Nocturne (46 page)

‘
He gets terribly involved, doesn
’
t he?
’
I ventured.
‘
And terribly
upset, too.
’

I mentioned Gilbert
’
s convictions about impending disaster. His
brother agreed at once. He said he knew exactly what I meant
, not
simply about Gilbert
’
s pessimism but the sheer effort he put into
believing that everything,
sooner or later,
would go wrong.

‘
Obsessive, some of it,
’
he said.

‘
It takes him over,
’
I agreed.
‘
You can see it happening. He loses
touch, loses perspective.
’

‘
Exactly. Then the bloody thing gets the better of him, and then
we
’
ve
all
got a problem. Dear God, you
’
re very shrewd, aren
’
t you?
’

I told him that was the last thing I was. Shrewd people can spot a
problem a thousand miles away. Me? I opened the door and invited it
in. In Gilbert
’
s case, quite literally.

‘
Hasn
’
t disgraced himself I hope?
’

‘
Not really. I just
…
it took a bit of getting used to.
’

‘
Good, good. Trusting girl like you
…
doesn
’
t do, does it?
’

He mentioned the baby and hoped I was keeping fit. He was far too
polite to be explicit but when he asked whether the flat would be big
enough for the three of us, I knew exactly what he really meant.

‘
Two of us,
’
I said.
‘
Just me and the baby.
’

‘
Oh dear, I am
sorry.
’

‘
No need.
’

‘
Is it a joint decision? Do you mind if I ask?
’

‘
Whose?
’

‘
Yours and the father
’
s? Not to live together?
’

I
began to warm to this man even m
ore. When he chose to, he could
be very direct indeed.

‘
Not really,
’
I told him.
‘
It was more my decision than his.
’

‘
May I ask why?
’

‘
Of course.
’
I hesitated, realising the importance of the answer, not
just to Tom but to me as well.
‘
It
’
s to do with courage,
’
I said.
‘
And
priorities. We faced a kind of test, I suppose.
’

‘
And you
’
re saying you failed?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Personally?
’

At this, I began to withdraw. When it came to the test, I certainly
hadn
’
t failed but the question of blame was quite separate. That, we
had to share. I tried to explain it as best
I could to Tom. He said at once
that he understood.

‘
Mi
ght he come back? The father?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Might he try?
’

‘
I
’
ve no idea.
’

‘
Would you want him to try?
’

That was a very perceptive question. I
’
d hated having B
rendan in my
kitchen. I
’
d hated the way he
’
d p
rovoked me, aroused me, made me
angry. Yet he
’
d cared enough to come
and that, I suppose, was a kind
of compliment.

‘
It
’
s over,
’
I told Tom for the second time.
‘
You get one chance in
life, one chance to make it work, one chance to find out whether it
’
s
real or not.
’

‘
And after that?
’

‘
You have the answer.
’

‘
My thoughts entirely, my dear.
’
I could hear the smile in his voice.
‘
Veritas
vincit
omnia
.’

Out of the blue, the following week, I got the offer of a job. It was
nothing permanent, a couple of months at the very most, but it would
nicely bridge the autumn months, put money in the bank, and return
me to
Napier
Road just in time to give birth.

The company I was to join ran a cable news operation from a
converted warehouse in Rotherhithe. They
’
d acquired the funds to
expand and they wanted someone to sort out a production schedule
that would give them as much crew time as possible for their money
. It
was a one-off job - hence the short con
tract - but mine was one of the
names that had come up at the execs
meeting and because I happened
to be by the phone that morning, your
s truly was first to appear for
interview.

The latter, as so often in television, was a formality. I turned up in
time for coffee and Danish. The Head of News was nursing a hangover
and his PA, who clearly ran the show, had a sister who was nearly as
pregnant as me. Over a second helping of pastries, we discussed the
merits of breast feeding and by noon the job was mine.

I started the following week, joining the early morning queue at the
bus stop at the head of the road. On a good day, the ride across to
Docklands took forty minutes, plenty of time for me to absorb the
lighter articles in the paper and brace my
self for the frenzy of snatched
interviews, ten-second sound bites, a
nd longer featurettes on three-
legged dogs that masqueraded as hard news.

Over the weekend I
’
d had a chance to sample the feed from Metro,
and I had absolutely no illusions about what I was in for. The stuff I
watched, in pretty much every respect, was truly dire: underfunded,
under-resourced, and horribly tacky w
hen it came to content. On most
of the stories, they even had a problem with focus, something I
put
down to a decision to operate without
lights. Even at university we
’
d
always had access to a couple of redheads, or a hand lamp, but at
Metro, all too obviously, the emphasis was on natural light. Natural
light, in the upside-down world of telly, is what you rely on when you
can
’
t afford the real thing. To make up for the soupy look of the
pictures, you normally bang on about
‘
grittiness
’
and
‘
realism
’
and -
on a really dark night -
‘
ultra-realism
’
. At Metro, the technical
coverage had got so bad that even the technicians had started talking
about
‘
Bat TV
’
.

It was fun, though, over in Rotherhithe and I settled in behind my
PC,
in a bid
to unpick the tangle of scheduling arrangements that
had taken root since the station had been transmitting. Like weeding,
it had its compensations and it was nice to sit on the bus home,
knowing that I
’
d at least made a start in
teasing some kind of logistical
sense into Metro
’
s news gathering. Best
of all, as I spaded deeper and
deeper, I began to suspect that I could
come up with cost savings that
might - just might - make it possibl
e for each news crew to carry a
decent set of lights. This proposal, da
ngerously radical at management
level, gave me hero status amongs
t Metro
’
s army of young camera-
men, and it was over coffee with on
e of them - a dry New Zealander
called Angus - that I caught up. with events at Doubleact.

Angus had only just joined Metro. Before that, he
’
d been pushing a
big Sony at the studios used by Doubleact.
Members
Only
was two
programmes into its second series, and rumours on the studio floor
suggested that Doubleact was in trouble.

‘
How come?
’

‘
Seems they were after a flotation, you know, cashing in the
chips.
’

I said I knew about that. It had been on the cards for a while.
Angus
shook his head.

‘
Cancelled,
’
he said flatly.
‘
No can do.
’

‘
Who says?
’

‘
The City boys. Doubleact
’
s a partnership. His and hers.
Mummy
and Daddy have fallen out. The merchant bankers don
’
t like it.
’

‘
You mean they
’
ve split up? Brendan and Sandra?
’

‘
Finito
’

‘
Since when?
’

‘
Last week.
’

‘
You
’
re sure about that?
’

‘
Yeah. The marriage is history. Ditto the company.
’
He grinned,
drawing a finger across his windpipe.
‘
They
’
ve kissed goodbye to nine
million quid. Can you believe that? Not toughing it out? Making a go
of it? Just a couple more months?
’

I agreed it sounded incomprehensible. While Angus fetched more
coffee from the machine, I rubbed thoughtfully at the stains on the
formica table top, wondering about Brendan. Had he precipitated
this wild act of commercial suicide? Or had Sandra finally had
enough?

Angus returned with more news.

‘
She
’
s suing him for everything,
’
he said.
‘
And vice versa. Isn
’
t it fun
when the rich fall out?
’

I was still thinking about Brendan.

‘
They
’
re getting divorced?
’
I said.
‘
Is that what you
’
re saying?
’

‘
Sure,
’
he nodded.
‘
And it
’
s one of th
ose times when you can actually
put a figure on the grief. Nine million
quid
’
s worth of marital fucking
guilt? Can you imagine that?
’