All to Play For (13 page)

Basil Richardson was charm itself. He welcomed Maggie into his spacious office, gave her a seat on a comfy sofa, and asked his secretary to send for Jonathan and then fetch coffees for them all. Whilst they waited he explained to Maggie that Jonathan Proulx had been his script editor for a year, and that they had a great deal of work on. Maggie thanked him for making time to see her, and he said to think nothing of it, the wheels had to keep turning however busy one was. He asked about her theatre experience and compared it to his own, which began in weekly rep at various provincial theatres in the fifties. He told her that television scripts were essentially no different from theatre scripts, all one had to do was visualise as if seeing through a camera rather than picturing a stage. In his opinion she had had the best possible training by seeing audiences respond, that there was no faster way to learn what works and what doesn’t. Maggie agreed with him, and said she was surprised that people inside the BBC very rarely seemed to mention the audience, whereas she was accustomed to thinking of them first – you couldn’t have a successful play without an appreciative audience. Basil agreed that too many years in the ivory tower of Television Centre did tend to make drama producers lose touch with their audience. Maggie was just about to say how much Basil’s famous dockside trilogy had meant to her when she was a student, when Jonathan and the coffees arrived.

Jonathan was very friendly and interested in Maggie, which was embarrassing given the way she had indulged in bitching about him; she also felt deeply self-conscious about her performance at the discussion group and wanted to make a joke about it, but as she couldn’t find a way to introduce the subject she let it go. Jonathan felt once again that he had met Maggie before somewhere, but even when they compared notes on the theatre companies they knew, they failed to find common ground.

Eventually Basil smiled at Maggie over his half-moon glasses and said, “So what is it you’d like to do?”

“All I really want to do is make some shit-hot programmes.” Immediately she regretted it. “I suppose that’s pretty obvious really.”

Basil didn’t seem at all put off, although he was amused by her phraseology. “And what would a ‘shit-hot’ programme be like?”

Again Maggie wanted to mention some of Basil’s own work, but she felt it would sound like brown-nosing.

“A drama that’s truthful about peoples’ lives and means something to them – like certain shows meant a lot to me when I was growing up. I’d really like to do something that changes the world – like
Cathy Come Home
, for instance.” Feeling caught between Jonathan’s intense scrutiny and Basil’s ruminative gaze she blushed and picked up copies of her three proposals. “Actually I’ve brought some ideas along, I don’t know whether you’d like to have a look at them… ”

“Sure,” said Jonathan, and she handed them over. Basil’s secretary put her head round the door and made a face at Basil, who excused himself and left the room. Jonathan sat back in his chair and crossed his legs stylishly as he perused the top document, while Maggie looked round at the framed certificates and film posters on the walls. Then he looked at the second one, and the third. “Lesbians in the army aren’t really Basil’s cup of tea,” he said drily. “And I’m afraid your idea of a film starring members of the community is over-ambitious. Equity wouldn’t allow it for a start. You might have had a chance with this one,” – he held up one of them – “But unfortunately we’ve already got something on the subject.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said Maggie, wondering whether he was dismissing her ideas because he despised her. Basil returned at that moment, and looked interestedly at the proposal Jonathan handed him.

“‘A film about a young black guy in prison,’” read Basil out loud. “Hmm. Where did you find this?”

“He sent in an unsolicited script I liked. This idea’s based on his brother. I think it’s very powerful. He’s a new writer, so it might be a bit risky, but it’s a subject that hasn’t really been covered fully. Not on telly, anyway.” Basil’s bushy eyebrows rose and fell several times as he read swiftly through the proposal. “He’d need quite a lot of help with the writing I expect, the other script of his that I read was a bit rough and ready. But it’s full of energy.”

Basil handed it back to her. “It looks riveting, although sadly we already have a first draft of a
very
serious prison drama by one of our
leading
authors.” He looked meaningfully at Jonathan, who pursed his lips and nodded agreement.

Maggie wasn’t sure what all this meant, but the sum total of it all was that they didn’t want her projects. She wished Basil had seen the other ideas himself, as she was obliged to accept Jonathan’s rejection, but had to assume that he knew what he was talking about. Reluctant to conclude the meeting, she said she was thinking of applying to
EastEnders
. Basil said vaguely that he didn’t know much about it, but Jonathan was enthusiastic, “That’s a really good idea, Maggie. It can be tough meeting all those deadlines, but you can’t match it for production experience. I’d go myself if I weren’t embroiled in so many projects down here.” She didn’t believe him.

Basil wished her the very best and said he would look forward to seeing her again. She suspected he said this to everyone. She shook hands with both of them and glumly returned to her office.

One week left to go and one producer left to see. Maggie could almost hear her time ticking away, and she took to wandering the corridors in case she never had another chance. She noticed that Sonia Longbow’s name had been removed from her door and hoped that she had managed to get a line producer contract. Maggie wondered what she’d done with her programme proposals, and decided to forget about it.

She discovered that there were viewing rooms where you could observe what was happening in each of the eight studios. It was fun to watch the progress of sets and technical preparations.
Blue Peter
rehearsals were entertaining: how absurd the presenters looked, squashed together on little boxes in the middle of a vast lino floor, with only a couple of open bookshelf arrangements behind and three huge cameras sliding smoothly in and out at them.

Exploring other parts of the building, she found that the best tea-bar by far was in the News block. She reckoned they needed to keep themselves on the ball, with three shows a day to put out. Or maybe they were just better at getting what they wanted. Once she caught a fleeting glimpse of Kate Adie walking round the corridor, a few sheets of white paper in her hand: she looked exactly the same as she did on television, which was a surprise to Maggie. For no reason at all, she had expected journalists to be like actors and to have a different persona off-camera.

Two days before she was due to leave, Fenella called and asked her over. Maggie’s hopes rose again like a hot spring, and she trotted round immediately.

Anthea smiled when she entered the outer office, taking Maggie by surprise, and lifting her spirits further. Fenella was on the phone as usual, but when she finished she asked Anthea to hold any calls, and closed the door behind Maggie; she sat down in her padded office armchair and gave Maggie her full attention.

“I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to get to know each other. I only realised this week that you were due to leave. How have you got on?”

Once again, Maggie was completely disarmed. “Fine, thanks,” she replied, and tried to marshal her feelings into a positive shape. “Actually I suppose I was hoping that you’d tell
me
how I’ve been doing.”

Fenella looked surprised. “Oh, very well as far as the script reports go. No problems. Anthea says the slush pile’s only half the size it was when you started.”

Maggie flushed with pleasure, feeling ridiculous, she was so relieved to find that she hadn’t gone completely unnoticed after all.

“Do you have any plans after you leave?”

Maggie’s heart sank again. “I, er… I’m seeing a producer on Friday, and I’m still waiting to hear back from
EastEnders
.”

“Jolly good, which producer?”

“Stewart Walker.”

Fenella’s eyes glinted. She paused. Maggie wondered what she was thinking. Did she remember the Discussion Group? In the end Fenella simply nodded, and started talking about
EastEnders
, which she recommended to anyone with a strong constitution, and she knew they were looking for a trainee.

“I’ll call the Series Editor and tell her about you, if you like,” she suddenly offered. “She was in your job a few years ago.”

“Oh, thanks! That’s really nice of you.” Maggie meant it. “That’s bound to help.”

“Won’t do any harm,” said Fenella, almost maternally, and offered Maggie a Silk Cut, which she refused. “Mind you, you might live to regret it. I worked on
Dr Who
and that was murder – and it didn’t have a serial element.”

Maggie was amazed and pleased to think that the intellectual Fenella had been on a show as bizarre as
Dr Who
, and the conversation took off.

She came away feeling much better about everything. It lasted until she got back to her office and found a letter from
EastEnders
saying that they had no vacancies at present.

As Stewart Walker was now her last chance, as well as her best hope, she gave the meeting a great deal of thought. She felt sure he would like her prison drama, and wondered what his next project was to be. He clearly loved to court controversy and one or two of his shows had made waves in parliament. He revelled in tackling issues others dared not touch, such as freemasonry and political corruption. There was no question that he was a brilliant producer, and that was enough to make Maggie keen to learn from working with him.

As she approached his office she heard raised voices, so she slowed her pace, she didn’t want to arrive at an embarrassing moment. It quietened down so she walked round the door and into the little secretary’s office which opened into Stewart’s, just in time to see him rip a piece of paper in half and drop it in a waste paper bin. A small, angry-looking young woman yelled, “Do it your bloody self then!” and marched out, ignoring Maggie, who froze on the spot as Stewart glared at her and then stalked into his own office.

Maggie sat down and waited. Stewart’s secretary didn’t return. Suddenly he shouted for her to come in.

She did, wondering if he was in a temper. Stewart was opening a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses, handed one to Maggie and strode across the room to a sofa with a glass coffee table in front of it. Maggie smiled, then hesitated as there were hardly any chairs and she wasn’t sure where it would be appropriate to sit. Glancing around she was surprised not to see the usual array of scripts and certificates, instead there was a shelf with a couple of plastic and metal awards on it, and one large framed charcoal drawing by a well-known caricaturist hanging above the sofa. Maggie couldn’t help looking at it, and realised with a start that it was a nude portrait of Stewart himself, drawn with enormous face, hands and genitals. Her gaze dropped a yard and discovered Stewart regarding her with amusement.

“Come and sit down,” he said. “Sorry there isn’t much furniture. I find it clutters the place up. Cigarette?”

Maggie sat at the other end of the sofa and reluctantly accepted the Gauloise, wishing she’d brought her Marlboroughs. She managed to inhale without choking. Stewart seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She was afraid of making a fool of herself again, so she waited for him to start. They sat smoking in silence, until finally Stewart said, “So you want to be my script editor?”

“Well, yes, if you think I’d be suitable,” she replied cautiously.

“What have you done up to now?”

Maggie recited her cv, wishing it included names or at least theatres that he might have heard of. He nodded without betraying any attitude.

“So you want to change the world.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Don’t we all?” he shrugged, and she grinned, sharing a sense of comradeship. Stewart sighed, stretched and crossed his feet on the coffee table. “I like a woman who knows what she wants,” he mused. “It doesn’t make you popular, you know.”

“I’d have to be daft not to have realised that by now.” She began to relax. “To be honest, I was beginning to think I’d never fit in here.”

“Who cares about fitting in? Take no notice of all those arselickers. They’ll never do anything
really
worthwhile. They’re only interested in how far they can climb up the corporate ladder: who’s got the biggest office, who’s got the biggest
cock
.” Stewart fixed Maggie with a challenging stare, as if to test her nerve. She wanted him to think she was cool, so she nodded and smiled ruefully.

“What’s the female equivalent of that?” asked Stewart. “Who’s got the biggest
tits
?”

Maggie laughed. “There’s really no substitute for a big cock, is there?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. We radicals have got to stick together, Maggie,” muttered Stewart, as he slid along the sofa, put his arm round Maggie’s shoulders and kissed her on the mouth.

Maggie jumped and almost gasped as his wet tongue thrust in and met hers. Astonished, she found herself staring into his eyes at point blank range and wondered what to do as he settled in for a snog. She didn’t want to push him off and risk offending him. Neither did she want this situation to progress. Did he think she had been flirting with him? She quickly reviewed their conversation, and couldn’t think of any reason why he would. Her breasts were suddenly clasped by a hand so large and exploratory that it could hold both at once, and she knew it was time to act. She gently pushed him back and half-smiled reprovingly. He drew back and looked in her eyes, realised she wasn’t overwhelmed, and to Maggie’s enormous relief, stood up and walked over to the window where he lit another cigarette and gazed out at the London skyline. She gathered herself and slipped out of the office. Stewart’s young secretary was back in her chair, typing sullenly. She looked up at Maggie and said cheerily, “See ya.” Maggie left.