Woman of the Hour (6 page)

‘We have a new member of the team, Harriet Dodd, and she’s a real little princess with a highly developed sense of entitlement.’

‘Oh dear, one of those.’

‘Her daddy is a newspaper editor and doesn’t she know it.’

Fenton works for a charity based in Dover that supports refugees who have arrived at the port. She helps traumatised people build a new life in the UK and her colleagues and daily problems are very different from mine.

‘How irritating.’

‘She’s in my team because Daddy pulled strings and got the MD to push her forward. There’s something about highly entitled people that really riles me and you should have seen her face when I said she actually needed to do some research.’

‘Well I think your MD is at fault here. He must know you’ll be carrying her.’

‘As if he cares about that! He’s far more keen to keep in with his pal Edward Dodd. This will probably get him a seat at the Wimbledon final next summer.’

One of our pet beefs is the way that men, especially establishment men, do favours for each other and close ranks when challenged.

‘Can she be trained up?’

‘Yes, we can train her up, but in the meantime Simon and Molly will have more to do and they’re already stretched. She was getting Simon to do her work for her today.’

‘My advice is keep holding her feet to the fire. She’ll either make the grade or bail out and that’s a win-win either way,’ Fenton said.

‘I wish we could go on one of our nights out,’ I said.

‘Stay up all night and watch the sun rise,’ she said.

Fenton and I were inseparable at university and became known as the terrible twins. We could be wild. Talking to her always makes me feel better.

I was twenty-seven when I had Flo. I was the first in my group of friends to become a mum and this created a distance between me and them. When you have a baby your life is changed fundamentally and you gravitate towards people going through the same overwhelming experience. I got to know the mums on my street and we would share our anxieties and also the deep pleasure of noting our baby’s daily development – thrilling to us but dull to everyone else. My child-free friends were going off on city breaks to Barcelona and Bruges and trying out the latest restaurants. My spare cash was spent on baby equipment, baby clothes and toys. I did keep in touch with Fenton, of course, but during those early years of motherhood I saw less and less of my college friends.

This threw Ben and me together most of the time and far from cementing our marriage it opened up a rift. Being a parent to a young child is profoundly energy-sapping and frequently boring. Ben hated that we could never finish a meal without interruption or just go out for the evening with no planning. Ben is an adrenalin junkie and throughout our relationship we had done things on the spur of the moment. He would come home on a Friday night and suggest we drive to the Brecon Beacons to do a climb or go to Newquay to surf. We were both earning good money and before Flo we spent it on holidays and wetsuits and country house hotels. We had some great times, but you don’t go climbing or surfing with a baby in tow.

Ben would get cabin fever after a few days holed up with Flo and me. He started to stay out late some nights and I think it was at this time that he got into poker and gambling large sums of money. He could get his adrenalin hit from risking his salary on the turn of a card.

I walked through the flat and turned off the lights. I stood at the window that opens onto our little garden and could see the moon rising over the roofs and chimneys of my street.

StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

The only presenter who is being difficult about wearing pastels is Sal. Sal is a stand-up comedian who does a weekly slot for us; a wry look back at the news events of the week. She’s funny, irreverent and spiky. When I raised the subject of the new pastel policy for presenters she got touchy with me and said there was nothing in her contract about the station dictating what colour she should wear. I agreed but said it was now station policy.

‘Station policy,’ she repeated, with an edge to her voice.

‘Yes.’

We were talking on the phone and her attitude was grating on me.

‘Julius policy, you mean,’ she said.

‘He’s the director of programmes, Sal, so if he says it’s policy then it’s station policy.’

I hoped I had said enough for her to fall into line.

When she came in to do her slot today Sal was wearing a dark green top and a string of large brightly coloured beads. She arrived late and there was no time to talk to her before she went into the studio, which I am sure she did deliberately. I was watching from the gallery and as she sat down on the sofa I saw Fizzy’s eyes flash with alarm. She knew at once that Sal was carrying out her own one-woman rebellion against Julius. The way it works is for Fizzy to feed a few scripted questions and this lets Sal launch into her script about the week’s news and topical events. She was especially funny today and there’s no question she’s a talented woman who brings a fresh element to the show.

It was lucky that Julius was away this morning. The post-mortem meeting was chaired by Bob, the news editor. There’s a more relaxed atmosphere when Julius is away. Bob lets us all pitch in and discuss the show freely. Fizzy was in a good mood and she was laughing at Bob’s comments. Her wardrobe has undergone an overhaul since the Great Pastel Colour Edict. She was wearing a pretty pale green dress with white daisies on it. It was a young look for a woman of thirty-eight but it suited her. No doubt all these new clothes of hers are being paid for by the station. There was only a passing reference made to Sal’s item and I thought we’d got away with it.

Around noon Julius came into the office. I saw him walk past my room and he looked irritable and his jaw was clenched. Twenty minutes later he called and said come to my office now. I knew from his voice that he was in a bad mood. Sometimes I play for time but today I walked straight over and I was hardly over the threshold before he barked at me: ‘Sal, does she know the new rule?’

‘Yes, I told her last week, but you know she’s being awkward about it. And it’s her thing isn’t it, being anti-establishment? Surely it doesn’t matter if a single presenter—’

He actually punched his desk with his fist.

‘It does matter! Who the fuck does she think she is? Does she think she’s bigger than the station?’

‘No but—’

‘Tell her to wear pastels next week or she’s out! I mean it.’

His voice was venomous. I am sick of being Julius Jones’s punchbag. He can be hateful. I turned on my heel and left his office before I said words I would regret about him being a bully; and over something so bloody stupid too. When I got to my room I shut the door, poured myself a glass of water and stood at my window looking at the activity in the street below. Everyone down there looked to be rushing to their destinations and their faces were strained and anxious. Most of the time I feel lucky to have my job but it is at moments like this when I think about leaving the station. I’ve been here a long time, almost as long as Julius, and he thinks I will never leave. I’m on a good salary and I need it to pay my huge mortgage. Golden handcuffs, it’s called, being paid so much money that you feel you can’t leave your job.

My fear of debt has got worse since Ben and I split up. Several times I’ve had the same dream about a starving naked woman standing outside a clothes shop as a woman in a fur coat walks past. I told Fenton about it and she said that maybe I was both the starving woman and the woman in the fur coat.

I sat down and called Sal. The phone rang and rang and I was about to hang up when she picked up.

‘Sal, Julius is not happy. Take it from me, he’s deadly serious about this colour thing.
Please
go along with it. After all, what does it matter? It’s only your clothes. It doesn’t affect what you say in any way.’

‘Sorry, Liz. You know I’ve got a lot of time for you. But Julius Jones is such an arse.’

‘He says you’ll be out if you don’t wear pastels next week,’ I said.

I had put it as bluntly as I could. She needed to know the score. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

‘That man must have a very small penis.’

It wasn’t Sal at her wittiest but I laughed to ease the tension between us.

‘Look, I don’t want to lose you. I love your item.’

‘Then let me go on being
me
,’ she said.

‘We all have to make compromises, you know.’

I left it there, hoping she would see sense. I had to make compromises every week. Honestly, there are times when I feel like slapping the presenters!

*

After lunch Julius sauntered into my office.

‘Did you speak to Sal?’

‘Yes. I made it clear.’

‘Good. She’s a stroppy cow. I need one of your researchers to come to a meeting with me now to take notes,’ he said.

Julius has a PA, Martine. He’s the only one of us who does these days and I didn’t see why one of my team should do this for him.

‘I thought Martine took notes for you?’

‘She’s on leave today.’

‘We’re very busy. Is it essential?’

‘Yes it is; a potential new sponsor. Let Harriet take the notes.’

‘I was going to suggest Ziggy. I’m trying to give her more to do,’ I said.

‘No way. She’s far too scruffy.’

‘She’s very bright, Julius.’

‘No. Let Harriet come, she’s well turned out.’

I stood up and called Harriet into the office. I explained she was needed to take notes at a sponsor meeting. I saw her flush with pleasure as she followed Julius out of my room. I stood at the threshold and watched the two of them walking away. Molly stopped her typing.

‘Where are they off to?’

‘A meeting with a sponsor; Julius needs a note-taker.’

‘Only we were right in the middle of doing work on the hospital shoot,’ she said.

Molly can be abrasive at times but she has a good sense of humour when she relaxes. She has a broad flat face and dark blonde hair which she gets from her Dutch father. She wears jeans and Converse sneakers to the station most days, works hard and has a lot of integrity. I rarely put her on the celebrity interviews, though, as they don’t interest her at all.

‘How’s Harriet getting on?’ I asked.

‘She’s struggling. Did she have any experience of this work before?’

‘She worked in papers but never in TV. I’d appreciate it if you’d give her your support. I can see she needs some hand-holding.’

‘Sure. Is she going to be made permanent?’

‘Too early to say. Where’s Simon?’

‘He’s gone for a coffee with Betty. They’re doing her mail.’

Betty adores Simon and always asks for him to go through her mail with her. She puts a lot of effort into her weekly advice slot and her stories come from viewers’ letters and emails. I went in search of them as I needed to build bridges with Betty after our last tense conversation. They were sitting in the Hub with a sheaf of printed emails on the table between them.

‘Can I get you guys anything?’ I asked.

‘I’d love another hot chocolate,’ Betty said.

‘Can I have a sparkling water please?’ Simon said.

I queued for the drinks. Bob the news editor was sitting at a table by the window with Fizzy and she was laughing at something he was saying. I have my suspicions about those two. I think it more likely Fizzy is having a secret affair with Bob than with Julius. She claims they are good friends because they both come from Burnley. You would never guess that Fizzy was from Burnley, though she does mention it on air from time to time; talks about her love of the Football Club and how her dad took her to the games. Bob is married and has two teenage girls and you can tell straight away that he is from Burnley. He will make a point of showing he is a northern man in what he considers to be a southern softie set-up.

I know a lot of people have this idea that TV stations are cauldrons of lust and sex with the presenters and journalists and technicians always at it. There is a grain of truth to this idea. We all spend long hours at the station and there is often a febrile atmosphere around the place. I’ve known of several liaisons between colleagues in my years at StoryWorld, and of course I met Ben here. But it does grate on me when I come up against the assumption that I’ve held onto my job all this time because of some sexual shenanigans. Yet here I was thinking the same thing about Fizzy. I joined Betty and Simon at the table with their drinks.

‘We have a few crackers this week,’ Simon said.

‘Tell me.’

‘A woman who is pregnant by her married boss and can’t decide whether to have the baby or a termination. Her biological clock is ticking and she’s desperate to have a child, but she’s afraid of doing it on her own. He’s made it clear that if she goes ahead she’ll get no support from him,’ he said.

‘That’s tough,’ I said.

‘What would you do in that situation?’ Betty asked as she sipped at her hot chocolate. She is a large woman and has a sweet tooth. Her being large seems to enhance her status as an agony aunt. There’s comfort and reassurance in her bulk.

‘Wanting a child is such a powerful thing and if I was in my mid-thirties I might go through with it and sod the man,’ I said.

‘This woman
is
in her mid-thirties,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, but the child won’t get the best start in life if the mother has no partner and no financial security,’ Betty said.

‘Lots of women have done it on their own successfully,’ I said.

‘Long-term research shows a child does better if there are two parents,’ Betty asserted.

I bristled at this.

‘Not if the parents are warring all the time.’

Simon jumped in. ‘We’ve also got a sixteen-year-old boy who wants to know how he should tell his parents that he’s gay.’

Betty put her cup down.

‘That was a heartfelt email. The poor troubled lad, his parents sound uptight and I’ll need to go carefully with that one.’

‘I look forward to hearing it tomorrow,’ I said.

My one criticism of Betty is that she takes a conventional approach to most issues. I wish that sometimes she would be more subversive in her advice.