All to Play For (22 page)

“Do you have anything else?”

“Not right now, I’m afraid,” said Penny, who had so loved this idea she had put all her eggs in the one basket. She stared at it on the table in front of her. It was dead in the water already. This had never happened to her before.

The next person was a smartly dressed young man, who had what he described as a tongue-in-cheek pot-boiler about the sex lives of footballers. Chris cut in with, “Too mainstream,” and moved on. Fenella was next.

“I’ve been working on a sci-fi idea,” she said, covering up the treatment in front of her with her forearms. “But it needs more work. Do you think sci-fi would fit the bill?”

“If you can do it on the budget, why not?”

“I’ll let you have it by the end of the week,” said Fenella.

“Donald?” invited Chris, trying to sound as if he cared.

“Sally and I are also developing a kind of sci-fi idea,” he said in his normal untroubled tone. “But I’m not able to give you concrete details yet. However, it would be an advantage to know, as we put the budget together, roughly how many episodes you would want: the more we make the cheaper it becomes.”

“Good point, Donald. The answer is that it depends. I know that’s rather awkward for you, but I suggest you cost several alternatives, say ten episodes, twenty or thirty.”

Two dozen pens scribbled this down. The meeting progressed in the same vein until everyone had spoken, although a number of people were rather vague, preferring not to see their precious projects shot down at such a tender age. Chris rejected the vast majority and accepted none. He had four ‘maybes’ piled in front of him. The group was bitterly disappointed and a number of cynics were exchanging dangerous looks across the table. Chris had fulfilled their worst fears. They had no faith that any of them would win this slot. Neither did Peter, although he had maintained absolute discretion, standing aside to let Chris run the proceedings in the way he wanted. With luck he would shoot himself in the foot sooner or later, and things would get back to normal. Peter’s quiet assent was mistaken for insouciance by some of the producers, and there was a faint rumble of revolt in the air. It was too much for one young woman.

“I’m sorry Chris,” she said. “But may I say something?”

“Go ahead.” It was the girl whose Welsh project he had rejected earlier.

“I have to say, I’m amazed that you’re dismissing all these projects without even reading them. I’m sorry, I know it’s not my place to say so, but it means hundreds of hours of work are going straight down the pan. It seems such a waste.” The group was silent in her support.

Chris found himself floundering with a bad case of déjà-vu. He knew this young woman. He felt it strongly, although she was looking at him as though he were – well, the Controller of BBC2, that’s all. He frowned slightly, completely forgetting what she had just said, and then it dawned on him: she was the feminist he had slept with in Edinburgh that time, after they all got arrested… so she had gone into television. She didn’t seem to recognise him. Was she just pretending? Was she putting the knife in on purpose? Hadn’t he been any good in bed? Had she told everyone in the department about it? What a great piece of gossip it must have been. His mind raced, while his face remained still, mouth open.

“I agree with Maggie,” said Stewart unexpectedly, bringing Chris back to the present. Maggie, that was her name. “It seems the department has spent the last ten weeks frantically chasing its own tail. Was that what you had in mind, Chris?”

“I hope very much that’s
not
the case,” rallied Chris. “I can assure you that I have
always
wanted the Drama Department to win these slots, as I’ve said on several occasions. I still hope you do. How you go about it is your own affair.”

“I must say,” said Penny, who had not yet come to terms with his perspective on music. “It’s quite difficult developing shows your way. To be quite frank,” she became a little emotional in spite of herself. “It feels back to front. Great ideas don’t fit into rigid slots. It’s like trying to make
drama by numbers
. Somehow it takes all the joy out of it.”

Many people nodded gently. Chris closed his eyes, clasped his hands under the table and tightened them until they ached, grinding his teeth to control his temper. Penny’s words echoed his own mean accusations at the height of last night’s trauma. He felt his brain dislocate: how come his sex life was suddenly so intimately wrapped up with the bloody Drama Department? He felt as though he were sitting there in front of them in the nude. These people really knew how to get to you.

The room waited, agog to see what he would say. Fifty people followed the sequence of Chris’ tortured expressions and drew their own conclusions. Penny wished to God she’d kept quiet. Was he going to explode?

Finally he looked round. “Thank you all for your hard work. I’ll let Peter know what I’ve decided by the end of the month.” He stood up and left, with Selina close behind, carefully appearing not to have noticed anything amiss.

In the normal run of things, Chris could cope with criticism. He believed that constructive debate was essential to progress of any kind, and a few months earlier he would have engaged the drama producers in discussion and won them over – or at least explained himself in the attempt. This time, he didn’t feel up to it. He thought he could hear skeletons rattling in his closet, although he had nothing to be ashamed of. He felt he was losing control, as if there were people out there who might have it in for him. He felt raw-nerved and insecure to the point of paranoia.

Sod the lot of them, he had enough on his plate without nannying the bloody Drama Department. They could damn well look after themselves from now on. Sink or swim with the rest. Why did everything have to go wrong at once?

Selina brought in a coffee and left him alone in his office, where he swivelled his chair round to look out over the courtyard and the golden statue, which had been resprayed so that it glinted too brightly in strong sunlight. He lowered the venetian blind.

His thoughts turned back to Catherine. Last night’s disaster wasn’t entirely her fault. And after all, she might even have impregnated herself, in which case they could be back on course. Perhaps the only problems they would have to deal with from now on were the usual ones associated with a geriatric mother, as the doctors attractively described pregnant women over thirty-five.

He resolved to be magnanimous. He would buy her a bouquet and propose that they take a month’s holiday abroad in September. It was always a quiet time for him, as most television executives took their summer holidays after the Edinburgh TV Festival at the end of August. It would also be their last chance to go out of season as Natasha would start school the following January. The new nanny could come with them so that they would have plenty of time to themselves. They could go to the Bahamas or somewhere truly relaxing, wherever she wanted. The tension would evaporate, and she would probably come home pregnant.

Chris buzzed Selina and asked if she would be kind enough to nip downstairs and collect some travel brochures from the in-house travel agent, and also order a large bouquet. Then he picked up the new ratings lists and began to study them.

*

The following week was as good as the previous one had been bad. Catherine was back to her usual self, having been thoroughly mollified by Chris’ sudden conversion to her cause. Her chambers had granted her leave without any trouble, and they had a glorious month at a luxury resort in the Maldives to look forward to.

Chris’ new schedules were standing up well in the ratings. He had begun pitting like against like, such that audiences for a particular kind of show had to choose between BBC2 and Channel Four. In most cases he won the war and beat Channel Four into second place. There were a few complaints from viewers who wanted to watch both, but after all, they could always get a VHS recorder and tape the other side. A few of his American purchases proved hugely successful, and he also began putting out archive material such as top sitcoms from the sixties which appealed enormously to older audiences and cost him next to nothing.

The DG was very pleased and invited him to lead top-level strategy discussions on the future of programming. He developed his ideas into a complete theoretical system which he planned to publish once he had been in the job a full year and had indisputable statistics.

He had no personal contact with the Drama Department for a month, thanks to Selina’s superb sentry skills. The last meeting was never mentioned, he merely told her he wanted to concentrate on other matters, and it was all taken care of.

Their relationship had become a shade more formal. Life was far too complicated when sentiment got in the way. He was no longer inclined to discuss much with her, and preferred the objective approach. The weight of responsibility on him was enormous, and he wanted more than anything to justify the DG’s faith in him and exceed his expectations. He knew he was seen as the brightest rising star by some of the governors. His future was very promising indeed.

Eventually he had to communicate his drama choices for the next season. Peter and Fenella were summoned to his office, where he remained behind his desk while they sat on upright chairs in front of him. They listened politely while he repeated his intentions, which they already knew, and tried to look impressed. Then he got down to the nitty gritty: commissions.

“Firstly, I want to green-light Basil Richardson’s four-parter about the ex-miners for production. Er, Tony Scott –
Down and Up
.”

“Oh that
is
good news,” Fenella said, genuinely, and Peter smiled too.

“I think it will be a fine authorial piece for the contemporary slot, and I want to put it out in the New Year.”

“In the New Year?” said Peter. “That’s cutting it very fine. We’d normally take at least nine months, preferably twelve.”

“I have an independent project lined up for the autumn. I need it in January. In any case, it’s not going to need star actors is it? Do it like Ken Loach. Keeps the costs down.”

“Very well, Chris. I’ll speak to Basil about it. He’s an old trouper, I’m sure we can find a way round it.”

“Good. For the next classic slot I want
A Tale of Two Cities
. That’s Donald Mountjoy again.”

Fenella’s face fell. “Does that mean it’s no to Charlotte Bronte and Mrs Gaskell? Two Dickens serials in a row?”

“I believe in building on our successes,” answered Chris. “Audiences adored the first one, so give them another!”

“Don’t you think they’d adore a bit of a change? Jane Eyre’s
hugely
popular.” Fenella had been counting on getting this one through, it was going to be her own show, her debut as a producer.

“It’s a bit soppy for the nineties. Single drama, as I said, I’m still considering, but I
do
want to move forward on the new writing initiative. This proposal from Sonia Longbow seems very sensible, so I propose to go ahead with it. I shall earmark a regular five-minute slot before
Newsnight
for a month in 1999.”

“Splendid,” said Peter faintly. That was four years away, and Chris was bound to have moved on by then. There was no guarantee his successor would honour the commitment.

“Finally, I’m afraid it’s bad news on the cult slot. None of your proposals matched up to the one I have from the independent company I mentioned before. I’m sorry. Some of them were good ideas but too expensive. Those that were cheap enough just didn’t excite me.” He handed back the little pile of documents to the despondent pair. “If I were you I’d cut your development list down radically. I can’t commit to increasing the amount of drama, we’re already fulfilling our charter requirements, and the money just isn’t there. Concentrate on the big names. Audiences love them.”

Peter and Fenella took their leave with faces like thunder.

*

The new bedroom looked magnificent. The mirrored wardrobes were a dream, and the mosaic floor was unique as far as they knew. The patterns were inspired by period Georgian ceiling murals, with ribbons and swathes round the skirting boards, and clusters of flying birds and posies in the middle. It was too pretty to cover with rugs, so they had to wear slippers all the time as the surface was so cold to their feet.

One Friday evening Chris arrived home at ten thirty, after dinner with the DG at his club. He was a little drunk and quite elated. As the house was silent he climbed the stairs quietly and looked round the bedroom door to see if Catherine was awake. She was working in bed as usual, she looked up and smiled. “Hello darling. Good day at the office?”

“Certainly was.” He beamed and wobbled slightly. “How are you, darling?”

“Fine. Have you something to tell me?”

“Fancy a cup of tea?”

“Alright. Camomile.”

“Coming up.” Chris disappeared. Catherine wondered what it could be. The last time he had looked that cheerful he had been promoted to controller, but he’d only been in the job for six months so surely they wouldn’t be promoting him again yet. She put her work away and removed her spectacles, intrigued.

He re-appeared with a tray bearing a teapot, two cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits, and even a single rose in a tumbler.

“I say, it
must
be good news!”

“I couldn’t find a vase,” he said. “Where do we keep them?”

She smiled. “Did you cut that rose off the bunch on the hall table?”

He smiled back mysteriously. “Might have. Might not.”

She giggled. He was sweet when he was tipsy. He sat next to her on top of the bed and removed his shoes, dropping them heavily on the floor, and stretched out, sighing with satisfaction.

“Who’s a clever bastard, then?” he asked.

She pretended to have no idea. “Einstein?” He shook his head. “Stephen Hawking?” He shook it again, beaming like an idiot. “Not you, surely?” He nodded like a toddler. “You can’t have been promoted again already?”

“Not promoted exactly. Not yet.”

“
What
then? Tell me!”