All to Play For (25 page)

The canteen occupied the ground floor of one of the office blocks, and offered part of the menu available over the road in Television Centre. As we waited in the queue Jill pointed to a tiny newspaper cutting that someone had stuck on one of the pillars. It was the logo for the new national lottery, a hand with the first two fingers crossed. Someone had written underneath it:
The New BBC Logo
.

“Who said satire was dead?” I said. A few people around us laughed, and then Morag the sour-faced administrator stepped up and tore it down without a word. I looked at Jill and pulled my mouth down.

“Watch your step,” she whispered. “Don’t rock the boat.”

“You’re right,” I answered, shrugging pleasantly towards Morag. “Never attract the attention of Medusa. Not until you absolutely have to.” We moved forward and put our trays down by the till operator who checked off our dinners, and then headed into the seating area. A hand waved from the far corner.

“Oh look, there’s my friend Carmen Phillips. Do you know her?” Jill said. She was writing for
Eldorado
when I was there. She’s with Anthea Onojaife from
EastEnders
. Shall we join them?

“By all means.”

“Hi! Sure we’re not interrupting?” Jill greeted her friend with a peck on the cheek, and nodded to Anthea, whom she had once met at Carmen’s house. “This is Rhiannon Jones.”

I knew Anthea by sight from her time as a secretary, so it was nice to meet her properly now that she was a script editor too. We unloaded our trays as they made room for us.

“This is the only thing I really like about Centre House,” I remarked. “It’s as if the department has its own canteen. Great for running into people.”

“Yes, good for gossip,” said Anthea, her eyes slipping above and beyond me. “But it does have its downside, if you know what I mean.”

“Who’s just come in?” I had my back to the door.

“Donald Mountjoy and a bilge tank.”

Jill and Carmen giggled and stole glances at the two men, one lean and elegant, the other soft and saggy.

“Who’s the bilge tank?” ventured Carmen.

“How dare you call him such a thing!” said Anthea. “I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice tank.”

“He’s a management consultant,” I explained. “He’s been brought in to assess the department and find ‘efficiency measures’. I’m surprised Donald’s even giving him the time of day.”

“Maybe he knows something you don’t?” suggested Carmen, and I feared she could be right.

“So how come you’ve got time to sit around in Shepherd’s Bush when you’ve got three shows a week to turn out?” I asked Anthea.

“My contract’s up in a couple of weeks, and it’s just been confirmed I’m coming down here to do development for six months.”

“Brilliant! Who are you working with – not Fenella?”

Anthea’s eyes widened at the thought of working for her old boss again. She shook her head firmly. “Just on my own, working directly to Peter. He wants me to find black and asian writers and develop projects with them.” She glanced toward Carmen who took a mock bow, and I allowed my jaw to drop open – this was new. “They’ve just realised that they’re way behind the times and have to make up a lot of ground. The Commission for Racial Equality embarrassed the hell out of the governors recently, and the buck’s been whizzing from office to office ever since. Then I turned up at the right time, I suppose, Peter practically kissed my feet. He had to have a black script editor on the job or he would have looked ridiculous.”

“Surely you’re not the first black editor?” asked Jill.

“No, there have been a couple, but they didn’t stick around long. For one reason or another.”

“Now’s your chance!” Carmen raised her eyebrows and looked mysterious. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?” said Jill.

“We have had rather a fine idea,” admitted Carmen, looking at Anthea. “But is it safe to speak?” She looked under the table. “Can’t see any bugs. It’s about racism in the Metropolitan Police.”

I remembered Jonathan’s project and sat up suddenly. “Shhh! Don’t tell us here.”

“Why not?”

“People might be listening. It’s not safe.”

“Come on, it’s hardly an issue of national security,” said Anthea.

“I don’t mean that – people here have no compunction about nicking ideas and passing them off as their own. Really. I was given a proposal this morning that’s just like Maggie’s project. Hers got turned down, but this one comes from the golden boy so it’s been commissioned.”

“No!”

“Who’s the golden boy?” asked Jill. I shuddered dramatically.

“Don’t make me say his name… d’you know how he greeted me? Jones the Script!”

They all laughed, as much at my indignation as at Jonathan’s feeble joke.

“So who is he?” Carmen also wanted to know. Anthea’s eyes drifted beyond me again.

“
Proulx the Prick
, of course!”

Amid their laughter Anthea murmured, “He’s behind you… ” I froze.

“You’re joking,” I whispered.

“Sorry, I’m not. He just sat down.”

“Did he hear?” She shrugged. I dared to turn round briefly, and found that Jonathan was alone at his table, his back to mine. He must have heard me, but he was tucking into his dinner, pretending he hadn’t. I beat my head with my fists. What a stupid cow! Jill and Carmen thought it was very funny.

“Don’t worry, he’ll cope.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I’m supposed to be his script editor on it.” They gazed at me, commiserating. I wondered what to do. Should I turn and apologise? Yes, I should really. But I would look such a complete and utter fool.

Anthea patted my hand. “He might not have heard. It’s noisy in here.”

I smiled weakly, and decided to take that chance, avoiding certain humiliation. “Let’s change the subject.”

“You know my office is next to Stewart Walker’s?” Anthea said. “He’s not in today. Guess where he is.”

“Bangkok?” suggested Carmen.

“No.”

“Having a nose job?” I asked.

“No. That’s funny, though.”

“Where, then?”

“He’s defending himself at a tribunal. The last temp but one reported him for sexual harassment.”

“No! What’ll happen to him?”

“God knows. I just hope he gets over his filthy temper before he gets back. I can hear him shouting through the wall.” We grimaced at the thought of what his secretaries had to endure. There was a pause.

“Shall I get some coffees in?” I offered, getting up. I carefully avoided looking in Jonathan’s direction, collected my crocks and took my tray away. I returned with another loaded with four coffees, by which time I was relieved to find him gone. He had more sense and sensitivity than to stick around. I felt I’d let myself down, despite his despicable crime. I like to feel I’m on the moral high ground so I resolved to be more discreet – and to avoid him as much as possible.

Chapter Eleven

Jill felt truly happy knowing that she’d been commissioned to write the first draft of
Lover Boy
. Sharon and Luke had got under her skin, and the commission was somehow equivalent to giving them permission to live. She couldn’t wait to get started. Writing the treatment had been relatively easy. It had all flowed out of her in a satisfying stream, rather like reaching a toilet when you’re bursting for a pee, she observed to herself with a smile, as she took a little watering can out onto the balcony to water her pots of marigolds and tomatoes. The project marked a step up in her career, being her first BBC1 drama serial, and it was great to be working on something she felt a hundred per cent enthusiastic about. However she couldn’t start right away as she had to attend a parents’ meeting at Sam’s school that evening.

She’d lived alone with her son in her pleasant Crouch End flat since a relatively amicable divorce around five years previously. Her ex lived locally and saw their son every week. Sam was near the end of his first year at secondary school, and there were signs of adolescence beginning. Jill was conscious that she needed to give him space, but it was difficult.

The doorbell rang while Jill was washing up and Sam was on his PlayStation. He went and opened it, “Hullo Dad. Hullo Gran.”

“Hello son. Is your mother ready?”

“Dunno.”

Jill dried her hands as they entered the living room. “Hi. How are you?” She kissed her ex-mother-in-law. “Thanks Ivy. It’s really good of you to come. We shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“Don’t even mention it,” replied Ivy, settling herself on the sofa. “I’m always glad to spend time with my favourite grandson.”

“I’m your
only
grandson.”

“So?”

Sam snorted in exasperation.

“Female logic, eh son?” said Neil. “What can you do?”

Ivy tutted at him. “Go on then if you’re going. Do you mind if we watch
Coronation Street
Sam?”

“Course not, Gran.” Sam looked furtive. “Long as I can
you know what.
”

She pursed her lips conspiratorially and glanced at Jill and Neil. “Shh. Not in front of the parents.”

Sam laughed and waved them off. “Bye Mum and Dad. Have a lovely time.”

“What was all that about?” Neil asked Jill as they walked downstairs to his car.

“God knows. I’m just glad he’s friends with his Gran. He’s entitled to have a few secrets from me. Us, I mean.”

Neil agreed. They got into his comfortable car and set off down the road towards Sam’s comprehensive school.

“How’s Sandra?” asked Jill.

“Fine thanks. She sends her love. Actually we’re, er, we’ve decided to get married.” Neil glanced sideways at his ex-wife but he needn’t have been concerned as to her reaction.

“About time.” She hesitated. “Congratulations, I suppose!”

“Thanks,” he grinned sheepishly.

“I suppose you’ll be starting a new family,” observed Jill, looking out of the window. Neil didn’t answer as he negotiated a clogged junction where several drivers were exchanging insurance details. Jill watched him: his face was lined now, but attractively, his hair was pepper-and-salt, and his neck flopped a little on top of his shirt collar. He was a good deal less handsome than when she had met him, and she allowed herself a small sense of satisfaction. Much as she liked Sandra, she preferred to feel that she herself had had the better part of Neil.

“Actually that’s not part of the plan at the moment. I’ve decided I want to be an MP.” He held a determined, responsible expression, but it didn’t fool Jill, who laughed.

“An MP? Surely they have to be the organised type, selflessly devoting themselves to other people, giving up weekends to sort out visa problems and get council flats repaired.”

“I can do that.”

Jill looked at Neil again. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Which party?”

He frowned. “Labour of course. I wouldn’t leave Labour, would I?”

She shrugged. “I wondered why you’d started wearing suits. I thought perhaps your allegiance had shifted.”

“Don’t insult me. I’m New Labour. I really believe we can win the next election, provided the party gets its act together. I’m an economist. There’s a lot I can contribute.” He drew up in the school car park, and put the handbrake on, turning to face Jill as if she were a voter he had to convince. “I’ve grown up, Jill. A lot of us radicals from the seventies have realised that persuasion is more effective than confrontation. Look at Clinton. Who’d have thought someone like him would beat Bush? He used to smoke dope, for God’s sake! He’s a groovy guy! Tony Blair’s our Bill Clinton. We’re determined to pull the country round again.”

Jill nodded and smiled, almost impressed. “I hope you do,” she said, and meant it. “Which constituency are you standing in?”

“I haven’t been selected yet.”

A light went on in Jill’s head. “So
that’s
why you’re getting married! Oh Neil, how could you?”

“It’s not just that,” he muttered. “It’s what we both want. Come on, we’ll be late.” He climbed out of the car and locked it after Jill, ushering her towards the main entrance.

In the school hall dozens of parents were milling about.

Jill and Neil joined a short queue for Sam’s form teacher, a very thin, bespectacled man in his thirties.

“Mr Speed? We’re Sam Watkins’ parents.”

“Glad to meet you, sit down – I’ll get another chair,” he said, fetching one. “It’s not often the kids have two parents nowadays! Lucky old Sam.”

Jill and Neil sat down feeling slightly fraudulent, but didn’t feel it was the time or place to discuss their domestic arrangements.

“He made a good start in the first term, but his work’s tailed off considerably since. Seems to have lost interest rather. Do you have any idea why that is?”

Jill was taken aback. Sam had always been a model pupil. She had no idea that anything had changed.

“He hasn’t said a word about it. He does his homework, doesn’t he?”

“Ye-es. More or less. How about you, Mr Watkins? Have you noticed anything?”

Neil shook his head, feeling guilty. He’d been concentrating on his own life lately, and had taken it for granted that Sam was getting along well. Sam spent every other weekend with him and Sandra, but they had got into the habit of having fun together and treating it as holiday time. He left the main tasks of parenting to Jill. He looked at Jill questioningly, hoping she would come up with something. She didn’t.

Mr Speed carried on. “He doesn’t appear to have made friends within his form, hangs out with a group of Year Eights. Did you know that?”

“No!” said Jill in surprise. “I thought his best friend was Tom, they came through primary school together.”

“These kids like to think they’re stylish, you know the kind of thing. Into hip-hop.”

“And what else?” asked Neil. “Not drugs, I hope?”

“Not that I’m aware of. If they are then at least they’ve got the sense not to bring any to school.” Jill started to feel cold. She swallowed. “If I were you, Mr and Mrs Watkins, I’d have a talk with him. I’m not saying these kids are a bad influence on him, but it may not be ideal. Sam has a lot of potential. He could do very well if he applies himself.”

Other parents behind them shifted their feet, and Jill and Neil took their leave in a state of mild shock. They drifted round meeting a few other teachers who had little to say and left the school feeling depressed.