All to Play For

by Heather Peace

  Haris’ enthusiasm for taking over smaller production companies had stalled at the first bend, since Anthea Onojaife at Sisters in Synch had resisted Magenta’s hostile takeover bid much more strongly than he had anticipated. One or two little production companies had subsequently been absorbed but the strategy was suddenly overshadowed by a bid for Magenta itself, made by a vast entertainment conglomerate; they were bought out for a sum so massive that they couldn’t believe their luck. Rex and Haris retained their posts and were perfectly content to accept the guidance of their new mothership from now on. They and Nik became millionaires.

  *

  Vera wasn’t sure about her new boss. He seemed very young. He was dressed in a beautifully cut slate grey suit and a yellow silk shirt, he wore his dark hair razored and heavily gelled, and he was very attractive judging by the body language of the young office secretaries. She greeted him politely, hoped he would enjoy working there, and sent one of the girls out to get the Perrier water he wanted instead of coffee.

  He entered Peter’s old office critically: it hadn’t been used by the Acting Head of Drama who had filled in over the fifteen months since Peter’s resignation, during which the top brass had struggled to find a senior figure willing to take on the post.

  “Hmm. That corduroy sofa has to go, what an eyesore! I suppose if we get some decent furniture, get rid of all the books – we’ll keep the certificates – some nice lights and a couple of big plants, maybe a little water feature, what do you think?”

  Vera was lost for words.

  Nik suddenly laughed. “Joke!”

  “Oh!” she felt silly.

  “Water features are a pain in the arse. Just ask someone to remove the old stuff and get me a Heal’s catalogue, would you? I’ll camp out for the time being.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile and put his laptop down on the desk. He looked for the nearest socket and found it was too far away.

  “Peter didn’t have one of these, then,” he observed, and Vera looked round until she found a cable extension.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Nik. “I’ll have the desk moved anyway. I’m meeting the gang at eleven o’clock, right?”

  “Yes, everyone knows about it.”

  “Good. We’ll have real coffee, Perrier, and some nice cakes from Maison Blanc. Get a couple of dozen.”

  “Er, actually I’ve ordered the usual from catering… ”

  “Cancel it. Or give it to the homeless, I don’t care.” He switched on his laptop, which made a series of dramatic whoops, spread his hands on the desk and looked directly at Vera for the first time. “First impressions, Vera. Very important.”

  “Whatever you say, Nik!”

  “Sweet,” he smiled. “I’m sure we’re going to make a great team. When’s your birthday?”

  “Oh! um… April 30th.”

  He stood up and typed into his laptop, then winked at her. “I won’t ask how many – ladies’ privilege. Right. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “Fine.”

  Vera turned and left the room, thinking Nik was nothing if not dynamic, and his energetic approach would be a breath of fresh air. She might even learn to like him, once she got used to him. She would try, at any rate.

  The remaining editorial staff were few enough in number to fit into Nik’s office for his introductory address. The two producers, Fenella Proctor-Ball and Donald Mountjoy, sat on the familiar, comfortable corduroy sofa. Morag claimed one of the armchairs, the three script editors and readers sat on desk chairs, and a newcomer occupied the other sagging armchair. Nik introduced him as his development executive Jak Smith, whom he had brought from Magenta. He looked like an even younger version of Nik, and Fenella exchanged a surreptitious raised eyebrow with Donald. They all cooed at the patisseries and helped themselves at Nik’s invitation.

  “It’s a special day,” he said. “I’ve just hit the big three – O!”

  The younger women murmured “Happy birthday,” but Morag, Fenella and Donald remained stony-faced. Nik made a brief phone call at his desk before joining them with his high-backed chair, removing his jacket and hanging it carefully behind him.

  “Hello everybody, nice to meet you, I’ll get to know you individually very soon. Today I just want to introduce myself and outline the plans I have. We’re a small, tight team here and I want us to work very closely together.”

  They all gazed at him blankly. He rubbed his palm around the back of his neck, stroking his stubble.

  “I’m very pleased – and honoured,” he added for Donald’s benefit, “to have been asked to come to the BBC. I’m going to sort out some of the problems we’ve got here, but I need all of your support.”

  They all nodded supportively.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll just outline my chief aims and objectives for the first few months, and Jak will prepare some more detailed papers for you all soon.

  “Obviously we have our soaps, which are chugging away in the suburbs; I shall be visiting them as soon as I can. And our returning series, which are all in hand.

  “One of the most vital items in my strategy is to maximise our exploitation of these assets. In other words, I want spin-offs.”

  Jak smiled at his boss and looked round to make sure the subtle dig was appreciated. It was obvious to any moron that the BBC had been painfully negligent in creating new hit series for its soap stars.

  “The reason you haven’t managed it before,” Nik explained. “Is that you always devise an entirely new show. The character changes, the actor’s seen in a different light, audiences aren’t convinced. They want to see the familiar character, their old mate. So we’ll look at ways of starting a new soap with characters from old soaps. Anyone seen Frasier?”

  Everyone except the producers had. They all nodded anyway.

  “A superb sitcom created from another superb sitcom.” He drily explained, “Cheers”, suspecting they might not know this basic fact. “Jak will be running that project. You’ll be hearing from him. Next, novel adaptations. Obviously I bow to your greater experience,” he deferred to Donald. “And I understand there are a few more classics in the works. Fabulous. I want us to look in a different, contemporary area as well. We want some real blockbusters, thrillers, sex-and-shopping – why not? Bank Holiday entertainment. Nothing too expensive, of course, we can’t afford to make James Bond, just some really cracking airport novels.” He made eye contact with each script editor and reader. “That’s your job. That about covers it for now. Any questions?”

  No-one wanted to ask any questions.

  “Okay, thanks for your time, I’ll get Vera to give you each an appointment with me later in the week.”

  They all filed out except Jak, who remained in his seat.

  Morag returned.

  “I just wanted to mention,” she said apologetically. “That we urgently need a new producer on the mortuary series. Obviously, you’re not really prepared yet – I was going to suggest Penny Cruickshank might be available. She knows the show, and – ”

  “Jesus, not that toffee-nosed cow again,” snorted Nik. “No. I don’t want her here, she’s useless.” Jak looked askance to show agreement. Morag blinked through her heavy spectacles, her mouth open.

  “Oh, sorry.” She recollected herself. “I thought as you’d just been working together you’d – ”

  Nik stopped her with a look. “Morag. Just between you and me, the woman’s a total waste of space. I carried her on that show. Never again.”

  Morag nodded. “Of course, sorry Nik. I was just trying to help.”

  “I’ll get on the phone later and see who’s free. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Great, thanks,” replied Morag, and withdrew to puzzle over Nik’s views on Penny, which were in conflict with everything she knew or had ever heard about her. Evidently they had not got on at all.

  Nik threw himself on the sofa. “Phew!”

  Jak grinned. “I think they got the picture.”

  Nik took a bite of a ch
ocolate eclair. He looked at it appraisingly. “It’s nice,” he said. “But not as nice as a line.” He looked slyly at Jak. “It’s not done here. Or is it?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” answered Jak, looking hopeful.

  “Not on my first day. Not before lunch, anyway.”

  Jak chuckled. “You’ll have to get a glass coffee table.”

  Nik finished his eclair, drank a glass of Perrier straight down, belched in a restrained manner, and addressed his development executive.

  “Let’s make a list. Of all the women who are young and hot.”

  “A pleasure.” Jak shook his head in admiration of his boss’ cool, and got a pad and pen out of his briefcase.

  “We’ll take them to Groucho’s, and then we’ll make them stars,” said Nik dreamily.

  “And then what?” sniggered Jak.

  “Behave. Right. Who’s the hottest babe you can think of?”

  “Cameron Diaz.”

  “Get real. We’re talking television.”

  “Daniela Nardini?”

  “Leave it out, she’s disgusting.”

  “Martine McCutcheon.”

  “That’s more like it, we can get her no trouble. Who else?”

  *

  Nik had a lunch appointment with the Deputy Director General, Chris Briggs. They went in Chris’ chauffeur-driven Mercedes to a discreetly café-styled expensive restaurant in Notting Hill, and relaxed at a screened table.

  Chris was still slightly uneasy in the company of this confident, fashionable young man of the world. Nik was quite friendly, but Chris had failed to find any common interests which would enable them to get to know each other, so he was obliged to fall back on a more formal preface of small talk. When the starters had been cleared away, he got down to business.

  “We need to discuss the Drama Department’s future,” he began. “In terms of the over-arching plans the DG has set in motion for the twenty-first century.”

  Nik was all attention as he leaned back in his rattan chair, sipping a glass of Chablis.

  “That’s not the same as your personal future, of course. It goes without saying that, if you succeed in resolving the situation in line with the DG’s aims, he’ll ask you to rise to a new challenge, perhaps in a different role.”

  Nik inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “I believe part of your work at Magenta included taking over production companies and turning them around.”

  “That’s right. I appraised their current business and their potential, and acted accordingly. Some just couldn’t be made financially viable.” Nik had mastered the knack of implying he’d done far more than he really had.

  Chris smiled and nodded. He sipped his wine, put it down carefully and lowered his voice further. “We’ve known for a long time, a long time, that the Drama Department has major problems.”

  Nik responded with a shrewd gaze. “I realise that.”

  “The point about the BBC is that it occupies a unique position,” continued Chris. “No change can ever be made suddenly without frightening the horses, as it were. The press are on your back before you know it, there are letter campaigns from retired colonels, even questions in Parliament. It’s very, very sensitive. I want to be absolutely sure that you appreciate this. We’re not in Wardour Street here.”

  “Believe me Chris, I do understand. I wouldn’t dream of taking any action which would create opposition.”

  “The new government has pretty much left us alone, so far. It may be that they have more urgent business to attend to and that, sooner or later, they’ll give us more attention than we really want. We mustn’t precipitate a reaction.”

  “I understand.”

  “The licence fee is always under threat.”

  Nik smiled confidently, one eyebrow raised. “Personally, Chris, I wouldn’t worry about it. Subscription would be a much better system in many ways.”

  Chris frowned.

  “Of course,” continued Nik. “We want to keep the licence fee for the foreseeable future, I agree completely.” He nodded very seriously.

  Chris spoke quietly with determination. “I’d like you to discuss your strategy with me, when you’ve had time to think it through. As a safeguard. To make sure you don’t inadvertently contradict our underlying policies.”

  “Certainly. No problem, Chris.”

  “Would you like to share your first impressions with me?”

  Nik smiled. “Sure. My first impression, which I have yet to confirm, of course, is that the tired little outfit in Centre House should be put in a boat and shoved off down the river.” He laughed. Chris watched him intently. “Current shows I have no problem with. There’s really no need for them to be managed from the centre, they can be privatised and run themselves. New shows, that’s the crux of it all. I shall have to see what I can do to kick-start development. I wonder though, in the long term, does the BBC really need to develop new shows? The country’s full of independent producers furiously working away at new ideas and queuing up outside the door to show them to us. All we have to do is pick and choose. Why should we have rooms full of people doing the same thing, on salary?” Chris nodded slowly. “And home-grown shows tend to carry other baggage with them. Such as copyright problems with writers and producers. At Magenta we held all the rights in every script we commissioned.”

  “Didn’t you have trouble with the Writers’ Guild?”

  “We would have, so we didn’t go near them. It meant we had to use less experienced writers most of the time, that’s all. It doesn’t take long before they are experienced. We had to get rid of a few along the way, but it was all worth it. We’re – I mean, Magenta’s on a nice little earner now, thanks to me.”

  Chris seemed impressed. “Jolly good, I think we’ll get along pretty well, Nik. Tell me, have you ever visited the Harvard Business School?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jonathan and I became an item very quickly. I suppose we already knew each other pretty well, and were grown-up enough to deal with it maturely. By the time our BBC contracts had run out we were a secure couple, not living together yet but virtually. Jon said one of the things he loved most about our relationship was the complete absence of ceremony. I shuddered to imagine what going out with Selina had entailed. We’d circumspectly enquired about each other’s hopes for the future, and had established that we both wanted to marry and have children. We both felt satisfied with that and didn’t jump the gun. There was an unspoken understanding between us that, all being well – and we had no illusions about the possibility of circumstances intervening – that’s what lay ahead for us. We were very happy. Which was lucky really, since we were soon to be unemployed.

  We did the usual rounds looking for new contracts, but it was very hard as so many people were on the same circuit. We tried a couple more times to buy the rights to The Medical Miracle, but it was impossible. I had a nasty feeling that they might be for sale to others, but we had to give up on it.

  Finally, BBC Wales advertised for a drama development team. I wasn’t sure I wanted to apply. It was too much like going home to our street, and I thought it would be far too boring for Jon. Once again he surprised me, he was perfectly happy to give it a go, so we both applied, and were both accepted. This time I was senior to him; my Welshness put me in the lead as Head of Development, with Jon as Senior Script Editor. How’s that for a result?! Laugh? I nearly wet myself. I tell you, there aren’t many blokes who could cope with that kind of reversal and keep the relationship intact.

  We moved to Cardiff in early ’98, and rented a flat to start with. My family took a while to get used to my posh Englishman: posh Englishmen haven’t been that popular in Wales, down the centuries. What tipped the balance with my dad was when we were all in his favourite pub one winter evening, with a roaring fire and rain dashing against the windows, all very Dylan Thomas, and some of the fellers started a sing-song. Nothing formal; they just felt in the mood. Being Welsh they knew all the traditi
onal songs, and so did the rest of the pub. It was one of those spine-tingling evenings that happen – well they happen every week in Welsh pubs, but Jonathan didn’t know that. As the gorgeous harmonies swelled and filled the room, tears rolled down Jon’s face, he was incapable of holding them back. He felt a complete idiot, but my dad and I loved him for it. After that he was one of the family.

  Our lives at work were very enjoyable. There was less pressure and tension, and a lot more real drama development. We benefitted from our status as a regional centre in that the public service element meant we were securely funded, so we could settle into developing Welsh writers and solid, family-oriented drama. We gradually stopped caring what was going on in Shepherd’s Bush. The longer we lived in South Wales the more absurd London seemed; the long hours, the politics, the back-stabbing. Not that Wales was entirely free of that kind of thing. It was rife in some areas, to be honest. But it didn’t get in our way. Or perhaps we were more adept at dealing with it.

  It was always fun to hear the news from London, and Maggie was a great source of gossip. She continued to be very happy at Sisters in Synch with Anthea. They weren’t making a lot of money but the company was establishing itself. Jill and Carmen both wrote for them regularly. Jill’s ex-husband had been elected as a New Labour MP, we looked out for his name, but he didn’t seem to be one of the Blair Babes. Right time, wrong sex, I suppose. Isn’t it a shame when men are sidelined just because of their gender?

  Stewart Wanker (as we’d referred to him since Sonia’s brochure) had set up an independent production company which was busy making controversial films designed to make waves in Cannes. Penny Cruickshank had retired and gone to breed spaniels in Cornwall. I liked to imagine her striding the cliff-tops with a dozen golden cocker spaniels bouncing around her, their ears flapping in the wind. Peter Maxwell was now on the boards of several august film and television institutions. Chris Briggs was Deputy Director General, and it seemed inevitable that his career trajectory would continue to carry him upwards. Selina was in charge of Policy and Planning. Whether she was also sent to the Harvard Business School we never found out. Nik Mason settled into his post running the Drama Department and made a surprisingly effective job of it. Everyone hated working for him, but no-one could deny that he brought a number of successful shows to the screen, and re-established BBC1’s core position. If the hit shows were derivative and obvious, so what? It was a cut-throat industry now.