by Isabel Wolff
‘Are you all right now?’
‘I suppose so. Whatever “all right” means.’
We walked on in silence now, past huge white stuccoed houses, our feet crunching into the thin layer of sugary snow.
‘I know we’ve fallen out a bit, Minty,’ said Joe after a minute or two, ‘and I’m sorry about it, but I hope you understand.’
‘Of course I do,’ I said.
‘I just can’t afford to get myself in a mess again,’ he explained. ‘I was protecting myself, that’s all.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ I said. ‘In any case, you’re right. I did have too much baggage. I still do.’
‘Well, it’ll get lighter,’ he said, as we crossed the road. ‘Timing,’ Joe added.
‘What?’ I said.
‘It’s all a matter of timing,’ he explained. ‘The fact is, we met at the wrong time to be anything other than friends.’
I nodded my agreement, but the word ‘friends’ made me feel very depressed.
‘Any job prospects?’ he enquired.
‘Not yet. London FM’s been in turmoil.’
‘I read about it,’ he said. ‘Death by fairy cake. Awful.’
‘I know. No one knows what’s going to happen. How are your re-writes?’ I enquired.
‘Coming along,’ he said. ‘But the bad news is …’
‘Yes? We turn left here.’
‘That 90 per cent of film scripts never get made.’
‘Well, I’m sure yours will. I bet it’s brilliant.’ He gave my arm a grateful squeeze. ‘Where did you get the idea for your novel?’ I asked him as we entered Holland Park.
‘My mother’s Polish,’ he explained, as we walked through a dense copse of silver birches. ‘The story’s a true one, based on what happened to her elder brother. He was autistic. He was very disturbed and destructive. And no one knew anything about autism then, so they just wrote him off. He couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, even talk. Anyway, when he was nine he befriended this stray dog and it changed him. It seemed to unblock a part of his mind. And within a few months he began to speak, and “Pios” was the first thing he said.’
‘I loved the book,’ I said truthfully, as two squirrels bounced across our path. ‘In fact, it made me cry. It’s easy to imagine it on the screen.’
‘But it’s going to be very hard getting it there,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’ve decided to go to LA.’
‘Good idea,’ I replied, with a thin smile. ‘When are you off?’
‘In a few weeks. But we could insult each other longdistance.’
‘Fine,’ I said, with a stab of regret.
‘I’m sure you could write me some offensive E-Mail, Minty.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I could.’
‘We could continue to exchange gratuitous abuse.’
‘That would be nice. I could do it from the computer at work.’
‘But I hope I’ll see you again before I go,’ he said as we walked up the gentle slope into the Belvedere. He went ahead to the door, and held it open for me.
‘I know we’ve had our ups and down, Minty,’ he added as I walked through. ‘But I’d just like you to know that I still think you’re appalling.’
She really is appalling, I thought, as Melinda staggered into the office with a tray the following Monday morning. She’d been to get us all coffee. This was such a rare occurrence that I had seriously wondered whether she’d be able to find the canteen without assistance.
‘Here you are, Minty,’ she said soothingly as she placed a cup on my desk. ‘You did say milk, didn’t you?’
‘What? Oh, yes please. Thanks. Can I give you the money?’
‘Oh no, of course not, Minty!’ She rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘This one’s on me.’
‘Gosh, well, thanks.’
‘Anyway,’ she added with a giggle, ‘it was only a few Euwo’s! I’ve weally got the hang of that now.’
‘Well, good.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some biscuits to go with it, Minty?’
‘I’m sure. Thanks.’
‘Because I weally like to help my colleagues. In any way I can. In fact, I’m going shopping later, Minty, so do let me know if there’s anything you need fwom Harvey Nicks.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need anything. Honestly.’
‘Well, just ask,’ she said with a smile. ‘And what a vewy nice dwess you’ve got on, Minty,’ she added with tropical warmth.
‘Oh, thank you. It’s new.’
‘And that scarf goes weally well with it.’
‘Oh, er, thanks,’ I said again. The constant compliments were a little wearing. They’d been flowing for over a week. We all knew why, of course. To be frank, we found her sudden charm offensive.
‘Sophie, here’s your tea,’ she crooned. ‘With lemon, and half a teaspoon of sugar, just like you always pwefer.’ The ice caps were in danger of melting at this rate.
‘Oh, thanks, Melinda,’ Sophie replied, as she stood by the fax machine.
‘And what nice shoes!’ Melinda exclaimed. ‘Are they new, Sophie?’ She was as transparent as a trout stream.
‘Er, yes, they are,’ Sophie replied as she tapped in the number.
‘Well, I think they’re gweat. Kurt Geiger?’
‘Ferragamo, actually,’ said Sophie. Gosh.
‘I love your suit too,’ said Melinda. ‘It almost looks like Chanel.’
‘Um …it is Chanel, actually,’ said Sophie with a self-conscious grin. Good Lord. I’d noticed Sophie’s startling sartorial transformation of late, but I didn’t like to comment. Like me, she had changed her image. But in her case she had upgraded herself from Next and River Island to bankbreakingly expensive designer wear. I had concluded that the Candy Bar was paying her well, because London FM certainly wasn’t.
‘I do like that jacket you’re wearwing today, Wesley,’ said Melinda, as she put a cup of coffee down on his desk.
‘Well, that’s very sweet of you to say so,’ he said. In fact, it was quite a smart sports jacket.
‘And how’s Deirdwe?’ Melinda enquired solicitously. ‘How’s it all going on the bump fwont?’
‘Oh, the bump’s really going very well, actually,’ he replied with a rapt smile. ‘She’s just had another scan.’
‘It’s so exciting having a baby,’ Melinda went on with a beatific smirk. ‘Perhaps your baby and mine can play together. We could ask the bosses to install a cweche.’
‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘Perhaps.’
Then Jack swept in. He’d just come back from a pow-wow with the Board. As he hung up his coat, we anxiously scrutinised his face, trying to read in it signs which might give away what had been resolved. Would there be a merger? A takeover? A buy-out? A bye-bye?
‘Hello, Jack – what a super tie!’ gushed Melinda. ‘I’ve just got evewyone some coffee. Would you like me to go and get some for you too?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘But I would like to have a word with you, Melinda, in my office, if that’s all right.’
‘Oh, of course it’s all wight,’ she replied benignly. ‘I’m just coming.’
Jack went into his office, held the door open for Melinda, then shut it firmly behind her. We all exchanged meaningful glances. What was going to happen? There was silence for about five seconds. And then we knew.
‘NOOOOOOO!!!!’ we heard her scream. ‘NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!’ This was followed by violent sobbing.
‘You can’t do this to me!’ we heard her blub. ‘You just CAN’T.’ We craned to hear what was going on. In between Melinda’s ululations, we could hear Jack’s muted interjections.
‘YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!’ she screamed again. ‘Don’t you wealise who I am? Uncle Percy would be FUWIOUS.’ And then the door crashed open, and Melinda came flying out, her tear-stained face contorted with rage.
‘He’s twying to sack me!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s twying to get wid of me. As if it isn’t enough having lost Uncle Percy in such twagic
circumstances.’
We all returned her beseeching looks with blank ones. What on earth did she expect us to say?
‘I want you all to stand up for me!’ Melinda almost screamed. ‘It’s totally unfair. He’s twying to victimise me.’
By now, Jack had emerged from his office and was standing in the doorway, his face reddening with suppressed rage. In his hands he was twisting a length of yellow leader tape. But his voice, when he spoke, was calm.
‘Melinda, would you please come back into my office, so that we can discuss this in private?’
‘NO!’ she shouted. ‘I won’t. I want evewyone to hear how badly you’ve tweated me.’
‘I would like to resume this conversation in the privacy of my office,’ he reiterated.
‘NO!’ she shouted. ‘If you’ve got anything to say to me, say it in fwont of the team! Or are you afwaid to, Jack?’ she taunted. That did it.
‘No, I’m not afraid of anything,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m just trying to do my job. And part of my job, Melinda, is to inform you that your contract has not been renewed. Right, everyone,’ he said, ‘since Melinda insists that we discuss things in here, I’m happy to tell you that, after lengthy deliberations, the Board of MG have decided, on balance, to keep the station on.’
‘Thank God!’ Sophie shouted. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.
‘They have also appointed me Managing Director, with total responsibility for the output. One of my priorities now is, of course, to lift the ratings. And I intend to accomplish this by replacing Melinda with Minty, as presenter of Capitalise.’
My heart sang. I struggled to suppress an ecstatic smile.
‘You can’t do that!’ Melinda spat. ‘She’s not vewy good.’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Jack. ‘She’s very good indeed.’
‘I’ve still got some power awound here, you know,’ Melinda hissed.
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Jack simply. ‘Now that Sir Percy is no longer …with us, you don’t have any power at all.’
‘But …’ she was wheedling now, aware that aggression had failed, ‘I’m the most popular pwesenter that London FM’s ever had.’
‘Melinda,’ said Jack, with magnificent serenity, ‘you delude yourself. You’re about as popular as a fart in a crowded lift.’
‘That’s vewy wude!’ she spat.
‘Your voice is atrocious,’ he went on calmly. ‘You have a conspicuous speech impediment. And you make so many fluffs I’m surprised we don’t have a special vacuum cleaner to hoover them up. But worst of all, you are incapable of writing a simple link without your colleagues’ help. Melinda, let me be quite blunt here. As a professional broadcaster, you are “cwap”.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she hissed.
‘No,’ said Jack. ‘You don’t. What I was going to tell you, before you insisted on continuing our conference out here, was that in recognition of the two years you have worked for the station, you will of course get an appropriate pay-off, to be negotiated with the accountants. Thank you for your contribution to London FM, goodbye.’ Jack returned to his office and shut the door.
‘I was lying about your tie!’ she shouted at the closed door. ‘It’s howwible. Just like you!’ Then she picked up her bag, and the baby, and came and stood in front of my desk.
‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Minty,’ she spat. ‘I hope you’re weally happy.’ And of course I was. Ecstatically. But I was careful to say absolutely nothing.
‘And as for the west of you,’ she snarled, ‘I …I …’ Words, never her strong point, suddenly deserted her. She gave us a valedictory glare, and was gone.
‘More Turmoil at London FM!’ trumpeted Broadcast’s front page a few days later. They love us. They absolutely love us. We provide them with great copy, you see. It’s like a soap opera. And Melinda’s furious departure was another dramatic twist in the tale. On the inside pages they did a big piece about the station, and described the changes that have been made in the past week – including a very tough new stalking policy. All letters from nutters are now sent straight to the police. And the article praised the way Jack had promoted Sophie to edit Capitalise and how, at twenty-two, she’s the youngest editor in the programme’s history. They did a big number on me, too; about how I was Jack’s first choice to present the show. And – get this – they called me ‘The New Voice of London FM’. I nearly died.
Then the next morning the Evening Standard phoned up and said they wanted to do a feature on us too. It was to be a ‘Day in the life of’ kind of piece, and so this woman came along with a photographer and they trailed us at work, from the morning meeting at nine thirty, until we came off air. The piece came out this morning – in fact, I’ve got it in front of me now – and it really does look good. It’s a double-page spread, entitled ‘The Retuning of London FM’. There’s a photo of Sophie chairing the meeting; and there’s one of me with my headphones on, and there’s a fun photo of us all laughing and joking after we’ve just come off air at two forty-five. And there was a very nice one of Jack sitting in his office, taking a phone call, looking very relaxed – well, he is a lot more relaxed these days, since he kicked derrière at home. He says the girls – and Jane – are now treating him with considerably more respect. And he was quoted as saying that he wants to keep a strong current affairs element in the programme, and that he hopes to avoid the dumbing down of news which goes on all too often elsewhere. He also said it was his intention to introduce a number of new programmes to the schedule in due course. And that before long he would steer the station into the brave new digital age.
So finally things are starting to go well, and the programme’s going like a dream. To top it all, I got a call from Joe, which I was thrilled about. And the reason why I was thrilled was because he’s not in London at the moment. He’s with his parents in Manchester while he does some extra research for one of the characters – I think she’s the little boy’s teacher. Joe told me he’s been going through all the old family photos and letters with his mum. And he’s there for ten days, but he gave me a call. So I was feeling incredibly happy. In fact, I was having a very good day.
‘What a super piece in the Standard, Minty,’ said Mum, when she rang me at work after the show. ‘Now, I can’t talk for long because I’m at the Badger Trust AGM, but I just wanted to tell you what a lovely photo it is of you, darling. I wonder if Daddy’s seen it?’ she added vaguely.
‘Haven’t you spoken to him?’
‘Oh no, I’ve been so busy recently,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t seen him for days. Ships in the night, and all that!’
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘you told us you’d tone it down.’
‘Tone what down, Minty?’
‘All your charity stuff. You said you’d tone it down when Dad retired.’
‘Yes, darling, I know.’
‘Well, he’s been retired for nearly five months.’
‘Has he?’ she said, dumbfounded. ‘Good Lord! I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t even noticed. Of course he’s retired, that’s right. Anyway, if you want to talk to me later, ring between six and seven because I’ve got a bring-and-buy for the Red Cross before that, and a drinks party for Action on Addiction afterwards.’
‘I wish someone would take some action on your addiction,’ I said crisply. ‘You’re just a hopeless philanthropolic!’
March
It’s great being a presenter. I love it. Not just because of the obvious advantages that go with the job – i.e. career progress, higher job satisfaction, increased earnings, elevated professional status and occasional media interest. No, I love it for the following very specific reasons: a) I don’t have to interview Citronella Pratt any more; b) I can go home earlier; and c) I’m a lot happier. So much so that some of my anguish about Dominic and his new engagement has lifted. I do feel more cheerful. For the first time, I feel I’m able to cope. The pendulum has swung back in my favour. And that’s what life is like. The rich tapestry and all
that. The ineffable multiplicity. What Emily Dickinson calls ‘The mixing bells and palls’ of existence. Something utterly dreadful happens – being dumped on your wedding day, for example – and then, to balance things up a bit, a piece of good luck comes along. Like my promotion. Though I was sorry that it only came about because of what happened to poor old Sir Percy.
Anyway, what I’m really enjoying, apart from the work itself, is the fact that, once the programme’s over, I’m free to leave. No longer do I have to stay at my desk, editing features late into the night, then walking around with eyes like peanuts the following morning. It’s Monica’s turn to do that now. She said she’d always wanted to be a reporter, and so in the general reshuffle that went on, Jack promoted her too. She’s thrilled. She’s young and keen and she’s got the broadcasting bug, so she doesn’t mind the hard graft. Anyway, my job is simply to present the programme. And it’s great not having to help everyone any more. So once we come off air, that’s it. I can go. Usually, however, I don’t. I like to hang around in the office for a while chatting to everyone, though Wesley does nothing but talk about his impending fatherhood – he’s a total baby bore these days. And I read the papers and make a couple of calls, and then, at about four thirty, I toddle off. So today I arrived back home at about five fifteen, and there was Amber, on the phone, as usual.
‘’ello,’ I heard her say, ‘eez zat Borrrders boo-ookshop? Ah. Zees is Sylvie Dupont speekeenger.’ Oh God, not that old trick again. ‘Ah em joost reenging to pless an orrrrder for a vairy gooder boook zat all my frrrenz ‘ave bin telleeng me to bah. Eet eez colled A Public Convenience by zat vairy good rrrriter, Amber Dane. I would lak to orderrr dix, er, I min, ten copees, s’il vous plaît …Oui, oui …Merci …Au revoir …HA!’ She was laughing as she put the phone down.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘You’ll accidentally on purpose forget to go and collect the books.’
‘Yes,’ she said, with a smirk. ‘And then they’ll have to sell them.’
‘How many bookshops have you done this in?’
‘Thirty-three,’ she said. ‘In a number of different foreign accents. I’m particularly proud of my Russian one. Do you want to hear it?’