by Dillon Khan
Cara came back with a pint for Hugh as he held court, passing on words of wisdom, now with a slight slur. ‘Look, kids. We all came here wanting to make documentaries, different format shows, short films … and in the brainstorming sessions we’ve all had golden ideas thrown on the floor in favour of rubbish or due to lack of resource and imagination. As a result, all the talent leaves and ends up on another broadcaster’s payroll. All these years we should’ve been a creative hub making shows for the terrestrial channels. Instead, they’re just copying us and doing it for themselves.’
‘But surely it will change?’ said Sonya optimistically.
‘The management promise exciting projects but they never come around. Our budgets are tiny and we can’t make anything of value or significance. Every year it’s the same thing about shrinking budgets, yet we’re told we’re making bumper profits.’
‘Why don’t they put those profits back into the company then?’ I asked.
‘Simple. The more profit senior management send back to the parent company, the more performance-related bonuses they make,’ he said.
My phone was vibrating again and this time it was a voicemail message. There was another missed call from Sophia. I wanted to break off and call her back but this was interesting stuff.
‘For example,’ Hugh continued, ‘years ago The Beat made the precursor to Big Brother with College Lives, a show that intimately filmed students who shared a house. That’s how ahead of the times we were. The Beat should be the ones making this type of show. It pains me to leave because I’ve put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this place. Like everyone else around here,’ he said with emotion in his voice.
No one had interjected in a while. We all looked glum. Not for us, but for him.
Hugh looked genuinely sad too. ‘Look, I don’t want to put a dampener on it for you. But The Beat’s a sinking ship. Like the Titanic, it’s just a matter of time.’
He painted a bleak future for us. For The Beat.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I thought you were calling me back???
Just as I was about to text Sophia back someone else joined the sermon.
‘Sad to see you go too, Oli,’ said Cara, giving him a hug.
‘Yeah, very sad. Why are you leaving?’ asked Sonya as Oli strolled into our circle like a bowling ball into a set of pins, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
‘They caught me having it off with one of the interns,’ he said, holding a straight face.
James III and I looked accusingly at the girls, who momentarily looked at each other. But when James III started to snigger the girls simultaneously looked at James III, accusing him right back.
‘Look around the building, man,’ said Oli. ‘Too many old people are in charge. They’re making decisions about youth culture that you and I should be doing. What do they know? They’re all in their mid thirties, in cushy jobs without much pressure, and suffering from Peter Pan syndrome.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked James III.
‘They don’t want to grow up. They’re holding on to their youth for as long as possible working here.’
Suddenly it dawned on me how many older people really did work at The Beat. You didn’t see them because the young minority – with their crazy haircuts, clothes and ability to make more noise – stood out. But they were almost certainly the quiet majority.
‘Yeah, but you can’t have kids in charge, surely?’ said Tola.
‘Why not? At least you’d make some programmes that our viewers want to watch, be a bit more ballsy and irreverent. That’s how The Beat started out. Apparently Ali G was sent to us first but people here passed on him till he ended up on Channel 4.’
I looked around – everyone was aghast at this cardinal sin.
Oli continued uninterrupted. ‘Tech companies like Google and Yahoo! are successful because they have young guys at the helm ready to think outside the box. The greater the risk, the higher the return. The Beat keep harping on about taking risks but they never do. They’re about as rock ’n’ roll as Ovaltine and grandad slippers.’
‘You sound bitter,’ said Hugh sarcastically, while looking at Oli.
‘Me? Nah, it’s only television,’ said Oli casually.
‘You mean Tel-Lie-Vision,’ Hugh corrected him.
Increasingly I wasn’t sure if this was real talk, bitter talk, revolutionary talk, conspiracy talk or just alcohol-fuelled talk. I knew Hugh and Oli had been drinking in the pub since three o’clock.
Even after hearing everything Hugh and Oli had said about The Beat, I still wanted in. And so did the others. I felt a competitive edge coming out in me. I wanted to go and call Sophia but after today’s rumours I had to stay and charm the senior producers who’d showed up. Only they could turn my intern dream into a full-time job. I realized I had to be more than just me. I had to have the confidence of Cara, the smarts of Tola, the gift of the gab of James III, the raw talent of Sonya and the likeability of Sam. I was sure Sophia could wait a little longer for me to call her back. This was important for my career.
As the night wore on The Beat staff took over the entire pub. Max had invited Isabel, who had come from a modelling shoot and was endearing herself to everyone, and the older lot were telling stories – some true, some just embellished myths – about the good old days.
They had all worked closely together in the trenches, whether it was sitting in on someone else’s edit until three a.m. because the other had a hot date, or trying to get a usable vox-pop from gurning pill heads in a small club in Blackpool. More importantly they had been there for one another personally, offering someone a couch to sleep on for a month because their partner had thrown them out or consoling someone whose father had died of cancer.
After leaving school and university I’d realized that no matter how sincerely anyone says ‘we’ll stay in touch’, invariably paths do diverge. These last few months had brought this into sharp focus for me. Maybe that realization had also hit the older lot and was the reason this farewell was so sombre.
It was getting late and I still hadn’t had a chance to call Sophia so I stepped out on to the pavement and away from the noise of the pub. Just as I was about to call, Hugh and Oli appeared.
‘Oli and I are offski. Good luck, Jay, and keep doin’ it for the kids,’ Hugh said sarcastically.
‘Where’re you off to?’ I said. ‘The night is still young and these are your leaving drinks.’
‘Glastonbury,’ said Oli.
‘You lucky fuckers! Bowie, Travis, Chemical Brothers, Moby.’
‘Screw them, I’m going for the women and drugs,’ replied Oli.
‘Darth couldn’t go,’ said Hugh.
‘You mean, doesn’t want to go,’ Oli corrected him. ‘No place for an Armani suit.’
‘Yeah, so better a free pair of Glastonbury tickets than a Pokémon as a goodbye present for five years of service,’ said Hugh philosophically.
A few hugs later and they drunkenly hopped, skipped and shoved each other down the street and round the corner. Saddened at the sight of them riding off into the sunset, I put my phone in my pocket and walked back into the pub.
20
Karma Police
I wasn’t sure where I had put them but I knew they were here somewhere. I just couldn’t remember where ‘here’ was. I retraced my steps and checked everywhere. I double-checked. I triple-checked. It wasn’t the loss of the two tapes that had the Aaliyah interview on them that worried me particularly, but the Max factor – his reaction if he were to find out. He’d been in a particularly foul mood since Hugh and Oli left a few weeks earlier and this morning was no different. I’d collected his dry-cleaning and got his morning coffee yet he was already snapping at me from across the department and I didn’t want to hear, ‘Oi, birdbrain, where are my tapes?’
I hadn’t asked anyone to help for fear word might slip out that I was
a doofus. Maybe I was being paranoid. But with only two-and-a-half months left on our intern contracts, everyone was competing – discreetly or otherwise – for that one permanent job. Some were blatantly networking with senior management in the office or going for lunchtime yoga classes with them, while others volunteered for extra shoots or got drunk in the pub after work with the people they thought could influence the decision.
Lunchtime came and went as I searched. My mobile rang as I sorted through piles of tapes from the drawers, stacking them on the floor next to me like I was playing Jenga. ‘Mum Mobile’ flashed on the screen.
I had missed her birthday last week because I was on a shoot that overran. Max’s boss, Robert, had asked me personally to help, so I had to impress. Luckily I’d managed to make it up to her by getting some tickets from the girls in T.A.D. to see Tina Turner tonight. She was a big fan and had made her friends envious that I was taking her.
‘Hi, Mum.’ I tried not to sound impatient.
‘I won’t keep you, I just wanted to know what time to meet you tonight? I’m so excited, and when I told Jane next door she –’
‘Ummm …’ A tape suddenly crashed to the floor from my hand as I interjected, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ still holding several tapes in my hands as I balanced the phone between my tilted head and shoulder.
Putting the tapes down, I tried to explain my predicament.
‘Have you asked around?’ she offered, in stereotypical mum-advice style.
‘Do you know how big this building is?’ I baulked.
‘OK, well, why don’t you send an email? I’m sure someone has seen it.’
‘And highlight my incompetence to the entire company?’
‘You’re tired, Jay. These things will happen,’ she said, as if I’d spilt orange juice on the carpet.
Nothing she was saying was helping. In fact it was making it worse.
‘Mum, unless you know where the tapes are,’ I said, clearly exasperated, ‘you’re not helping right now.’
‘All I’m saying is stay calm. Panicking about it won’t help.’
I finally snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum! Staying calm isn’t going to magic the tapes back to me!’
The phone went silent. I couldn’t even hear her breathing, just the sound of the TV set in the background.
I tried to get an even tone back in my voice. ‘Look, this is a bad time. I’ll call you later and arrange when to meet, OK? Right now Tina Turner isn’t high up in my list of priorities,’ I said.
‘Sure. I hope you find your tape. Bye.’ She hung up the phone.
‘It’s not tape, it’s tapes,’ I said to myself, still wound up. As I put my phone in my pocket, my foot nudged the pile on the floor. Karma, I thought to myself. The crashing noise made everyone stop and look round like I was a clumsy waiter who’d dropped a plate in a restaurant. Then the momentary lull was filled again with people talking against the noise of photocopiers, TVs and stereos. My agitated mood turned to one of embarrassment as I kicked into gear like I was the multi-armed Hindu god Ganesh. I grabbed the tapes and tried to restack them, all the while replaying the phone call in my head. Worse than talking like a spoilt brat was the horrible realization that I was starting to sound like Max. Slipping into a meeting room I tried calling Mum to apologize but the phone was engaged.
By mid afternoon I wasn’t any closer to finding Aaliyah or doing the work that was piling up. I had to face the music but I needed to do it on my terms. I called Max’s desk phone.
‘Can you meet me in the Seventies room?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he said, and I saw him jump up to follow me into the room behind my desk.
‘You’ve lost the tapes?’ he said. With his voice rising, he added, ‘Lost?’
We sat opposite one another at the meeting-room table, my eyes looking downward like a naughty schoolboy. I may as well have stood with my nose in the corner.
‘Well, kiddo, the edit is tomorrow morning, so you had better find them before then or you’ll find yourself having to explain to Robert Johns and the record label. I can’t help you then, it’s out of my hands. I just hope the label don’t ask you to pay for costs of the trip and the camera crew.’
My stomach lurched at news of the full extent of my mistake. ‘So what shall I do?’ I asked, hoping for some help and support.
‘That’s for you to figure out. I have other things on my plate right now. So chop chop, di di mau.’ He got up and walked out.
I sat there shell-shocked. Would they really want me to pay them back? Max had said it with such conviction, I wasn’t sure if he was serious or trying to scare the hell out of me. Either way I had seriously fucked up. Desperation quickly got the better of my ego.
To: All@NottingHill
Subject: URGENT – Missing Aaliyah tapes
Dear All,
Has anyone seen two digi beta tapes labelled ‘Aaliyah interview’? Please can I ask you to keep an eye out for them?
Regards,
Jay Merchant
Intern, Total BEATS & Defm8
Moments later:
Better find that interview – she’s a priority act for the channel. I don’t want to have to explain your cock-up to the label.
Declan Patricks
Head of Talent & Artist Department
Happens all the time around here. I’ll keep an eye out at the viewing stations.
Regards,
Marcus
ITC Legal
Well done. You’ve made us look like we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.
Max
Producer, Total BEATS & Defm8
For the next few hours I stayed at my desk, not even risking going to the toilet or downstairs to the cafeteria, despite having only eaten a bowl of cornflakes all day. I kept an eye on my computer screen praying an email would ping in, and stared at my phone, willing it to ring with good news. Everyone around me offered to help, but I had to decline, knowing they had piles of work themselves. The search for Aaliyah was proving fruitless.
By the end of the day I was faced with a serious decision. Take my mum to the concert and piss off Max? Or stay, hopefully find the tapes, keep my job and let my mum down. Again.
Sorry Mum, can’t go! Tapes still missing. Sending tickets with a car to pick you and a friend up at 6.30. Sorry. Have fun. J
I asked Uncle Lee for a VIP car as opposed to a people carrier to try and make it special for her, but I still felt as guilty as hell. ‘Idiot!’ I cursed myself.
By eight p.m. everyone had left the building except for Max and me. He was watching me as I literally turned the place upside down for the umpteenth time. The words to Aaliyah’s ‘Try Again’ were starting to wear thin. Eventually he came over with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. He looked as tired as I felt.
‘Any luck?’ he asked in the calmest tone he’d used all day.
‘Nope.’
He sighed and rubbed his face and forehead with both hands. ‘Listen, Jay …’ he began, pulling up a chair and sitting next to me.
Oh God, he’s about to start up again, I thought to myself. Worse, he’s about to fire me. Before he could continue, I tried to see him off at the pass.
‘Max, I’m looking everywhere. I’m sorry for embarrassing you. You know I work hard and I’m extremely meticulous in everything I do. I get here before all the other interns and I’m the last to leave. I work late nights and weekends. I don’t see my girlfriend, my family or friends. It’s all my fault, I know, but I will find the tapes.’
The verbal diarrhoea all came out in one go. I was starting to feel maybe I wasn’t right for the job. Perhaps someone less forgetful would be better. Doubt had taken a mere working day to grab hold of me and knock my confidence back to square one.
He looked perplexed at my outburst but continued from where he left off.
‘Listen, Jay … this isn’t about the tapes. I’m sure they will turn up eventually.’ He paused for what seemed like ages. I felt my heart thumping on all pistons with nerves.
‘I’ve got some stuff going on and I think … I may … have taken it out on you.’
I sat there as calm overcame me. The mighty Max was apologizing? Well, almost. Where were my witnesses?
‘I won’t go into it too much but … well, there it is,’ he said, getting up to go.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.
He sat back down again and let out a deep breath, but said nothing.
‘Is it work?’ I prompted.
‘Partly,’ he admitted. ‘I was promised a promotion months ago but now they’re saying they can’t do it because the company is cutting budgets.’
‘But the show’s doing really well in the ratings, right?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter. Cuts are cuts,’ he said dismissively.
I got a sinking feeling. I might not even make it to six months at this rate.
‘And, to make matters worse, my relationship’s on the rocks.’
I was surprised to hear Max admit that. He always kept his cards close to his chest and barely spoke about his private life. The pressures must have been really bad. He candidly explained how his two-year relationship had hit the rocks for various reasons from her alcohol abuse to his infidelity. It was a weird yet welcome conversation.
‘I can’t handle her, an ex-wife and a kid,’ he said, sounding exhausted.
‘A kid?’ I blurted out in shock. That was a left-field ball I wasn’t expecting.
‘Didn’t you know? I thought everyone in this place knew. Can’t keep a secret like that hidden here for long,’ he said, genuinely surprised.
‘I had no idea,’ I replied. There was no framed picture on his desk, for a start.
‘His name’s Kayan,’ he said, showing me a photo from his wallet. ‘He’s from my short-lived marriage. I hardly get time to see him. His mum and I don’t get on.’ He looked disappointed. ‘Don’t get divorced, Jay – child support ain’t cheap.’