by Isabel Wolff
‘It was sensational,’ I replied. ‘It went without a hitch.’
‘And did you cry?’ she asked as she hung it up.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I cried.’
And that was it. Nothing left. Or almost nothing. Dad had already taken Granny’s tiara back to the bank. All that remained now was Nearly Wed, my bouquet and my veil. So on Sunday evening, at about nine, Amber drove me down to the Embankment, and we walked up the steps on to Waterloo Bridge. Gulls circled, screeching, over the water, and the windows from the office buildings flashed red and gold in the setting sun. A river cruiser passed underneath, and up floated music, voices and laughter. I watched the wake stream out, spreading and widening to touch both banks. Then I opened my bag, took out Nearly Wed and dropped it into the water. Amber and I didn’t exchange a word as I removed my veil, and a pair of sewing shears. She helped me hold it over the rail as I cut into the voile, slicing the fabric into fragments which the stiff breeze snatched away. One by one they flew up, then fluttered down like confetti. Some pieces seemed to go on for miles, dancing up and down over the water like big white butterflies. All that remained now was the bouquet. I looked at it one last time, remembering how happy I had felt as it had lain across my lap in the beribboned Bentley just a week before. The petals were no longer plump and fresh, but hung limp and translucent on their stems. I recalled how much I had been looking forward to throwing it on my wedding day. I would throw it now, instead.
‘Go on,’ Amber urged.
I grasped the posy firmly, pulled back my arm, and hurled it with a force which lifted me on to the balls of my feet. It shot out of my hand and flew down. I heard the faintest splash, then saw it quickly borne away, spinning gently in the whorls and eddies which studded the surface of the river. In a few hours, I reflected, it would reach the open sea.
‘Your turn now,’ I said.
‘Right,’ declared Amber with a fierce little laugh, ‘I’m going to change my life too!’ She opened her bag, and removed from it a well-thumbed copy of The Rules. She smiled sweetly, ripped it clean in half, then tossed both bits over the side. ‘I’m not interested in “capturing the heart of Mr Right”!’ she yelled. ‘I’m not going to give a damn about being single either!’ she added. At this she took out Bridget Jones’ Diary, and flung it as far as it would go. ‘Bye bye, Bridget Bollocks!’ she called out gaily as it hit the Thames. Then she took out What Men Want. Up that went too, high into the air, then down, down, down. ‘I don’t care what men bloody well want!’ she yelled, to the amusement of a couple passing by. ‘It’s what I want. And I don’t want babies. I don’t even want marriage. But I do want my books to win prizes!’
Ah. That was a tricky one. I tried to think of something tactful.
‘Maybe you’ll get the Romantic Novelists’ Prize,’ I said, with genuine enthusiasm. But Amber gave me a dirty look and I knew that I had blundered.
‘It’s the Booker I was thinking of, actually,’ she said tartly. ‘And the Whitbread, not to mention the Orange Prize for Fiction. Of course, I wouldn’t expect to win all three,’ she added quickly.
‘Of course not, no,’ I replied. ‘Still, there’s a first time for everything,’ I said, with hypocritical encouragement as we walked down the steps to the car.
‘You must understand that my books are literary, Minty,’ she explained to me yet again, as she opened the door. ‘The Romantic Novelists’ Prize is for’ – she winced – ‘commercial books.’
‘I see,’ I said, though I didn’t. Because I’ve never really understood this literary/commercial divide. I mean, to me, either a book is well written, and diverting, or it isn’t. Either it compels your attention, or it doesn’t. Either the public will buy it, or they won’t. And the public don’t seem to buy very many of Amber’s. I wanted to drop the subject because, to be frank, it’s a minefield, but Amber just wouldn’t let it go.
‘I have a very select, discerning readership,’ she acknowledged, ‘because I’m not writing “popular fiction”.’ This was absolutely true. ‘So I accept that I’m never going to be a bestseller,’ she enunciated disdainfully, ‘because I’m not in that kind of market.’
‘But …’ I could hear the ice begin to crack and groan beneath my feet.
‘But what?’ she pressed, as we drove up Eversholt Street.
‘But, well, writers like, say, Julian Barnes and William Boyd, Ian McEwan and Carol Shields …’ I ventured.
‘Yes?’
‘ …Helen Dunmore, Kate Atkinson and E. Annie Proulx.’
‘What about them?’ she said testily, as she changed up a gear.
‘Well, they’re literary writers, aren’t they?’
‘Ye-es,’ she conceded.
‘And their books are often bestsellers.’
Amber looked as though she had suddenly noticed an unpleasant smell.
‘Clearly, Minty,’ she said, as the speedometer touched fifty-five, ‘you know nothing about contemporary fiction. No, I’m really going to go for it,’ she vowed as we hurtled through our third red light. ‘I’m simply determined to break through.’
As for me, I’d decided I was simply determined to survive.
‘Erectile problems? Try – NIAGRA!’ said the cheery pseudo-American voice-over artist as I pushed on the revolving door. I entered the building, flashed a smile and my ID at Tom, then walked slowly up the stairs. London FM’s output poured forth from every speaker; it’s a bit like pollution – hard to avoid. It’s in the reception area, the corridors and the lifts. It’s in the boardroom and the basement canteen. It’s in every single office, and the stationery cupboard. It even seeps into the loos.
‘So remember – NIAGRA! Get out £9.99 and get it UP!’
Delightful, I thought, as I studied my pale reflection in the Ladies on the third floor. And then I thought, oh dear. You see, whenever London FM is going through a bad patch, the ads get worse and worse. In fact, they act as an unofficial barometer for the station’s health, which is not very good right now.
‘Unsightly fat on your upper arms?’ enquired a solicitous female voice. No, I thought as I lifted them up to brush my long, dark hair. ‘Ugly dimples on hips and thighs?’ I gazed at my shrunken middle. Nope. ‘Introducing the new Bum and Tum Slim – THE fast, effective way to lose inches.’ I don’t want to lose any more inches, I thought – I’d lost half a stone in a week.
I glanced at my watch, and a sharp surge of adrenaline began to make my heart race. Nine thirty. No putting it off. I’d have to go in and face them all now. At least then it’d be over with, I thought wearily, as I picked up my bag. The staring. The stifled titters. The sudden silences when I walked by; the giggles by the coffee machine, the furtive conversations by the fax.
Breathing deeply, I walked through the newsroom, passed the sales department and went into the Capitalise office. Mayhem met my eyes. Once again, the cleaners had failed to show. Books and papers spilled across desks; wastepaper bins overflowed. A spaghetti of editing tape lay on the floor, while an upturned cup dripped tea on to the carpet. In one corner a printer spewed out sheets of script which no one bothered to collect. Where was everyone? I wondered. What on earth was going on? Then, from the adjacent boardroom came a shrill, familiar voice, and I realised that the planning meeting had started early. I opened the door and crept in. Good. They were too busy arguing to notice me.
‘CWAP!’ screeched Melinda Mitten, our ‘star’ presenter, and I marvelled yet again at how a woman with a serious speech impediment could have become a professional broadcaster. Actually, there’s a simple explanation for this: a) her uncle owns the station and b) her uncle owns the station. He’s Sir Percy Mitten, the hosiery king. Very big in tights. And his stockings were always said by those who knew to be the ‘denier cri’. But two years ago he sold Pretty Penny for, well, a pretty penny, and decided to buy London FM. Like many a business baron he wanted to move into the media, and owning a radio station had become de rigueur. Once derided as brown-paper-and-Sellotap
e outfits struggling to survive, commercial radio stations had acquired a certain cachet. In fact, they were the ultimate accessory for the successful industrialist with his eye on a seat in the Lords. And so we turned up for work one day to find we’d been the target of a takeover. Our owners had sold us, like a used car, to the Mitten Group. No one had had a clue. Not even Jack. It was a fait accompli. He’d been informed about it on his mobile phone as he made his way into work. For a while, chaos reigned. No one knew what to expect. Words like ‘rationalisation’ and ‘belt-tightening’ were bandied about like balls. Anyone over thirty-five was told to expect their cards. Bob Harper, ‘the voice of London FM’, was summoned and summarily sacked and, the next day, Melinda arrived in a Porsche and a cloud of Poison.
‘Hello, evewyone,’ she’d said amiably. ‘I’m the new pwesenter.’
In the event, apart from Melinda’s arrival, life remained remarkably unchanged. There was gossip about us in Broadcast, of course, and there were also dark mutterings about Jack. Some claimed he had lost his authority and should have fallen on his sword. But he was forty, a dangerous age in an industry driven by youth. I was very relieved that he stayed. It was Jack who’d given me my first break. I didn’t know anything about radio – I’d been teaching for five years – but all of a sudden I got the broadcasting bug, and so I pestered Jack. I wrote to him, and got a rejection letter. I wrote again, and got another. Then I went round to London FM, just behind the Angel, and asked his assistant, Monica, if he’d see me. She told me he was too busy. So I went back again the next day, and this time, he agreed. Monica showed me into his office. Jack was sitting staring at his computer. He was in his late thirties, and he was very attractive.
‘Look, I don’t mind seeing you,’ he said, after a minute. ‘But, as I told you, I don’t have any vacancies. In any case, I only employ trained people.’
‘Can’t you train me?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t have the money.’
‘Well, how much does it cost?’
‘That’s not the point,’ he said, slightly irritably. ‘It’s not even as though you’ve been a journalist.’ This was true. I wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect. ‘Whenever I appoint someone,’ he explained, ‘I have to justify that choice to Management. And I’m afraid I just don’t have the budget to run a kindergarten for beginners.’ He handed me back my CV. ‘I’m very sorry. I admire your persistence, but I’m afraid I really can’t help.’
‘But I want to be a radio journalist,’ I said, as if that were all the explanation that was required. ‘I really think I’d be good.’
‘You haven’t got any experience,’ he countered wearily. ‘So I simply can’t agree.’
But I’d stayed in there, trying to make him change his mind. Looking back, I’m astonished at my boldness. In the end, he’d nearly lost his temper. He had shown me the Himalayan pile of CVs lying on his desk. He’d made me listen to the show-reels of three of his top reporters. He’d told me to try my luck making coffee at the Beeb. But, like Velcro, I had stuck.
‘I’ll work for nothing,’ I said.
‘We’re not allowed to do that,’ he replied. He leaned towards me across his huge, paper-strewn desk, hands clasped together as if in prayer. When he spoke again, he was almost whispering. ‘You can’t edit tape; you’ve never interviewed anyone; you’ve no idea how to make a feature, and you wouldn’t know a microphone from a baseball bat. I need competent, talented, experienced people, Minty, and I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.’
‘OK, I know I’m not experienced, but I am very enthusiastic and I’d learn very quickly if you’d just give me a chance, and you see, I’ve been reading this book about radio production, so I already know quite a lot.’
‘A book?’ he said, wryly. ‘Very impressive. Right,’ he said, with a penetrating stare, ‘what are “cans”?
‘Headphones.’
‘What does “dubbing” mean?’
‘Copying.’
‘“De-umming”?’
‘Taking out all the glitches – the ums and ah’s.’
‘What about “wild-track”?’ He had picked up a piece of yellow leader tape and was twisting it in his hands.
‘Er …background noise, like birdsong, or traffic.’
‘More or less. What’s “popping”?’
‘Distortion on the microphone.’
‘OK. What are “bands”?’ He had swivelled round in his chair and was tapping something out on his computer keyboard.
‘Edited speech inserts,’ I said.
‘What’s a “pot-cut”?’ He went over to the printer, which started up with a high-pitched whine.
‘An early coming-out point on an insert, when a live programme is running short of time.’
This quiz was starting to get me down. He tapped something out on his computer.
‘What does “i.p.s.” mean?’
‘Inches per second.’
‘Very good. What’s a “simulrec”?’ And now he was printing something out.
‘I really haven’t the faintest.’ This was ridiculous.
‘The same interview recorded in two different places and edited together later.’ He was scanning the page with his eyes.
‘What’s a segue?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I didn’t like this. I was on my feet.
‘Music or speech which follows on from something else without an intervening explanatory link.’ He folded the printout in two. ‘What’s a “Lyrec”?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ I said. ‘And I don’t really care any more.’
‘It’s a portable reel-to-reel tape-recorder, rather oldfashioned but still used for OB’s. What’s an “OB”?’
‘An Outside Bloody Broadcast,’ I said, sweeping up my bag from the floor. ‘These are just boring technical terms,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to know them. I want to be a reporter, not a sound engineer. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I think I’ll try somewhere else.’ I reached for the door handle, but Jack was holding that piece of folded paper out to me. I took it and opened it up.
‘Right,’ he said. He was behind his desk, staring at me with his dark brown eyes. ‘That’s a news despatch about the environmental protest in Lambeth. There are plans for a hypermarket there, with a new link road, and the eco-warriors are creating.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘In fact, my Moth-’ I bit my lip. I decided to keep Mum out of it. ‘It’s been in the papers,’ I said.
Jack clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair.
‘I want you to go down there and collect some material. I want some wild-track of the bulldozers, and a few vox-pops from the protesters – no more than six – which will accompany an interview we’re running tomorrow. My assistant Monica will get you a tape-recorder,’ he said, as he turned back to his computer. ‘Make sure you hold the lead still so that it doesn’t crackle, and keep the mike no more than a hand-span away from your subject’s mouth. When you get back I’ll find a spare producer to help you cut it down.’ He looked at me, seriously. ‘I expect you to mess this up a bit, because you’ve never done it before. But if you screw it up completely, I don’t want to see you again.’
That’s how I got started. And because Mum was there, collecting for the pressure group Eco-Logical, she knew all the campaigners and helped me get some really good quotes. Jack was happy with what I’d done, so he gave me a freelance reporting shift. Then, a week later, he gave me another. And then another. Soon, I began to compile longer pieces, quite complex ones – they took me ages to begin with. Sometimes – though I’d never tell anyone this – they took all night to do. Then, a few months later, it happened: one of the staff reporters was poached by Channel 4 News and there I was, on the spot. That was three years ago. My life seemed complete. I had fallen in love with radio; and then I fell in love with Dominic too.
‘That weely is cwap!’ Melinda screeched again, as I sat down in the boardroom on my first day b
ack.
‘I thought Wesley’s idea was rather good,’ Jack said.
‘Oh, thanks, Jack,’ simpered Wesley. ‘Do you really think so?’ And then Wesley noticed me, and smiled.
‘Oh, hel-lo, Minty,’ he said. Then his features folded into an expression of sympathetic concern. ‘Minty, look, I’d just like to say –’
‘Wesley!’ Jack cut in. ‘Kindly tell us all who you would invite into the studio for this item on astrology.’
‘Well,’ he began. ‘Well …’ Wesley never has any ideas. His mind was clearly as empty as the Outback as he pursed his lips, then stared at the floor.
‘How about an astrologer?’ Jack prompted crisply.
‘Yeah!’ said Wesley. ‘Fab! Brilliant idea. There’s that woman from the Weekly Star …’
‘Sheryl von Strumpfhosen?’ I offered.
‘Yeah. Thanks, Minty.’
‘She’s no good,’ I added bitterly.
‘Minty, look,’ said Wesley, ‘I’d really just like to say-’
I felt my face redden, and my heartbeat rise, but Jack deflected him again.
‘What other ideas do you have, Wesley?’
‘Well …’ Wesley began. ‘Well …’ He ran a limp hand over his balding head, then fiddled with the top button of his polyester shirt. He cast his watery blue eyes to the ceiling, and made funny little sucking noises with his teeth, but inspiration clearly eluded him.
‘Anyone else?’ said Jack tersely. Silence. As usual, none of the producers had a clue. They always leave it to Sophie, our new researcher. She’s just out of Oxford, ferociously ambitious, and as sharp as broken glass.
‘Sophie, are you prepared to help your clueless colleagues?’ said Jack.
She consulted her clipboard, tucked her hair behind one ear and pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose.
‘There’s a report out today on drug-taking in schools,’ she began crisply, ‘and there’s another appeal being launched to save Bart’s. I see from the publishing catalogues that a new biography of Boris Yeltsin is published this week, so I’ve put in a bid for the author, and of course the shortlist for the Turner Prize is being announced in three days.’