future of television lay with Nik, and those like him. The industry was changing radically, with de-regulation, globalisation, and the new digital media. Sink or swim. Ride the waves or drown beneath them. It was up to Chris to ensure the BBC stayed in the lead, and he sensed that Nik was not just swimming with the current but out in front. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ he reminded himself, as he watched a tiny, ant-like Nik emerge into the car park and get into a cab. He decided to trust Nik’s judgement where drama was concerned: he reckoned it was a risk worth taking.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Looking back from the twenty-first century I’m reminded of Chariots of Fire. We were like those muscular young men in their prime pounding along the beach in slow motion, full of innocent youthful ambition, forging through the wind and spray. It didn’t feel like a rat race at the time; rather a heroic pitting ourselves against one another to achieve our utmost. We had energy and resolve to spare, and we weren’t distracted by children and financial pressures like we are today. Now that young graduates have to start their working lives up to their eyes in debt they miss out on that glorious decade or so of working for love, not money. We’ve robbed them. As a parent, the one thing you want above all is to give your children a better life than you had yourself – or at least a life that isn’t any worse.

  Jonathan and I were both struggling to make the pace as we developed our scripts, desperate to win our heat and move up to the next stage. I had successfully avoided him since the writers’ party, burying my embarrassment and regret at having effectively removed myself from his project. I was completely focussed on Lover Boy and determined to make my mark with it. I had total faith that it was going to be brilliant, as if letting doubt creep in would undermine it. I’d stayed in close contact with Jill, and we’d become good friends, I admired her life as a single parent and a writer. She had a successful career and Sam seemed a nice boy, if rather reserved – he didn’t chat when I was around, at any rate. From where I was standing Jill seemed to have the work-life balance sorted pretty well. In retrospect I realise that she must have been fairly reliant on her ex-husband financially, which must have been more of a strain than she let on.

  At this point it was Nik Mason who was pulling ahead of the bunch, he was almost level with Chris in the metaphorical mile. Bus Stops Here promised a sea-change in the early evening schedules and this affected the Drama Department radically as we were pushed aside. With a plummeting demand for in-house drama it became impossible to keep all the staff, and a quiet purge began to take place. Offices were suddenly empty, as if thieves had broken in during the night and stripped out their inhabitants as well as their contents.

  Jill was blissfully unaware of this as she finished the first draft of Lover Boy. Whenever she was
in the flow of writing she lost all sense of herself as an individual and became caught up in a kind of bliss, as if dreaming but aware and in control, detached from daily life, but fully alive. She found it immensely fulfilling.

  Finishing the last page, she leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. She clicked save and print, and went in the kitchen for her reward: a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee. It was a great feeling, finishing a script, although it usually only lasted a few hours before the doubts and anxieties set in. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

  A key turned in the front door, and Sam slouched in with his father, who was carrying Sam’s overnight bag.

  “Hello darling,” welcomed Jill. “What great timing. I’ve just finished. Had a good time?”

  “Yeah,” said Sam.

  “Give us a kiss, then.”

  Sam gave her a peck on the cheek with poor grace. Jill tutted. “Coffee, Neil?”

  “Yes, why not.”

  Jill poured another cup and they sat down at the kitchen table, while Sam went and put the television on. Jill cut two slices out of the cake.

  “How’s the selection procedure going?” she asked.

  “The first lot turned me down. The second – well they did too, but it was a close contest. I’m up for another one next week though, which is a much better bet.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Birmingham.”

  “Not too far away.”

  “No. I really want to get this one. It has a Conservative majority of two thousand at the moment. I really think I could win it.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I suppose it’ll mean a pay rise?”

  “Yep. I suppose you’ll be putting in for increased child expenses.”

  “You suppose right.”

  “Mind you, you can’t be short if you can afford to buy Sam Nike Airs.”

  “You what? I thought you bought them.”

  “He told me it was you! So where did he get them?”

  “Don’t ask me.” Jill’s appetite for chocolate cake receded. She sighed heavily. “Has he talked to you about these new friends at all?”

  Neil shook his head guiltily. “I didn’t want to push it, Jill. Sorry.”

  “Let’s ask him now, then.”

  “Do we have to?”

  Jill shouted for Sam to come in, and he shouted back inaudibly.

  “Leave it for now, Jill, it’s late. I’ll definitely talk to him next time.”

  “Alright then. I’m pretty knackered myself.”

  *

  When I read Jill’s first draft of Lover Boy I was very pleased with it. It needed some work, but essentially the characters and dialogue sprang off the page and were immensely likeable and believable. I called her to say so, and arranged for her to come in and discuss it with me and Basil. I then settled down to work through it carefully, identifying where there was room for improvement and possible solutions. I had a suspicion that she might be too closely involved, there was a lack of suspense because Sharon and Luke were so nice.

  Two days later I went to Basil’s office for our pre-meeting, to go over our notes before Jill arrived. I went along the corridor humming, feeling bright and cheerful, looking forward to hearing Basil’s thoughts which were bound to be valuable, and hoping he’d think my own points were astute. All being well, we were on course to get Episode Two commissioned.

  Basil’s PA was on the phone arguing with someone about the mail. Since the service had recently been privatised, nearly all the long-standing posties who worked out of the post room in the bowels of Television Centre had been replaced. Those discreet men and women knew everybody in the building, and would re-direct mail promptly to anyone who moved office. As this happened to most of us several times a year, according to the demands of production, they were invaluable. The management flatly refused to recognise this and sold off the franchise to a private company which brought in new, uncommitted workers on much-reduced wages. Now the mail was slow and unreliable, and something important of Basil’s had disappeared completely. His PA didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with her enquiries. I went through to Basil’s office and found him looking unusually despondent.

  “Sit down Rhiannon,” he said, like a doctor with serious news to impart. I wondered what had been lost.

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said simply. “Lover Boy is no more. It’s been dropped.”

  For a moment I couldn’t take it in. I hadn’t realised its existence was under threat at that particular time. “But they haven’t seen the script yet!”

  “No, they don’t intend to. Chris told the editorial board yesterday that he’s chosen his serials for next year and he sees no point in continuing development on anything else. He sees that as a waste of money.”

  “So that’s it? Just like that?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

  I just gawped at him like an idiot. He looked sympathetic and strained. I realised he probably had much bigger problems on his plate and I ought to get out of his hair, so I got a grip on myself.

  “Okay, I understand. That’s life. What about Jill? She’ll be here in half an hour. Do you still want to meet?”

  “There’s no need. You may as well break the news yourself.”

  “No problem. Thanks Basil, for everything.” I smiled ruefully and left in what I hoped was a professional manner. In the corridor I passed Jonathan on his way in. We muttered hello to each other, then I slunk off to my office and closed the door behind me, grateful I didn’t have to share it as I sank to the carpet and had a little weep. Then I kicked myself for having put all my eggs into this one basket, which had just been flattened by a tank.

  I went to Centre House Reception to meet Jill and take her to the canteen for coffee. Sitting on the foam-upholstered bench wondering how to break it to her I was struck by her pink-faced glow of happiness as she pushed open the glass door. I put on a neutral smile and greeted her with our customary double kiss, then we went out through the car park which was clogged with people standing around.

  “Is there a fire drill?” asked Jill.

  “No, they’ve banned smoking indoors.”

  She chuckled and noticed that each person nursed a fag end, sucking on it with furtiveness, embarrassment or defensive boldness.

  In the canteen I parked Jill at a corner table and went to fetch some coffees, then sat down and went through the usual pleasantries before breaking the real subject as gently as I could.

  “The fact is,” I explained. “There’s no room for it now. The controller’s decided he doesn’t want it after all. The slot’s been filled.”

  Jill looked horrified and bewildered. “But I’ve got a contract! Don’t they like the script? Can’t I rewrite it?”

  “No-one else has read it, Jill. It’s really good, so don’t imagine it’s got anything to do with the quality of your work, it hasn’t. Basil will sign the acceptance so you’ll get all your money on Episode One, but there’s no point doing any further work on it. I’m so sorry.”

  Jill stared at her coffee and shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Just like that!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you put up a fight?”

  I wasn’t expecting that, and was taken aback. “I didn’t get the opportunity.” She didn’t look convinced. “They made the decision and passed it down the line. That’s how it works these days.”

  Jill frowned, trying to make sense of it. “But what about these big meetings, and lobbying, and development for new slots? Didn’t you say that’s the new way? I thought we were on track… ”

  “I know. So did I. Believe me, I’m more upset than you are.” Jill’s eyebrows flickered up and down again as she failed to meet my eyes, and I knew she thought I was pretending. It was horrible. I was just being professional, after all, I was a BBC employee, not a freelance, and as such I couldn’t slag off the management, especially to
an outsider on the premises. She sighed heavily and leaned back.

  “The worst of it is I turned down a Casualty a few weeks ago, so now I’m out of work altogether.”

  “Maybe you can take Lover Boy to ITV? Talk to your agent about it.” I said this altruistically, it would be a big wrench to give it up, but Jill took my words differently and her guard went up again.

  “Is that why it was rejected? Too downmarket? Too sensational?” She looked at me sharply.

  “No I told you, no-one read it.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t need to.”

  I began to feel Jill was suggesting that I’d scuppered the project myself, and I resented it. I considered reminding her that it was my idea in the first place, and me that got her the commission, but I couldn’t, so I said nothing. Jill probably took this the wrong way too, since she stood up to leave. She shook my hand – a bad sign – and said, “Oh well, thanks anyway. See you around.” She left briskly, while I sat there like a lemon.

  I soon began to feel more annoyed than sad. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to my side of it, or my feelings. Writers! They take people like me for granted. They think we’re part of the establishment, with big salaries, pensions, psychic stability. They’re egotists. Not all, obviously, but nearly all. Self-oriented. Perhaps they have to be, or they couldn’t do what they do. They’re deeply insecure and often neurotic, longing to be adored, and terrified of the limelight. They look for conspiracy and read between the lines, even when the truth is plain and simple. There wasn’t much I could do, I wasn’t responsible for Jill’s feelings, and I needed to think about my own employment prospects. It was a real shame, but I had a feeling I would never be close to Jill again – and as of today, I didn’t really mind.

  Sam was already in by the time Jill returned, doing homework in his room. She put her head round his door.