Singled Out (10 page)

Studio director was the most stressful job on
Newsviews
. Whoever had the role was completely in charge of the programme's live transmission, with responsibility for cutting off interviewees when they became boring, deciding which items to move up the order, which to drop and which to edit down while on air. The studio director had also to be alert for news stories which might break during transmission, necessitating the sudden summoning of correspondents and instant rejigging of the running order.

All this had to be fitted exactly into a forty-five-minute slot with two commercial breaks. Any errors of timing would lead to complaints across the ITV regions from the advertisers who did not get the full air-time they had paid for.

All live television programmes are tense and, although
Newsviews
was essentially a lightweight show, Dennis Parker's journalistic machismo demanded that the atmosphere in the studio every evening should be positively frenetic. The schedule would have been stressful enough anyway, but Dennis's presence always added an additional strain. Though the studio director was nominally in charge, the editor was perfectly capable of countermanding – and indeed likely to countermand – his or her decisions and demand, while they were on the air, major changes from the prepared running order. Sometimes these changes were for sound journalistic reasons; more often, Laura had long since concluded, Dennis was simply flexing his muscles and showing who was in charge.

As ever, he was in the Control Cubicle that evening, standing just behind her. She knew that, once they went on air, his belly would start to bump rhythmically against her chair, jarring her already aching back. He always did that during transmission. Some of the team reckoned it was an involuntary nervous habit; Laura knew Dennis to be fully aware of how annoying the mannerism was.

‘OK, good luck, studio. Good luck, everyone,' said Laura. ‘Start the clock.' And they counted down the beginning of that evening's
Newsviews
live into the ITV network.

For some reason the programme was a particularly tough one. Two politicians almost came to blows in one interview and another of the studio guests suddenly got camera fright and became almost incapable of speech. The link with Spain broke down in the middle of a correspondent's live report about General Franco's hand-over of power to Prince Juan Carlos.

Laura rode all these crises with aplomb, though they were made more critical by conflicting orders from Dennis. As tension in the studio mounted, the tapping of his stomach against her chair became more like a drumming. That day's
Newsviews
was a very long forty-five minutes.

When the credits had finally rolled to their end and in different regions different commercials had started, the vision mixer, sweat gleaming on her brow, pushed a control and faded to black. Laura leant uncomfortably forward and pressed down the talkback key. ‘Thank you, studio. Well done, everyone. Buy you all a drink in the bar.'

It was the movement that made her aware of the wetness on the inside of her legs. Instantly she realized what had happened. Just at that moment the waters had broken. The baby had started. As if to reinforce this message, she felt a sudden breath-draining spasm in her stomach. Oh my God, she thought, a contraction.

Surreptitiously Laura looked down to the green institutional carpet. A pool of fluid was spreading round the front wheels of her swivel chair. Close behind her she could hear Dennis congratulating himself on how well he'd dealt with the programme's crises. She was damned if he was going to know what had happened. She could imagine how long he would make ammunition like that last in his misogynist joke offensive.

In one movement Laura rose to her feet and swept over the water jug, so that it spilled down her skirt and on to the floor. ‘Oh, bugger!' she said.

‘No need for language like that,' Dennis reproved. ‘Don't like to hear ladies swearing.' Laura had only a moment to reflect how typical such nicety was of his chauvinist double standards before the editor seized the opportunity for another gibe. ‘Getting a bit clumsy, are you? Gather that happens quite often in pregnancy.'

‘Not getting clumsy, Dennis, just getting big. A stomach like mine is virtually an offensive weapon.'

He looked smug. ‘Well, you said it.'

Laura stole a glance down at the floor. It was all right. The water from the jug had mingled with the existing pool. ‘See you all in the bar,' she repeated, and moved swiftly but gingerly out of the Control Cubicle.

Fortunately there was no one else in the Ladies. She mopped herself up as far as was possible, then was almost immobilized by another shuddering spasm. She tried to remember what her book on pregnancy had said about frequency of contractions. Maybe she should abandon her team and get herself to the hospital as soon as possible.

But no. She wouldn't give Dennis the satisfaction. The
Newsviews
studio director's job wasn't finished until drinks had been bought for all the studio guests and crew.

Breathing deeply and concentrating hard, Laura Fisher left the Ladies and took the lift up to the bar. There, supporting herself against the counter, she waited as the programme team trickled in, and relayed to the barman their shipping order of drinks. She passed Dennis his customary quadruple Scotch and, although she had gone off the taste of alcohol, ordered a dry white wine. She knew she was sweating and steeled herself against the pain of another contraction.

‘Feeling all right, are you?' asked Dennis with patronizing solicitude. ‘Look a bit wan.'

‘Fine. You just feel the heat a bit more when you're the size of a house.'

‘I would imagine so. Still, got the weekend to relax, eh?'

Somehow Laura thought relaxing was the last thing she would be doing over that weekend, but she didn't say so, just nodded. She'd ring on the Monday to tell them she wouldn't be in. Surely the baby would have arrived by then.

She winced as another contraction ripped through her. Still three or four minutes apart, but they seemed to be getting closer. She looked at her watch. Twenty past seven. Quarter to eight was the earliest the studio director could legitimately leave the bar without raising comment.

She gritted it out. Her back now ached so much that she wondered whether she would be able to stand without the support of the bar. Every now and then the pain of another contraction seared through her. But all the time she kept up the post-studio small talk, flattering the guests about their performances, joshing with the crew about disasters just averted.

Rob swanned across towards her. ‘
Lovely
show, sweetie,
lovely
. Dahling, you were absolutely
fantabulous
.' Anxiety came into his eye as her face twitched from another contraction. ‘Are you all right, Laura?'

‘Fine. Just hot and uncomfortable, that's all.'

‘Not surprised. I'd be uncomfortable if I was walking around with a mahogany sideboard under my shirt.' Again he looked anxious. ‘Sure you're OK? Sure there's nothing I can do?'

‘Quite sure. Well, actually … could you ask Esther to organize a cab for me? At ten to eight.'

‘Where to? Home?'

‘Er, no. Goldhawk Road.' She hadn't said ‘Queen Charlotte's Hospital', but Rob still looked at her curiously. ‘Supper with a friend there,' she explained.

‘Anyone I know?'

‘No, and I'm certainly not going to introduce him to you. He's far too pretty. I'm not having you whisking him off to bed.'

‘Well, I don't envy him whisking
you
off to bed.' He pointed to her stomach, which trembled with yet another convulsion. ‘Honestly, however randy they were, I don't think anyone could
find
anything very interesting under that lot.'

Laura managed to chuckle and Rob moved away, untroubled, to fix her cab. It was all right. He had been put off the scent and their usual insulting badinage had been re-established.

She made it till a quarter to eight, then, with a series of elaborately casual goodbyes, managed to leave the bar. In her office, hidden away from prying eyes in a filing cabinet, was the suitcase she had prepared for this moment.

She felt more contractions in the lift on the way down. The cab was waiting. Once again she just said, ‘Goldhawk Road'. The cabbie mercifully was not one of the chatty kind. ‘Here,' she said as they passed the gates of Queen Charlotte's Hospital.

It was only when she got out to pay him and winced at the pain of another contraction that the driver seemed to notice her condition. ‘'Ere,' he asked with disappointment in his voice. ‘You're not in labour, are you? 'Cause I could've really hurried, you know, if I'd known – blaring the hooter, lights flashing, the lot.'

‘No,' said Laura. ‘Just here for a check-up.'

He looked even more disappointed.

She checked in and was escorted directly to the labour ward. The sister who took her details tried to disguise it, but Laura was aware of a slight sniff of censure. Even in 1974 there were professionals who disapproved of single motherhood.

He was the most beautiful baby in the world. Laura was amazed by how immediately she slipped into the cliché of every new parent. But, in spite of the instinctive, protective detachment that normally kept her at a cynical distance, she couldn't deny it was true. Tom
was
the most beautiful baby in the world.

Immediately after the birth, she was surprised by two things. First, by how instantly, in spite of the long hours of unprecedented pain she had just been through, how instantly she had loved him. And second, by how separate Tom seemed. He was apart from her, his little eyes looking hurt and suspicious of the crowded world into which he had so unceremoniously been dumped. Tom was an entirely new personality, for whom his mother had hitherto been simply a convenient means of transport and sustenance. Laura would have to get to know this new personality.

With the love for her baby came a new confidence. The birth had finally laid the ghost of her upbringing. Laura Fisher was a complete person. Not only had she overcome the traumas to rebuild her own personality, she was also capable of creating new life. The mould was broken. The past was utterly vanquished; now she could look forward to the future.

This flood of love came so unexpectedly that Laura was briefly tempted towards sentimentality. Maybe she should put her career on hold, take a few years out and be a full-time Mum until Tom went to nursery school …? For a moment she even contemplated rescinding her decision not to breastfeed him.

But the moment didn't last long. Laura Fisher knew she was strong enough to progress in her career and to look after Tom. On her own.

‘Well, I must say I was
disappointed
.' Rob's lower lip jutted out in a comical
moue
. ‘I thought I was your
friend
and when I ask if there's anything I can do to help, you don't say, “Yes, I'm in labour – rush me to hospital.” No, it's just – “Get me a cab, could you, love?” I feel positively
passed over
.'

‘I didn't want Dennis to know what was happening. I couldn't have tolerated all the inevitable lines about bloody women not being able to finish anything because they're always rushing off to have bloody babies.'

‘All right, I'll forgive you.' But Rob didn't sound fully appeased.

‘How is the old bastard, anyway?'

‘As grotesque and charmless as ever. Still, he did actually sign your card from the production team, so aren't you the lucky one?'

‘Hm.'

‘Editorial meetings the last two mornings have been dire – but
dire
. Really crappy ideas coming up. Dennis's been effing and blinding and stamping his little foot, because – say what you like about him – he can always recognize shit when he sees it. Takes one to know one, you could say. No, you've only been away for two programmes and already he's missing your inestimable contribution.'

‘Good,' said Laura.

In his perspex cot at the side of her bed, Tom stirred under his much-washed blue cotton blanket. Laura, as recommended by the hospital for first-time mothers, would be staying in for nearly a week. Her initial reaction on hearing the suggestion had been to disagree and contemplate discharging herself after forty-eight hours. But reason had prevailed. There would be no one to help her when she got back to the flat and, besides, she needed to build up her strength before she took over the full responsibility of looking after Tom.

He was making the little hacking noise which Laura now recognized preceded crying, and she heaved herself up on the pillows. ‘Pass him to me, would you, Rob?'

‘Really?'

‘Well, don't look so surprised. I'm sure you can manage to pick a baby up. He's not very heavy.'

‘No. It's just … some people wouldn't like the idea of my handling their baby.'

It took Laura a second or two to realize what he meant. ‘Oh, for God's sake, Rob! Surely you've known me long enough to know I wouldn't think that. What, so I'm meant to be afraid homosexuality's so infectious that Tom'll catch it just being touched by you …?'

Rob looked embarrassed. ‘There are people who think like that.'

‘There are people who want to bring back hanging, but I'm not one of them. Go on, pick him up.'

‘Yes.' He moved awkwardly towards the cot. ‘Not something I've done before.'

‘There's no problem about it. Just make sure you support his head.'

With infinite care, and rather touching anxiety, Rob picked the tiny bundle out of its cot and passed it to Laura. The movement quieted Tom's crying. Rob looked down at the little face. ‘Rotten, really, never to have one of these. Never to have the prospect even. Sometimes regret my sex life is entirely recreational. Procreational bit must be very exciting.'