What a Carve Up!

by Jonathan Coe

  iv) was the doubling of her salary to £210,000 p.a., agreed upon by the board in February 1982, a fair and accurate reflection of her increased workload since the acquisition of TMT?

  Mr Gardner remarked at this point that he would have thought twice about accepting this job if he had known that he was joining a sinking ship, and asked whose idea it had been to employ this bloody woman in the first place.

  Mr Fisher replied that Ms Winshaw had joined the company on the recommendation of Mr Alan Beamish, the distinguished producer, formerly of the BBC.

  Mrs Rawson requested, on a point of order, that Ms Winshaw stop playing with the grapes as somebody might want to eat them and there was no longer scope for waste in any area of the company’s activities …

  At 4.37 p.m. it was agreed by a vote of 11–1 that Ms Winshaw’s contract should be terminated forthwith, and that she should be compensated with a lump sum which took realistic account of the present state of the company finances.

  The meeting adjourned at 4.41 p.m.

  ∗

  From the Guardian, Diary, 26 November 1983

  RAISED eyebrows all round at the news of Hilary Winshaw’s recent departure from——Television. It’s not so much the fact that she was ousted (most observers had been predicting that for some time) as the size of the pay-off: a cool £320,000, if rumours are to be believed. Not a bad reward for reducing this once-profitable outfit to a condition of near-bank-ruptcy in a couple of years.

  Could such unprecedented generosity have anything to do with her cousin Thomas Winshaw, chairman of Stewards, the merchant bank which has a hefty stake in the company? And could it be true that the multi-talented Ms Winshaw is about to land herself a plum job as columnist on a certain daily newspaper whose proprietor also just happens to be one of Stewards’ most valuable clients? Watch, as they say, this space …

  ∗

  Hilary’s reputation had preceded her, and she found that on her first day she did not receive much of a welcome from her new colleagues. Well, she thought: fuck them. She was only going to be coming in one or two days a week. If that.

  She had her own desk with her name on it in a far corner of the open-plan office. All it contained, so far, was a typewriter and a pile of the day’s other newspapers. It had been decided that the title of her column would be PLAIN COMMON SENSE. She had to fill up most of a tabloid page, leading off with a longish opinionated piece and following it with two or three more personal, gossipy items.

  It was March 1984. She picked up the first newspaper that came to hand and glanced over the headlines. Then, after a couple of minutes, she put it down and began to type.

  Underneath the headline THE POLITICS OF GREED, she wrote:

  Most of us, still tightening our belts in the wake of the recession, would agree that this is not the time to start banging on the government’s door and asking for more money.

  And most of us, with images of the dreadful ‘Winter of Discontent’ still fresh in our minds, would agree that another wave of strikes is the last thing the country needs.

  But we would have reckoned without neo-Marxist Arthur Scargill and his greedy National Union of Mineworkers.

  Already Mr Scargill is threatening ‘industrial action’ – which of course means inaction, in anybody else’s books – if he and his comrades aren’t showered with yet another round of pay rises and perks.

  Well I say, Shame on you, Mr Scargill! Just when we are all pulling together to put this country back on its feet again, who are you to take us back into the Dark Ages of industrial unrest?

  How dare you put selfish greed before the national interest!

  Hilary looked at her watch. Her first piece had taken slightly less than twelve minutes to write: not bad for a beginner. She took it along to the deputy editor, who began by crossing out her headline, then slid the sheet of paper back across his desk after a few moments’ bored scrutiny.

  ‘They’re not asking for more money,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The miners. That’s not why they’re striking.’

  Hilary’s brow puckered. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘But I thought all strikes were about asking for more money.’

  ‘Well, this one’s about pit closures. The NCB is planning to close twenty pits this year. They’re striking because they don’t want to lose their jobs.’

  Still looking doubtful, Hilary picked up the piece of paper.

  ‘I suppose I might have to change one or two things, then.’

  ‘One or two.’

  Back at her desk, she read through several of the newspapers more thoroughly. This took her nearly half an hour. Then, having mastered her brief, she typed out her second draft – this time, in just under seven and a half minutes.

  THEY SAY that if there’s one thing the Scots know, it’s how to look after their money. And Ian McGregor, chairman of the National Coal Board, is, if nothing else, a shrewd auld Scot with a lifetime’s business experience behind him.

  Mr Arthur Scargill, however, comes from quite a different background: a lifelong union agitator, a known Marxist and an all-round troublemaker with the glint of battle in his beady little eye.

  So I put this question to you: which of these two figures would you rather trust with the future of the British mining industry?

  For this is the point about the miners’ dispute. For all Mr Scargill’s scaremongering rhetoric about jobs, families and what he likes to call ‘the community’, the argument isn’t really about any of these things. It’s about efficiency. If something isn’t paying its way, you close it down. It’s one of the first – and simplest – lessons that any businessman learns.

  Unfortunately Mr Scargill, bless him, doesn’t seem to have learned it yet.

  Which is why, when it comes to the industry’s purse-strings, I for one would rather have canny Mr McGregor in control any day – the noo!

  The deputy editor read it through twice and then looked up with the ghost of a smile.

  He said: ‘I think you may turn out to be rather good at this.’

  ∗

  Hilary’s appointment had been made against the better judgment of the editor, Peter Eaves, who for several weeks ignored her completely. One Monday evening, however, they both happened to be in the office at the same time. Hilary was writing up an interview with an old Cambridge friend, an actress who had just published a book about her collection of teddy bears, while Peter and his deputy were trying out various lay-outs for the next day’s front page. As she walked past on her way to the coffee machine, she stopped to take a critical glance.

  ‘That wouldn’t make me want to buy the paper,’ she said.

  They took no notice.

  ‘I mean, it’s boring. Who wants to read another union story?’

  News had just come in of a surprise verdict from the High Court. Back in March, the Foreign Secretary Geoffrey Howe had ordered civil servants at GCHQ in Cheltenham to give up their union membership, arguing that it presented a conflict with the national interest. The unions had tried to overturn the ban by bringing an action in the High Court, and today, much to everyone’s surprise, the judge had ruled in their favour. He said that the government’s actions had been ‘contrary to natural justice’. The provisional front page juxtaposed pictures of Mrs Thatcher and Mr Justice Glidewell, beneath the banner headline NOT NATURAL, and, in smaller type, ELATED STAFF HAIL LEGAL VICTORY.

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ said Peter, in measured tones, ‘that this is a major news story. Spare us your thoughts on the subject, will you?’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Hilary. ‘Who wants to read about a bunch of civil servants and whether they can join a union or not? I mean, big deal. On top of that, why should we run a story that’s damaging to the government?’

  ‘I don’t care who we damage,’ said Peter, ‘as long as it sells papers.’

  ‘Well you’re not going to sell many like that.’ She looked at her wa
tch. ‘I can get you a better front page in twenty minutes. Maybe less.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’ll write it and give you the picture.’

  Hilary went back to her desk and dialled the home number of her Cambridge friend. Among the subjects they had discussed after their interview was a mutual acquaintance – another actress – who had just given birth to her third child. Her body was no longer looking its best, but this had not prevented her, apparently, from doing nude scenes for a television film to be broadcast in a few months’ time. Hilary’s friend, who happened to be living with the film’s editor, had mentioned in passing that she had access to some of the footage, which made for interesting viewing.

  ‘Listen, be a darling, would you, and bike some stills over?’ said Hilary. ‘We’ll have a bit of fun.’

  In the meantime she sat down and typed:

  IT’S BOOBS AT TEN!

  Saucy BBC bosses have got a raunchy treat in store for us this autumn, with a hot new play so sexy that it won’t be screened until well after the nine o’clock watershed.

  The torrid drama stars——, whose three young children will certainly be in for a surprise when they see their Mum cavorting in an outrageous three-in-a-bed romp with American heartthrob——

  It didn’t take long to make up the rest. Hilary’s story dominated the next day’s front page, with the High Court’s decision relegated to a small paragraph in the bottom corner.

  Later that evening, Peter Eaves took her out to dinner.

  ∗

  From ‘Jennifer’s Diary’, Harpers & Queen, December 1984

  PRETTY WEDDING

  On Saturday afternoon I went to St Paul’s, Knights-bridge, for the marriage of Peter Eaves, the well-known newspaper editor, to Hilary Winshaw, daughter of Mr and Mrs Mortimer Winshaw. The bride looked most attractive in a lovely parchment colour silk dress, with a pearl and diamond tiara holding her tulle veil in place. Her attendants wore very pretty peach silk dresses …

  The reception was held at the Savoy hotel, and came to a most spectacular conclusion. The guests were all led out on to the riverside terrace, where the groom surprised his bride with a lovely present: her own private seaplane, a four-seater, tied up in an enormous pink ribbon. The happy couple stepped inside and took off along the Thames to start their honeymoon in tremendous style.

  ∗

  So the government has published its White Paper on the future of television, and already those moaning minnies in the broadcasting establishment are up in arms!

  They would have us believe that deregulation would bring us American-style television (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But the plain fact is that there’s one word which terrifies this posse of Hampstead liberals more than any other.

  That word is ‘choice’.

  And the reason they don’t like it? Because they know that, given the opportunity, very few of us would ‘choose’ to watch the dreary round of highbrow drama and leftwing agitprop that they would like to inflict on us.

  When will these self-appointed nannies of the broadcasting mafia realize that what the British people want, at the end of the day, is a bit of relaxation and a bit of fun: not to be ‘educated’ by some bearded prig of a critic introducing three hours of one-legged mime from Bulgaria.

  Roll on, deregulation, I say, if it means more power to the viewer’s elbow and more of our favourite shows with the likes of Brucie, Noel and Tarby.∗ (∗NB subs please check these names)

  Meanwhile, next time you find that the only things on the telly are one of those boring documentaries about Peruvian peasants, or some incomprehensibly ‘arty’ film (with subtitles, of course), remember that there’s always one ‘choice’ they can’t take away from us.

  The choice to reach for that ‘off’ button and head down to the nearest video store!

  – ‘Plain Common Sense’, November 1988

  ∗

  ‘What the hell are you watching now?’

  ‘Bit late, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been working, actually.’

  ‘Oh, spare me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You are so fucking transparent, darling.’

  ‘What is this rubbish, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know, some game show. One of those hearty, down-to-earth pieces of entertainment you’ve been extolling in your column lately.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can watch this crap. No wonder you’re so in tune with the brain-dead morons who read your paper. You’re not much better yourself.’

  ‘Do I detect a little post-coital tetchiness, by any chance?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t know why you keep shagging Nigel if it just puts you in a bad mood.’

  ‘It gives you a thrill to think that, does it?’

  ‘It gives everyone on the paper a thrill, I should imagine, since you’re not exactly discreet about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s just marvellous, coming from you. I suppose getting blow-jobs from a temp, in your own office – with the bloody door open – I suppose that counts as discretion, does it?’

  ‘Look, do me a favour, will you? Just fuck off and die.’

  ∗

  From Hello! magazine, March 1990

  HILARY WINSHAW AND SIR PETER EAVES

  Husband-and-wife team are so happy with baby Josephine but ‘our love for each other didn’t need strengthening’

  Maternal love shines out of Hilary Winshaw’s eyes as she lifts her giggling, one-month-old daughter Josephine high in the air in the conservatory of the happy couple’s lovely South Kensington home. They’ve waited a long time for their first child – Hilary and Sir Peter were married almost six years ago, when they met on the newspaper which he continues to edit and for which she still writes a popular weekly column – but, as Hilary told Hello! in this exclusive interview, Josephine was well worth waiting for!

  Tell us, Hilary, how did you feel when you first saw your baby daughter?

  Well, exhausted, for one thing! I suppose by most people’s standards it was an easy labour but I certainly don’t intend to go through it again in a hurry! But one glimpse of Josephine and it all seemed worthwhile. It was an amazing feeling.

  Had you begun to despair of ever having a child?

  One never quite gives up hope, I suppose. We’d never been to see doctors or anything, which was perhaps silly of us. But when you’re with someone who feels so right for you, when two people are as happy together as Peter and I have been, then you can’t help believing that your dream will come true in the end, no matter what. We’re both a bit starry-eyed that way.

  And has Josephine brought you even closer together?

  She has, yes, inevitably. I only hesitate to say this because to be honest with you I find it hard to see how we could have been closer. Our love for each other really didn’t need strengthening.

  The baby seems to have your eyes, and I think I can even make out a bit of the Winshaw nose, there! Can you see much of Sir Peter in her?

  Not yet, really, no. I think babies often grow into a resemblance with the parent. I’m sure that’s what will happen.

  Does this mean you’ll have to take a break from your column for a while?

  I don’t think so. Obviously I want to spend as much time with Josephine as possible – and, of course, Peter was able to offer me pretty good terms for maternity leave. It does help if your husband is also your boss! But I’d be loath to let my readers down. They’re so loyal, and they’ve all been so kind, sending cards and so on. It really restores your faith in people.

  I must say, as an avid reader of the column, that it’s something of a surprise not to find the builders here!

  I know – I do tend to go on about it, don’t I? But we’ve had to have such a lot done recently. This conservatory’s new, for instance, and so is the whole of the extension with the swimming-pool. It took even longer than expected because the neighbours were so beastly about it. They ev
en took us to court over the noise, would you believe. Anyway they’ve moved now, so that’s all been amicably resolved.

  And now I believe we’re about to discover yet another side to your talents.

  Yes, I’m currently working on my first novel. Several publishers have been bidding for it and I’m pleased to say it’s coming out next spring.

  Can you tell us about the subject?

  Well actually I haven’t started writing it yet, but I know it’s going to be very exciting, with plenty of glamour and romance I hope. Of course the nicest thing is that I can write at home – we’ve put in this dear little study overlooking the garden – so I don’t have to be away from Josephine. Which is just as well, because right now I don’t think I could bear to be parted from her for a moment!

  Hilary stared malevolently at her daughter, watching her face crumple as she gathered breath for another scream.

  ‘Now what’s the matter with it?’ she said.

  ‘Just wind, I think,’ said the nanny.