by Jane Lythell
Betty’s advice slot was a good one this morning. I was sitting in the gallery with the director as Fizzy and Betty discussed the two problems from our viewers. We always let members of the public know in advance if their letters are going to be discussed and we change their names and locations. Fizzy asked viewers to email and tweet in their thoughts on the topics of the day.
‘And don’t forget to use our hashtag StoryWorld.’
She read out the first problem from the woman who was pregnant by her married boss. What should she do? It was almost a reprise of the discussion we’d had the day before in the Hub. Fizzy was in favour of the woman proceeding with the pregnancy while Betty made the arguments against being a single mum. I liked the fact that Fizzy was sticking up for lone parents and she was less supportive of Betty’s advice than usual. She didn’t challenge her directly but she put the opposing point of view well. Fizzy summed up by reading first an email which said:
You will bring nothing but misery if you go ahead with this selfish pregnancy. Think about the family of your boss. This will tear them apart.
She then read a tweet which said:
Follow your heart. If you want this baby it will be blessed. What a child needs is lots of love and you have that to give. #StoryWorld
‘Two contrasting responses from our viewers there, Betty,’ she said.
They turned to the second email, from the sixteen-year-old boy who was worried about telling his parents that he was gay. This wasn’t as successful a discussion. Fizzy was less engaged with the topic and Betty did most of the talking. No one else would have noticed it but I sensed a slight coolness between them on the sofa today. I watch these two women all the time so I can pick up the slightest nuance in their body language and treatment of each other. I was obscurely pleased to see this minor falling-out. I left the gallery as Fizzy started the next interview.
I’d told Julius I would need to miss the morning meeting because I had to recce a hospital we had identified as a potential location for the outside broadcast. Our work on it was gathering momentum, which is as well given how little time we have been given to set it up. Molly and I went to look at St Eanswythe’s, a community hospital in Bermondsey, down the river from StoryWorld. We had arranged to meet Connie Mears, the senior manager who runs the hospital. St Eanswythe’s is a Victorian red-brick building with tall chimneys and ornate tiles across its façade. As we got out of the cab I wasn’t sure whether it would fit the bill as it had an institutional, almost forbidding look to it. But once inside the building the atmosphere was different. It’s clean and cheerful and you get the sense this is a well-run place. There’s a children’s ward, general wards and surgical wards. I liked Connie Mears. She wanted to know what exactly the broadcast would entail and I explained that with her permission we would pre-record a few patients so we could tell their stories in more detail. The actual live broadcast would last two hours, although we would need to start setting up from five in the morning. She has agreed to it.
Molly and I walked back to the station as it wasn’t far and we were cock-a-hoop about securing the hospital. Many organisations are suspicious of TV crews and won’t let you anywhere near them. They have a point: TV reporters are notorious for wanting to expose institutions rather than praise them. Molly and I discussed the kind of stories we wanted to build the broadcast around and we were both fired up about it. As I came up the stairs to my office I saw Simon sitting in a huddle with Harriet and she was crying.
‘What on earth’s happened?’ I said.
Harriet leapt up and rushed to the ladies’ toilet without a word. Simon indicated we should go into my room. I hurried in and he closed the door, leaving Molly standing outside looking irritated.
‘Fizzy came down here ten minutes ago and tore Harry off a strip for her briefing. Said it was crap!’
‘Damn.’
‘Harry stood up to her and it got nasty.’
‘If Fizzy’s not happy she should talk to me, not to Harriet.’
‘She came looking for you but you weren’t here so she launched into her. She was in a foul mood.’
‘Can I see the offending brief please?’
Simon came back into the room with the brief and I called Molly in too.
‘Moll, will you go and check Harriet’s OK? Fizzy gave her a tongue-lashing over this brief.’
I read the brief. The guest had been a top city trader. He had had an epiphany and changed his life completely to work for a charity for the homeless. There was plenty of scope in the subject for an interesting interview but Harriet had produced a poor piece of work, thin on detail and with only four suggested questions which were banal. I could see why Fizzy had reacted against it. She would have had to improvise the interview.
‘I’m going to see Fizzy,’ I told Simon.
Fizzy was sitting in her dressing room and Ellen was touching up her make-up. When she saw me walk in carrying Harriet’s notes her face took on a sulky look. I sat down and watched in silence as Ellen completed her work. When we were alone I said: ‘I’m sorry this wasn’t up to scratch but I wish you’d spoken to me about it.’
‘How can I be expected to interview someone for six minutes with so little background?’
‘It is thin on detail but—’
‘Thin on detail? It’s crap and you know it. You have no idea what it’s like when I’m out there on my own and have to conjure up questions out of thin air with nothing to go on.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was struggling out there and ended up asking him what bloody football team he supported! That’s how desperate it got.’
‘She’s new to this work and—’
‘She should never have been given the job in the first place,’ Fizzy said in a hard voice.
‘Maybe, but she’s here now and you do know, don’t you, that it’s on the direct instruction of Saul Relph.’
Bloody presenter power! Fizzy needs reminding that the TV station doesn’t work just because of her. She may be the face of StoryWorld but we are the ones who come up with the ideas that keep her on air.
‘Look, I’m keen to make this work. She’s crying in the Ladies at the moment,’ I said.
‘Don’t be taken in by her tears. I’m suspicious of that one. Attention-seeker!’
There was something going on here I couldn’t quite fathom. The briefing Harriet had written was poor but I wondered if Fizzy was getting worked up because Julius was showing an interest in Harriet.
‘I’ll check Harriet’s briefs in future, but please, if you’re not happy come to me.’
I got up and left Fizzy’s dressing room. I went to the Hub and bought four coffees and a Coke for Ziggy. I took them upstairs to my office and called in Molly, Simon and Harriet. It’s Ziggy’s job to stay at the desks outside and monitor any calls when we are in meetings. Harriet’s hooded eyelids were puffy and pink from crying and her cheeks were blotchy. She looked vulnerable for the first time since I’d met her, rather than the entitled rich kid she’d presented up till now. I handed each team member a coffee and opened a packet of ginger nuts I’d brought in to work.
‘Try not to take it too much to heart. We’ve all been bawled out at various times, haven’t we?’ I said to the others.
Simon and Molly nodded.
‘Oh yes. We have the scars,’ Simon said.
‘She was so nasty,’ Harriet said.
‘Live TV is a tough gig and tempers get frayed. You have to grow a thick skin if you want to work here. Now let’s put it behind us because I want to tell you about the hospital Molly and I have chosen for the OB. It’s called St Eanswythe’s and it is human scale and friendly. Moll did well to find it. I have a feeling this OB is going to be a good one.’
Chalk Farm flat, 7.30 p.m.
When I got back to the flat I expected to find Flo there because on Friday nights, when Flo doesn’t go to Portsmouth to see Ben, we have what we call our Friday night veg-out. I buy pizzas and nachos and ice cream and we ge
t into our pyjamas, slump on the sofa, watch rubbish telly and eat fast food. I look forward to these evenings as a time when I can relax and forget about StoryWorld. But Janis told me that Flo was over the road at Paige’s house. I was fed up that Flo had jettisoned our veg-out without asking me.
‘You’ve seen a lot of her; what do you make of Paige?’ I asked Janis.
‘I’m not sure about her. I wonder why a sixteen-year-old is showing so much interest in a fourteen-year-old,’ Janis said.
‘Yes, I wondered about that. At their age two years is quite a gap.’
‘I think she’s quite knowing and she likes it that Flo looks up to her. It would be good if you met her. Flo is definitely falling under her spell. She couldn’t wait to get over there this evening.’
I decided to do it there and then. I paid Janis for the week and crossed the road and walked up the tiled path. It was a large semi-detached Edwardian house and, unlike most on our road, it had not been converted into flats. I rang the doorbell and waited. Eventually a teenage girl with very blonde hair, almost white, and a stud in her nose opened the door a crack.
‘Hello. Are you Paige?’
She opened the door a bit further.
‘Yeah.’
Her voice was suspicious.
‘Well I’m Florence’s mum.’
They say you make up your mind about people in the first seven seconds and my first impression of Paige was not a positive one. She was dressed in what I would call wannabe rock chic: ripped black jeans and a black top which was slipping off one shoulder. She wore large hoop earrings and looked bored. Flo must have recognised my voice and she came walking towards the door slowly. She looked less than pleased to see me. In fact her face was tight, as it usually is now whenever I encounter her with any of her friends. Paige had not moved from her position on the threshold so I remained on the doorstep feeling distinctly unwelcome. My impulse was to offer an explanation for my appearance but I made myself stay quiet and see who would speak first.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Flo said eventually.
‘Hello, darling.’
Paige moved from guarding the threshold and said: ‘Do you wanna come in?’
She had the trace of an American accent.
‘For a minute perhaps.’
Paige and Flo turned and I followed them into the kitchen at the end of the hall. This was a large kitchen, big enough to hold a table with six assorted chairs around it and a wide dresser against the wall. The room had a scruffy, unloved feel about it. There were wilting chrysanthemums in a vase on the window sill with a full ashtray next to it. A stained roasting tray was lying on the table with a few oven chips in it and two plates smeared with tomato ketchup. The smell in the kitchen was a mixture of fried food, patchouli from a candle that was burning on the dresser and cigarettes. There were also several bottles of spirits on the dresser, vodka, gin and whisky. I was doing that protective mum thing you do, instinctively carrying out an inventory of the room, assessing the risk factors. I looked at the ceiling to see if there was a smoke detector and couldn’t see one.
‘Are your parents in, Paige?’ I asked.
‘No, they’re at work.’
‘Ahh, I see. I wanted to introduce myself. Do you know what time they’ll be back?’
Paige shrugged.
‘Not sure. Think Mum said she was gonna be late tonight.’
I could see all too clearly the appeal of Paige’s house. With absent parents the two girls could do their own thing, cook oven chips and smoke to their heart’s delight. I wanted to get Flo back over the road into our flat.
‘Why don’t you come over to ours? I’ve got pizza and I’m making flapjacks tonight.’
I had made up the bit about the flapjacks on the spot. Flo loves my flapjacks and I hoped I had the ingredients in the cupboard. Paige looked over at Flo who shrugged and looked non-committal.
‘We were going to watch Vampire Diaries,’ Paige said.
I could see that Flo was waiting for Paige to decide what they should do. This made me feel even more irritated but I bit back my irritation.
‘We have Netflix,’ I said.
Another look passed between the girls. They liked being in that unsupervised house and they knew they would not be able to smoke under my roof. But I was offering nice food.
‘OK,’ Paige said finally.
Before we left the house I reminded Paige to blow out the candle on the dresser. She gave me a strange look but went over and did it.
‘Should you leave a note for your mum saying where you are?’
‘I’ll text her later.’
As soon as we arrived at our flat the girls retreated to Flo’s room and shut the door. Later Mr Crooks came in and yowled at the door until Flo let him in. I put on the oven to heat up and plugged in the earphones to my iPod as I made the flapjack mixture. James Blunt is my guilty pleasure. I love his strange voice and his heart-sick ballads but I know better than to play them out loud in the flat. I greased the baking tin then melted the butter, brown sugar and honey in a saucepan. I use honey rather than golden syrup. My favourite track came on, ‘Same Mistake’, and I sang along to the chorus about it being no good his being given a second chance because he’d just make the same mistake again.
These words resonate strongly with me. I am always attracted to the same type of man and it usually ends in tears. I am more careful these days and am keeping Todd at arm’s length, but it is inescapable how much like Ben he is. Todd worked as a cameraman like Ben, although now he is a director. He is also a man who enjoys taking risks. I took the pan off the heat and stirred in the porridge oats.
The next track was ‘Carry You Home’. I try to bury the memory but it will resurface. Seven years ago I had a frightening experience with Julius. It was the night of the staff Christmas party. StoryWorld make a point of throwing a good bash at the end of the year and the party was held in the atrium which had been transformed into a 1980s-style disco with loud music, flashing lights and lots of booze. I had recently split up with Ben after months of bitter fights. Flo was staying with my mum in Glasgow and I was going to join them in five days’ time for the Christmas break. I had been holding difficult emotions down for months and I was like a pressure cooker ready to blow as I set off for the party.
I remember I was wearing a satin shift dress the colour of blackberries which I’d bought for Christmas. I was hyper all evening, drank too much and later I was dancing with wild abandon to ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ and ‘I Will Survive’, getting some of my misery out of my system. Julius was standing at the edge of the dance floor watching me. I saw him and at one point I even suggested he join me. He shook his head but still he watched me. Finally I’d had enough. It was late and I knew I was on the cusp of making a complete fool of myself. I grabbed a glass of water, glugged it down and headed up to my office to get my bag and coat. It was a smaller office in those days which I shared with an assistant producer. Suddenly Julius was standing there at the threshold. He walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘I’ve always fancied you.’
I remember feeling gratified at his words and I smiled drunkenly at him.
‘Bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘I mean it. But you’ve always been Miss Untouchable.’
He crossed the room to me fast, grabbed me and kissed me. It was a nice soft kiss at first, our lips making gentle contact and I kissed him back. He slid his tongue between my lips and the kiss became more intense as he moved his hands up to hold my head closer to his. I responded to this kiss too. It was strange and sexy and exciting. I hadn’t kissed another man in a sexual way for over ten years. He ran his hands down from my head to my back and we rocked back and forth still kissing. His hand slid down and reached my bottom and he squeezed me hard, too hard. He started to pull my dress up. We were still kissing and he was breathing fast. I could feel his erection pressing against me. It was all getting too rough and my pleasure
was turning to alarm. I tried to pull away from him but he rubbed himself up against me and was almost groaning. As I struggled more he suddenly slammed me against the wall.
‘Come on, Liz. Let’s fuck hard.’
He had got his hand inside my knickers now and he stuck his third finger right up me.
‘You can now,’ he breathed in my ear. ‘You’re a free woman.’
He was moving his finger inside me and then he put his second finger up me too and I was frightened by his roughness and his insistence. I didn’t want to have sex with him. I pulled my face away from his and said as strongly as I could manage:
‘No. No. NO! Get off me.’
He was inflamed. There was no other word for it and still he was fingering me roughly with one hand while with his other hand he was unzipping his trousers. I found the strength to push him away with all my force and his hand came out of me. By now I was half sobbing. I grabbed my bag, ran to the door, wrenched it open and fled to the ladies’ toilet. As I locked the cubicle door I was trembling so hard. He wouldn’t follow me in here, surely? After a while I wiped myself with toilet tissue and saw that there was a trace of blood on the paper. I sat on the toilet seat and wept. Two women came in and I held my breath and listened as they talked and giggled and applied lipstick. The party was still going strong downstairs and you could hear the bass thud of the disco.
I tried to get my breathing back under control and I waited until the toilet had emptied. I slipped out of the Ladies and left the station by the back exit. I saw no sign of Julius and I stumbled along by the riverside until I saw the orange beacon of a taxi. Once in the dark safety of the taxi I let the tears come again and I cried all the way back to Chalk Farm. When I reached my flat I locked and bolted the door. We had just moved into the flat and it didn’t feel like home yet. There were unpacked boxes everywhere and it was all strange and unfamiliar. I couldn’t stop crying so I called Fenton. It was two in the morning but she answered on the fourth ring. She listened as I told her my story punctuated by sobs and gulps.
‘Get the first train down to Folkestone tomorrow, sweetheart. I’ll meet you at the station.’