All to Play For (6 page)

On hearing that she wanted to go into television a friend of a friend had invited her to spend a day on the set of
Casualty
, a recently-established cutting-edge medical series which had already fallen foul of the government, which was extremely unhappy to see the consequences of their NHS cuts represented to the public in their full glory by the BBC. A day trip to the location in Bristol had turned out to be a fascinating and inspiring experience. The set was a permanent, purpose-built maze in a huge warehouse, teeming with technicians. The actors were friendly, and good-natured banter enlivened the otherwise tedious recording process. Maggie was hugely impressed at their professionalism as scene after scene was taped in a matter of minutes – there was never time for re-takes merely to improve the acting. She observed as the script editor monitored each scene to ensure that no serious errors were made, and checked the running time in case cuts or new material would be required at a moment’s notice.

Maggie loved it. She knew she could do the job – including the rest of it, which consisted of working with the writer of each episode to help them achieve the highest possible standard of writing whilst satisfying the technical, medical and serial story needs of the show. She was a good team player and would slot in well here, or on another series perhaps, all her theatre experience was directly relevant. The script team clearly felt a strong sense of achievement and job satisfaction, and had the added reward of VHS tapes of every show they worked on, whereas theatre plays were as ephemeral as conversation: Maggie’s only record of her life’s work so far lay in a box full of tatty scripts, cheap production photos and programmes.

Perhaps it was the sustained two-year effort she had invested into breaching the walls of the BBC that was responsible for the paralysing wave of boredom and anti-climax which overwhelmed her as she sat waiting for Fenella to turn up. It was nearly half past twelve when Vera finally called over, “Fenella’s in her office, if you’d like to pop in.”

Fenella’s door was open but she was on the phone. Nonetheless she beckoned Maggie in, indicating a chair piled up with scripts and books, which Maggie tried to remove carefully before sitting down. She pretended she couldn’t follow Fenella’s conversation – evidently an argument with her husband about their nanny – and studied the walls of the little office, which were entirely obscured by enormous shelves labelled at intervals and stacked high with scripts. Novels were heaped around the floor, and Fenella’s huge old-fashioned briefcase poured papers onto the carpet. She herself was about forty, Maggie reckoned. She was dressed in a homely but expensive way reminiscent of a senior academic. She wore glasses on a silver chain and a permanent expression of ironic exasperation.

As the minutes passed Maggie felt irritation well up inside her once again, and she forced it back down. She sat in a patient attitude, crossing her chino-covered legs and fiddling with the zip on her ankle boots. She’d bought these GAP casuals thinking they were the kind of smart casual clothes people here would wear, but now she wondered whether she looked dowdy. She was glad she had grown her spiky hair out, and wondered whether she would have to start wearing make-up on a daily basis. She hoped to God that wouldn’t be necessary; she felt over-dressed with earrings on.

Eventually Fenella put the phone down and sighed, as if she’d already put in ten hours’ work. “Hi. Welcome. How are you settling in?”

Maggie was stumped for an answer. At the very least she had expected an apology for keeping her waiting. Anxious not to get off on the wrong foot, she hedged her bets with a cautious smile and replied, “So far so good.”

“Good. Well I’m afraid I’m completely snowed under today, we’ve an offers meeting on Thursday, but take that little lot and come and see me when you’ve read them.”

Maggie tried to sound relaxed and enthusiastic as she picked up the pile of scripts she had just put on the floor. “Where shall I do it?”

“Haven’t you got an office yet?”

“No.”

“Go and see Morag in 5233.” Fenella picked up the phone again. “Enjoy!” she said with a gleam in her eye, and turned back to her desk with a frown of concentration.

It was three o’clock by the time Maggie had been found a desk. Well, seven desks, plus three typewriters and a large grey steel cupboard all to herself, because this was an empty production office, and the only available space. Trying to put the frustrating day behind her, she sorted through her scripts and books and made a list of them. Then she organised her desk. She went round all the drawers in the office and acquired a fine selection of BBC pens and pencils, clips and rubbers. Soon her desk was the acme of office furniture, dripping with the tools of her craft, adorned with in-tray, out-tray, anglepoise lamp and phone.

She wandered round the circular corridor and discovered Stewart Walker’s and Basil Richardson’s offices, but she didn’t manage to catch sight of either of them, so she went back to her office and picked up a script. She couldn’t concentrate at all. As the window looked onto a roof and a satellite dish she gazed at the walls, enjoying the mystique of the abandoned production charts and schedules which papered them: the last occupants had been making a major costume drama. There was a cast list of thirty names, most of them famous and some of them related. Crates full of box files, drawings and models littered the floor. Wherever she looked she could find no references to ‘offers meetings’ so she was still in the dark on that front; she would have to wait until she met with Fenella again to find out what she was talking about.

In the last hour, Maggie read a six-page proposal and made copious notes on it. She was interrupted only twice, once by a phone call for someone called Tristram, and once by a hand which knocked gently on the door and opened it displaying a dark sleeve as it extended to put a piece of white paper on a post-tray next to the door. Then it felt blindly round the tray underneath, withdrew and vanished, closing the door quietly. Maggie resigned herself to solitary labour, and went home, taking one of the novels she had to report on.

After two days of reading alone in her office, Maggie was delighted to receive a phone call that was for her.

“Hi! I’m Sally, I’m a script editor here too. Are you free for lunch?”

“Oh, that would be great.”

“See you on the bridge at one?”

“Sorry? Where’s that?”

“Tell you what, come to my office and we’ll go together. It’s two doors on from yours on the way to the lift.”

“Okay, great, see you then. Thanks for calling, it’s really nice of you.”

“Don’t mensh. Bye.”

Maggie felt absurdly pleased, but realised she didn’t sound very cool. She must try and act like a professional – so first she must find out how a professional acts in the BBC. Sally would provide clues.

At one o’clock she knocked on the door labelled SALLY FARQUAR-BINNS, SCRIPT EDITOR. She heard Sally on the phone, saying: ‘Anyway must go, awfully sorry – got to do some biz over lunch. Call you soon. Kiss kiss.’ The phone went down and Sally called, “Hi! Come in Maggie!”

Sally was about Maggie’s age, slim and elegant with thick glossy hair and expensive jewellery. “Nice to meet you. How’s it going?”

Maggie decided she’d rather be honest than cool. “Actually it’s a bit strange. You’re the first person I’ve talked to yet.”

“Really? You poor thing. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”

“You’ve got a lovely office,” said Maggie, admiring the view over the car park. “You can see who’s coming and going.”

“Not bad is it? Gives me something to do!”

Maggie chuckled. There were scripts and books on every shelf and surface, and videos piled on a trolley bearing a television monitor and VCR. Sally clearly had plenty to do.

The self-service canteen, which Maggie had looked for unsuccessfully up to now, was large and spacious and occupied three floors of a purpose-built extension to the main building. To reach it they walked across a closed-in bridge which was lined with poster-sized photos of a grinning Terry Wogan with many of his famous guests: his live early-evening chat show was the bedrock of the BBC1 schedule. Once in the canteen, there seemed to be an endless range of hot and cold food, and the atmosphere was cheerful and busy. Maggie looked around, hoping to see a familiar newscaster or at least a table of actors amusingly dressed in
Dr Who
costumes, but saw only ordinary people like herself. To a theatre freelance used to having lunch in a greasy spoon café the canteen was rather grand, but those used to eating in restaurants considered it third-rate. Maggie had a large plateful of casserole with chips and peas, pleased to find it was subsidised. It tasted pretty good too, she thought. Sally picked at an avocado salad and seemed more interested in who else was in the room. She asked Maggie about her theatre experience and was intrigued by her Huddersfield grammar school, although she seemed to think Huddersfield was somewhere in the Black Country. When Maggie put her right she shrugged. “Oh well, it’s all ‘t’ north, isn’t it?” When asked, she said she came from Kingston.

“Cornwall?” inquired Maggie with a grin.

“No, Surrey” corrected Sally, without one.

Maggie learned that Sally also worked for Fenella, and that she had some
very
interesting projects in development. She had joined from a major publishing house and was evidently well connected with their list of writers. Sally thanked God Almighty that she didn’t have to slog through the slush pile anymore reading amateur crap. Maggie felt shocked when she realised that she herself had inherited the ‘slush pile’, as she was giving very sympathetic consideration to each writer and had made detailed notes on every idea, good and bad. Apparently Fenella expected all of them to be rejected.

“The thing is,” explained Sally kindly, “there are only so many slots aren’t there? And we’ve already got tons of projects commissioned from writers we know are really good. So the chances of finding anything decent in the slush pile are remote to say the least. Trouble is we have to read everything that’s sent in because of the public service remit. Don’t worry, when you’ve served your time some other bugger’ll get lumbered with it.”

“But how else do new writers break in?”

“They always get through eventually if they’re good enough. It’s the pyramid system. They all start equal at the base, and the best ones float their way up to the top.”

It sounded reasonable but Maggie suspected there was a hidden flaw in the logic. “Like scum, you mean?”

Sally smiled. “Exactly. We skim off the scum.”

“From the top.”

“No, from the bottom.”

Maggie decided not to pursue it. If this pleasant but decidedly snobbish woman had dismissed all those poor writers out of hand, at least Maggie would give them a fair reading. She made a mental resolution to find a brilliant new writer in the slush pile and champion his or her rise from obscurity.

“Hiii Sally,” drawled a deep, cultivated voice, as a slim young man with floppy blond hair sat down at their table. “Mind if I barge in?”

“Jonathan my sweet. Meet Maggie. She’s the new trainee, started this week. Doesn’t know a soul.”

“Charmed,” said Jonathan with a self-mocking tip of the head and a raised eyebrow. “Well now you know two souls.”

“Except that you haven’t got one,” quipped Sally.

“Ouch! Wicked girl! How dare you?” he replied jovially. He looked quizzically at Maggie. “Haven’t we met somewhere before? Were you an actress?”

“No, but I did work in theatre.” She didn’t recognise Jonathan at all, now that he looked as if he’d just stepped out of Selfridges’ window.

He shrugged. “Maybe we crossed paths somewhere or other.”

“More than likely,” agreed Maggie, uncomfortably – she normally had a good memory for faces.

“How’s Basil?” asked Sally. “Still wrestling with the man mountain?”

“God knows why he bothers. The first draft of ep one’s in but it’s in a terrible state. The guy’s spelling is so bad I can hardly tell what he means. I’m thinking of asking him for a glossary.”

“Won’t it go, then?”

“Probably, Basil wants us to go to as many drafts as necessary before we even show it to Peter. He calls it extraordinary writing. It’s extraordinary alright!” He and Sally giggled.

Maggie’s attention was riveted by this exchange. How many Basils could there be in the department? This public school twit was apparently privileged to work with her hero, but he obviously didn’t appreciate his good fortune.

“Is that Basil Richardson?” she enquired.

“Yep,” said Jonathan. “I’m his script editor.”

“Lucky you!”

Jonathan’s lack of response indicated that luck had nothing to do with it as far as he was concerned.

“Who’s the writer you’re working with?” Maggie ventured.

“Tony Scott.” Maggie hadn’t heard of him. “He’s the Next Big Thing, according to Basil. Twenty years a miner, two years a writer. Working class hero, all that crap.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Yes,
interesting
is about right.”

“What’s the project?”

Jonathan was beginning to look as if he didn’t like having questions fired at him. “It’s a four-parter for 2: Love-on-the-dole-type thing. Miners,” he said, with a trace of reluctance.

“Sounds great.” Maggie felt it would be indiscreet to enquire further. She couldn’t help disliking this superior young man. Sally, on the other hand, obviously liked him a lot, and spent the rest of lunch talking knowledgeably to him about people Maggie hadn’t heard of: apparently there was to be a new Controller of BBC1, which might have a significant impact on drama requirements for the channel. The best possible appointee would be a man with a drama background, but this was thought extremely unlikely, and there was always a worry that any new controller would favour his particular field at the expense of the others.

The conversation moved on to a discussion of the latest David Hare play at the National, which Maggie hadn’t seen, so she made another mental note to go.

“Of course it’s absurd that David isn’t writing for us,” remarked Sally.