The Thief of Time (24 page)

‘Look,' she said, ‘only twelve per cent of the time is there something on here that I actually want to watch. The other two stations pull in an eighty-eight per cent share between them.'

‘Well, twelve per cent is a lot more than our current market share, Caroline, so I find that terribly encouraging.'

She frowned and stared at me, unsure if she was wrong to condemn our programming after that response and retired to her desk to do some further analysis. I found that I enjoyed winding her up, to use the current parlance, and that her extreme enthusiasm made her an easy target for jokes. She appeared to be devoting every moment of her day to her work which, in general, is no bad thing in a senior employee, but then I have never been the kind of man who has seen constant and unrelenting work as the ultimate test of a person's character. Caroline was attempting to convince me that she was the right woman for James's job, when all she was really doing was proving how far from that position she currently was.

In the meantime, I continued to slave away for six, sometimes seven, days a week. I grew tired of working, and the fact that I was less than interested in the mundane, day to day aspects of our business did not help matters any. I continued to hold weekly meetings with Alan, which Caroline also attended in her capacity as P.W.'s representative, but I broadened them now and sought opinions from our various department heads as well. Caroline always sat on my right hand at these meetings and tended to want to direct the manner in which the conversation went. I gave her a fairly free rein most of the time because her opinions, while not always correct, were generally interesting and everyone agreed that she was bringing a fresh point of view to the station.

‘Of course,' she pointed out at one of our regular meetings, when we were discussing a 5 per cent drop off in market share between 6 and 7 p.m., ‘the big mistake you made around here was getting rid of Tara Morrison. She was perfect for pulling in the tits ‘n' ass crowd.'

‘We didn't get rid of her,' I snapped back, noticing how she liked to impress the male dominated room by acting like one of the boys. ‘She left of her own volition.'

‘Tara Morrison was one of this station's few true stars,' she said.

‘There's Billy Boy Davis,' said Alan predictably. ‘The Kid.'

‘Oh, please,' she said. ‘I've got grandparents who are younger than him. Sure he's a
name
and he's got something of a
history
but that doesn't cut it any more. We need new, fresh talent.
Raw
talent. Now if we could just lure Tara back ...' she said quietly, and I shook my head.

‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘She seems quite happy at the Beeb. Roger?' I looked towards Roger Tabori, the head of our news department, who looked like a member of Michael Corleone's family with his swarthy Italian looks and slicked-back hair.

‘I've heard some things,' he said, shrugging lightly. ‘She's not ecstatic about what's going on there but she's under contract so

‘She was under contract here,' said Caroline.

‘No,' I said forcibly, irritated now by the manner in which she was speaking of something that she didn't fully understand. ‘Her contract came to an end. She chose not to renew it. She got a better offer.'

‘Then you should have offered her more money, shouldn't you?' she asked sweetly. I stared at her, blinking a little, and my smile faded.

‘Apparently she wanted six O'clock,' continued Roger, defusing the situation slightly. ‘But they wouldn't give it to her because Meg would have walked if they had. So she asked for one O'clock and they said no. Not sure why ‘cos she could have worked there. They wanted her for Breakfast TV and she balked at that of course. They've lined up a few documentary things, some “Celebrity Ready, Steady, Cook”, a few segments like that. Nothing solid as yet.'

‘She should have sorted these things out before she left us then, shouldn't she?' I muttered, smiling at Caroline now. ‘Who knows, maybe she'll walk out on them and come running back here with her tail between her legs.'

‘I doubt it,' said Caroline and in truth, so did I, although I found that I did miss her a little for, if nothing else, she was always good company. As James had been. But he was dead and she was working for the competition. ‘But, anyway, there is one other issue we should discuss. We have to get rid of Martin Ryce-Stanford. And quickly.'

There was an audible intake of breath around the room when she said this and I leaned back and tapped the edge of the desk quietly with my pencil. Martin Ryce-Stanford was the man who lived in the upper three storeys of the house in which my own basement apartment was located. He had been a senior minister during the middle period of Mrs Thatcher's reign of terror and had lost his job when he got on the wrong end of his boss during a debate about the future of the coalmines. Martin thought they should close them all down and hang the consequences. Mrs T. felt the same way but knew that it would be too dangerous a thing to do; better to announce the closure of many, then give in slightly after the inevitable outrage and allow some to remain open while succeeding in closing the ones that she wanted to get rid of in the first place. Curiously, considering his own position, Martin thought this was the ultimate act of political cynicism and gave a scathing account of Mrs Thatcher's plans on
Newsnight
one evening. By midnight she had phoned him, fired him and threatened to have him castrated, after which he became something of a
bete noire
for her during her remaining years in power. He was one of those characters who helped John Major to power in 1990, despite the fact that the pair could not tolerate each other, and he had hoped that this unexpected assistance would secure him a place in the Lords. Unfortunately for him, favours do not always get repaid and so he was reduced to writing scathing articles about the leadership in whatever newspaper would have him. He developed a previously untapped skill at political cartooning and began to illustrate his articles with line drawings of ministers as different types of hybrids, their bodies the bodies of appropriate animals, their faces their own. Thus, John Major himself waddled around with the gait of a small duck, Michael Portillo stretched out his arms to reveal the plumage of the peacock, and Gillian Shepard scampered around the page with the body of a small Rottweiler. Eventually, it became clear that Martin's writing was a little too one-sided – he criticised absolutely
everything,
no matter whether it was a good idea or not. He was the ultimate no-man. He was considered politically unsound, incredibly biased and ridiculously prejudiced against anyone still in any position of power. There were those who believed he was mentally unstable. Naturally, the time had come for his promotion to television.

I got to know Martin quite well after I moved into the apartment in Piccadilly. He invited me to dine with him from time to time, along with his young, shrewish wife Polly and whichever partner I could muster up for the evening, and our evenings were always absurdly hilarious. His right-wing beliefs were so far gone that they could only have been an affectation. He appeared to take a delight in outraging people with the things that he said; Polly barely listened to him. I believed I had the mark of him and wouldn't fall for his games, but whatever lady I brought with me to the table inevitably found herself growing more and more outraged as the night wore on, to the point where she would either stand up and leave or attack him in return, a terrible social
faux pas,
the very kind of extreme reaction into which he enjoyed goading his guests in the first place.

It occurred to me shortly after the launch of the station how entertaining it would be to translate the madness and provocation of those dinner-time conversations to the television and I invited Martin to host his own thrice-weekly political chat show. The format was simple: a thirty-minute show, twenty-four not including commercial breaks and titles, with two guests each episode. Usually a political figure and an Outraged Liberal. The political figure would say all the right things for the sake of their own career. The Outraged Liberal – usually an actor, singer, writer or some such thing – would run the politically correct line. And Martin would throw in nuggets of bad taste just to rile them both. As the show progressed it became clear that the politician was doing all he or she could to embrace the party line while never going so far as actually to
condemn
Martin's obviously ridiculous points of view. And at the same time, the Outraged Liberal would grow more and more furious, using phrases such as ‘this whole thing disgusts me' or ‘my God, man, how can you continue to think like that?' and there was always a chance that the O.L. would throw their glass of diet-still-water-no-ice-no-lemon over the monstrous figure sitting before them. All in all, it was great fun and one of my better ideas.

Eventually, however, the fun simply wore off. Martin Ryce-Stanford began to appear not so much provocative as just plain stupid. Quality news shows caught up with him and his brand of personal right-wing bias took on the appearance of a man who was simply out of time. It became more and more difficult to find credible guests for his show; its nadir coming when the political figure was the wife of a political secretary to a newly elected health spokesman from the Liberal Democrat party, and the Outraged Liberal was a young man who had enjoyed a number three pop record six years earlier and hadn't been heard from since, but who was suddenly relaunching his career as an author of children's books featuring a hobgoblin with a variety of magic powers. Market share didn't just decline so much as evaporate. The show was a dud and we all knew it. But, still, Martin was my friend and I for one still enjoyed his company and didn't relish the idea of giving him the boot.

‘We have to get rid of Martin Ryce-Stanford, Matthieu,' repeated Caroline. ‘The show's a joke.'

‘Agreed,' said Roger Tabori, nodding his head wisely.

‘I didn't even know we still ran that show,' said Alan, looking surprised by the revelation.

‘We need change,' said Marcia Goodwill, head of light entertainment, tapping a pen on her blotter.

‘Something to bring the young people in,' said Cliff Macklin, director of imported programming, joining in the Greek chorus.

‘You need to fire him. And soon,' said Caroline.

I shrugged. She was right, I knew she was right, but still ... ‘Isn't there any way that we could just change the format of the show?' I asked. ‘Bring it a little more up to date?'

‘Yes,' said Caroline. ‘We could get rid of the host.'

‘But isn't there anything else we could do? Other than firing him, I mean?'

Caroline thought about it. ‘Well, I suppose we could have him shot. That might bring back the viewers. Create a bit of publicity. Bring in a new host then. Someone with a little sex appeal.' I stared at her in surprise, unsure whether she was being serious or not.
‘Kidding,'
she said eventually, seeing my expression. ‘Honestly, it's like you're auditioning to be the Outraged Liberal yourself

‘It seems to me', said Roger Tabori, ‘that the problem isn't so much with the format of the show as with the host. I think the political chat show still has some life left in it. We just need to find a new front for it. Someone with a little more ... I don't know ... appeal to the public. Someone with balls, frankly.'

‘And tits,' said Caroline. ‘If we can get someone with balls and tits, we'll have a winner on our hands.'

I laughed. ‘Right,' I said. ‘Balls and tits. What exact corner of Amsterdam do we travel to in order to find someone who fills that description?'

‘Oh, I don't think we need go as far as Amsterdam, Matthieu,' said Cliff Macklin.

‘Not when we know someone who can bring back the viewers in their droves,' said Marcia Goodwill, warming to the attack. I began to feel like I was being ambushed, as if this entire conversation had been rehearsed in advance, only with my part being spoken by an actor.

‘Who exactly are you thinking of?' I asked with a sigh, looking directly at Caroline, their ringleader, who I began to think might have rather more going for her than I had realised before.

‘Well, it's pretty bloody obvious, isn't it?' she said. ‘We have to win her back. No matter what the cost, we have to win her back. Pay her whatever she wants, make whatever deal she asks for, make the station revolve around her if we have to. But win her back, that's what we've got to do. Tara says: it's time to come home.'

I shook my head and sighed, closing my eyes and blocking them all out for a few moments. I never wished that James was still alive more than at that exact moment.

‘It's very impressive,' I told Tommy as we sat in his dressing room after the close-ups and point-of-view shots were finished. ‘I never realised it took so many people to make a show like that. It was a lot simpler in the old days.' I had never told my nephew about my NBC days, for obvious reasons, but the differences between the two could not have been more pronounced.

‘Don't you ever leave your office and see what's going on at your own station? he asked me with a smile.

‘Most of our stuff is imported,' I said honestly. ‘Dramas, comedies and so on. All the home-grown product is news programming and current affairs stuff. It's just a couple of people sitting around desks talking. We don't need an awful lot for that.'

I watched as Tommy took off his make-up, seated in front of a Broadway-style mirror, a row of lightbulbs presented in an archway around the star's face. He saw me watching him in the mirror and smiled, not turning around as he spoke but speaking directly to my reflection instead. ‘Last year, Madonna used this dressing room before appearing on the National Lottery,' he said with a grin. ‘She sang “Frozen” and left behind a demo of her new album. I sent it on and never got so much as a thank you in return.'