“Of crap, crap shows?” Anthea’s interjection raised another laugh from her scattered audience. Barry’s composure began to crack. She was working for him, wasn’t she?
“People are always saying the golden age of television is over,” he said crossly, “I say it’s just beginning. In the twenty-first century we’ll see interactive television become established. It’ll be democratic in the truest sense, digital technology will mean ordinary people take ownership of the medium. It won’t be the property of the elite any more. The market will itself create a level playing field, where every minority interest will find its own space, have its own cable channels. There’ll be 24-hour news channels, sports channels, shopping channels – and yes, sex channels, for those who want them. Why not? It’s their choice. Ordinary people will have their own shows, they’ll become stars in their own right. Access for all.”
“To each their fifteen minutes of fame,” commented Jeremy. “Is this the death knell for the BBC?” he asked Chris.
“We’re a very long way from the end of public service broadcasting. This is, purely and simply, cynical doom-mongering. I don’t blame Barry for talking up his new channel of course, that’s his job, but let’s not forget – his viewers are very few so far, and he’s obliged to use, er, tabloid strategies to pull them in.”
“The BBC will never use the equivalent of page three girls to attract an audience?”
“The Reithian principles of education, information and entertainment are still sacrosanct, Jeremy.”
“What do you make of Reithian principles?” Jeremy put Anthea on the spot.
She didn’t pause. “I don’t have a problem with them at all, it would be like criticising the ten commandments. I just think we should move with the times, acknowledge progress – but not by abandoning everything we believe in and jumping on the bandwagon with the barrow boys – sorry Barry, just a figure of speech – ”
“Careful babe,” muttered Carmen, “don’t forget who’s commissioned us.” Jill murmured her agreement. Nik exclaimed irritably, but he expected little else from the woman who had successfully defended Sisters in Synch from Magenta’s hostile takeover bid. Her company was poised to become a major player in the next decade. He poured another drink. Catherine leaned her head back and began to doze.
“What I really care about is creativity,” said Anthea firmly. “That’s what gets lost in the scramble for profits. The difficult subjects tend to get ignored, along with the interesting people. It’s just as damaging as favouritism towards the Oxbridge, home counties types.”
“So instead of a new David Hockney we get a man who stuffs sharks.”
“Exactly, Jeremy. Not that I’ve anything against Damien Hirst, not at all – but we need diversity. If we don’t safeguard it, it’ll vanish.”
“But Anthea, you’re contradicting yourself,” said Chris. “You say on the one hand that you had to leave the BBC to move on with your career, and on the other that the free market militates against creativity – yet that’s where you found your opportunity.” Barry Goodman wished he’d said that.
“I think it’s very sad that I had to leave the BBC. I’d much rather have stayed. And to be fair, it’s not just my colour that’s the problem here. Everyone’s struggling, absolutely everyone. Morale in the Drama Department’s at an all-time low. No-one can get anything remotely challenging commissioned these days.” She looked straight at Chris, whose eyes widened slightly. Jeremy turned to him.
“Why aren’t you commissioning challenging drama?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m no longer a channel controller, the BBC very definitely does commission exciting original work, and Anthea is more than welcome to bring us her ideas,” smiled Chris smoothly. Jill and Carmen grimaced at each other sceptically. Catherine was now asleep with her mouth open. Nik switched his television off and put on a CD.
Jeremy turned to Anthea and asked a question with genuine interest, “If you were Director General of the BBC, what would you do?”
She chuckled at the absurd idea. “I’d try to have a better overview. I’d try to ensure a fair spread of opinions, points of view, a range of voices. I’d try to expunge the idea that ‘we know what’s good for you’, but I wouldn’t let the likes of Rupert Murdoch have it their way – I see them as worse than the old patriarchy in many ways: far more exploitative, and in a much subtler way.” Barry frowned, unsure where he fitted in this scheme. “I don’t know whether I’m cut out to be Director General, even if I had a cat in hell’s chance of being offered it,” admitted Anthea. “But I truly want to see creativity flourish in an atmosphere of equality. I mean real creativity, not the advertising industry kind. We need stories that tell us more about ourselves, rather than selling us back to ourselves. As a matter of fact I think there are huge creative opportunities right now. The industry’s expanding like mad, and so are viewers worldwide. In future I think we’ll be getting our funding from all sorts of people: banks, businesses, maybe even private individuals. I think there’s going to be a big resurgence of street theatre and guerrilla art – it’s beginning already; street music and fashions have always led the rest. Maybe Barry’s right, and cable channels for ordinary people will be the norm in the next century. Maybe they’ll start broadcasting their own shows, and amongst them will be the next Spike Lee, or Shakespeare! It’s all good, in the end it doesn’t matter where the new work comes from, as long as creative people can get access to an audience. I think that’s an opportunity the BBC should provide. It’s terribly sad that they’ve stopped caring about it.”
“And on that note, I’m afraid we’ll have to end… ”
“Wow,” said Jill. “Impressive. What are you doing?” Carmen’s eyes were closed and her lips were twitching.
“I’m praying that Anthea will be Director General of the BBC one day.”
I watched it on my own at home, almost moved to tears. Anthea was articulating what half the Drama Department thought but would scarcely admit to each other, never mind to some of the most powerful men in broadcasting and the world at large. Perhaps she’d reached the point where she no longer cared how her opinions were received. Maybe she felt she’d always been there, so it didn’t matter. Part of me longed to join her, but I’d been accepted by them – the Welsh had been considered okay for a century or two so I didn’t feel I had the right to complain, really. I was totally in awe of her.
Sitting soaking in the bath the next morning I wondered what was coming. 1997 felt like a significant year. The election was likely to bring us a new government, which would be a tremendous relief, but uncertain changes lay ahead. I could barely remember when Labour had last been in power. It was tempting to imagine that all our problems would be solved, but I wasn’t that naïve, and many people were suspicious of what ‘New Labour’ really meant. There was no guarantee that they would bring in socialist policies. The Tories had insisted for years that the BBC was a hotbed of radicalism, full of subversives who would like to bring down the government; it was nonsense of course. There were certainly left-wing opinions broadcast, but they were more than balanced by the right.
What would a Labour government’s attitude be towards the BBC? Would it change things within the organisation? I really couldn’t tell. I had a feeling that we were coming to the end of something, but I also knew that I’d changed recently. At the ripe old age of 32 my outlook was no longer just about following my nose through life; I wasn’t a bright young person any more, wide-eyed and willing. That’s to say – I was, I hope so anyway, but I knew it was time to think more carefully about my future. I’d been avoiding that for a long time already.
I inhaled the lavender bath oil I’d put in, and ran a little more hot water to revive the scent. What did I want the next ten years to bring? Did I still want to stay in London, carry on at the BBC, and devote my life to making drama? Yes, I thought so. But I wasn’t as sure as I used to be. I wanted to make quality drama, and I also wanted to have a family eventually. Quite h
ow that could be achieved when my working hours were so long and variable, I didn’t know. Most women I knew of at the BBC were supported by nannies, au pairs and what have you – I couldn’t see myself employing people to raise my children, it would be too great a leap from my own upbringing. And of course I was still single.
I wondered whether Jonathan and Selina would be starting a family soon. No doubt their domestic arrangements would be very comfortable. Jon was such a nice person, I sometimes wished he would crack a little, let go. I thought he deserved better than Selina. I found her a cold fish. It was hard to tell her real personality under the façade, which Jim said was grander than Selfridge’s; she just seemed boringly bland to me. Jon was wasted on her. He had so much more to offer. And he was so handsome… if he was single, would he be interested in me? Best not to think about that. He liked me though, I was fairly sure. And we got along very well. Anyway, he was taken. Forget it, I told myself.
Maybe I would start looking elsewhere for work. If The Medical Miracle didn’t get green-lit soon I might have to, as my contract would be up for renewal in a few weeks. Morag was letting people go every month. The atmosphere in the department was increasingly dire, and it was bringing everyone down. In some ways it would be a relief to leave. I wondered what Jon would do if we lost the show. Would he try to take it to another broadcaster? Might he ask me to join him? Maybe he might start up a new independent production company, and ask me to be head of development? Now that would be really nice. That could really mean the best of both worlds. Maybe we’d have an office in the West End, instead of Shepherd’s Bush – in Covent Garden or Soho. That would be perfect.
My vision had crystallised into a very appealing future when I realised the bathwater was going cold. Newly oriented, I heaved myself out of the bath and threw a big towel around my shoulders as the water swirled down the plughole, sucking my old skin down with it.
Anthea received a rapturous welcome when she arrived at Sisters in Synch the morning after her Newsnight appearance. They had a development meeting scheduled; the writers and Maggie were already there, and they applauded her entrance, so she took an embarrassed bow. Maggie, who had gone to the Newsnight studio with her to give moral support, had been so impressed that she feared she might be developing a crush on this Amazon. The writing team were inspired. They’d liked her before, but now they would do anything she asked. It felt wonderful.
The day sped by. Ideas were born, combined, they grew, they flew, they were captured and harnessed, they bore offspring. They were corralled into a drama series which would be challenging, surprising, funny, but above all truthful in what it said about contemporary urban life. The characters reflected the capital’s racial mix, the attitudes of the young generation, the pressures of the modern workplace; they were nearly all intelligent and they were predominantly female, even though it was essentially an office-based series. At the end of the day they agreed on a title: Sisters and Brothers.
Jill and Maggie walked to the tube station together afterwards. Jill was anxious about whether Channel 5’s Barry Goodman would take offence at the way Anthea had made him look stupid on television, and make trouble for the show. Maggie was unconcerned.
“It’ll be fine. She apologised profusely to him after the broadcast, she said she’d got carried away with her anger at the BBC, and how true it was that Channel 5 had given her such a good break, and generally crawled up his bum. He was okay with it – if we give him a ratings success, he’ll forget all about it. If we don’t, he’ll probably remember, but he stands to get all the credit if the show does what we hope it will.”
“Men are weird, aren’t they?” said Jill. “You can never really tell how they’ll react.”
“And they think we’re the unpredictable ones.”
“Maybe there’s a story I can use in that.”
“You’re busting with ideas, aren’t you?”
Jill sighed happily. “It’s the best feeling in the world. A couple of weeks ago I was in development hell, I was almost ready to call it a day and get a job at Tesco. Writing was torture. Suddenly it’s like I’ve walked through some portal into a parallel universe. Development heaven, that’s where I am now!”
Penny chose not to mention the Newsnight debate when she arrived at Magenta the following day; she had no doubt where Nik’s sympathies lay.
Jak, however, lost no time in raising the subject the minute he entered their large open plan office. “The BBC’s like a beached whale, ain’t it? Too big and blubbery to turn round and get back in the sea. It’s just lying there, puffing out its last gasps.”
Penny observed him over her half-moon reading glasses, calculating that he’d been working on that metaphor since he woke up.
The effort was repaid: Nik was impressed. “Too right, man,” he said. “Its days are numbered. The twenty-first century’s going to be completely different, and I, for one, can’t wait. D’you see Newsnight, Penny?”
“Unfortunately not. Was it good?” she enquired disingenuously.
“You missed a cracker,” smirked Jak.
“The beauty of it all is… ” Nik paused for their full attention, “We don’t have to do a bloody thing. We needn’t lift a finger. All we do is sit here, turning out hit shows by the dozen, whilst the BBC turns in on itself, chews its own legs off and eats its own insides. There’s no need for us to fight them. We just wait till they’re staggering around blindly looking for a bandage, and we stroll in with our fabulous series. They’ll fall at our feet.”
Penny regarded him with amusement, the cheek of the man! His arrogance was astounding. She returned to her computer screen, and the endless search for budget economies.
Later the three met to look at the Bus Stops Here episode breakdown which Jak and his team of novice writers had produced. Penny’s heart had sunk on reading it, the writers’ skills were disturbingly weak. Chosen for their youth, malleability, cheapness and lack of union membership, it seemed to Penny that they hadn’t even mastered a basic grasp of grammar. She wished she could remove the lot in one sweep of her arm, and replace them with a couple of the experienced professionals she was used to, but she realised that criticising Nik and Jak’s decisions would lead only to her own swift defenestration. So she kept her own counsel, and hoped that the boys (she allowed herself to think of them in those terms) would eventually realise for themselves that this shower couldn’t write a hit series in a hundred years, never mind six weeks. She would stick to her brief, and comment only when the budget was affected.
“Nice work, Jak,” began Nik. “It’s looking good. I like your guest star list: Billy Crystal, Pamela Anderson, The Spice Girls… ”
Penny sighed, and Nik invited her to state the obvious, “A-list celebrities charge A-list fees, that’s the trouble Jak. Not a lot I can do about that.”
Nik nodded, and gave Jak a sympathetic look. “Sorry mate, but we’ll have to start with the lower ranks. Think of some more – the ones who’ve dropped off the radar and need a bit of exposure. Old pop stars, maybe. Dolly Parton. Gary Glitter. I’ll leave it with you. Okay, location and set. That’s a biggie. Tell us the bad news, Pen.”
“Well you’re right, it’s pretty crucial that we find somewhere incredibly cheap, and very easy to reach, we can’t pay much in travel and subsistence. I reckon we can get by with six weeks on location and another six in the studio, but there’s no leeway at all, no contingency. Supposing we find the ideal location, we’re going to need an experienced crew, Nik, otherwise we could end up with the most appalling shambles.”
Nik had been long enough in the business to see the wisdom of this. You could scrimp and save in development and pre-production, but once the cameras were rolling money flew through your fingers, and mistakes at that point could mean binning the lot and having to start again. That was a risk too far. “We need a good crew, you’re spot on there, Pen. It’s a priority. Get us the best people you know.”
“The best people don’t work for this kind of money
, I’m afraid.”
Nik simply looked at her, his eyebrows raised, “Just get ’em.”
Penny frowned and sighed. “I really can’t squeeze any more out of other areas of the budget. It’s all skin and bone.”
Nik smiled encouragingly. “You’ll find a way round it. I’ve got every confidence in you Pen.” He clapped her on the shoulder and her glasses fell onto the desk. “Sorry, darling.”
Penny pursed her lips. “I might be able to call in a couple of favours, I suppose… ” Nik winked, and clicked his tongue twice. Penny tried to pretend he hadn’t, and fiddled with her specs.
“Title,” announced Nik. “Bus Stops Here is killing me, it’s so dull. No Yank-appeal.”
“Sorry?” Penny was confused.
“Yank-appeal. Will the Yanks lap it up?”
“Oh, overseas sales.”
“You’ve got it.” Nik cleared his throat; trust Penny to be slow with the current terms. “It’s essential, a snappy title. Luckily I had a bit of a breakthrough this morning. I woke up with this one, short word in my head.” He paused again for effect. “BUS. With an exclamation mark.”
Penny and Jak stared, nodding slowly. Penny hated it, but let nothing show.
“BUS!” murmured Jak. “Buss! What about two s’?” Nik grimaced. “You’re right, keep it simple. Bus! I like it, Nik. It’s short and sweet.”
“Very memorable,” added Penny.
“Dynamic. Simple,” agreed Jak.
“And the beauty of it is the image,” explained Nik. “The good old Routemaster, pillar-box red – instant recognition all over the planet. You couldn’t ask for a better selling point.”
“Well there you go, then,” said Penny rashly. “End of discussion.” Nik glanced sideways at her, noting her momentary loyalty lapse. Sarcastic old cow, he thought. You’ll see. Aloud, he said, “Okay. That’s all for now, let’s get cracking.”
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