Having It All (2 page)

And yet, how could she? Programme Controller was a body-and-soul job, you had to give it everything you had. She had two small children and she saw little enough of them as it was, God knows. If
she was running Metro she wouldn’t see them at all.

Maybe Claudia wouldn’t get the job, maybe Conrad would give it to Andrew. She glanced over at Andrew, bumbling and bluff, grinning ridiculously as he gathered up his papers. When he leaned
forward she saw that his shirt was only ironed down the front where it showed and remembered that his wife had run off with an ex-colleague and Andrew was having to learn domesticity the hard
way.

She saw that Claudia was looking directly at her now, smiling. Of course, she must have known Liz had been passed over. That’s why she’d gone out of her way to humiliate her in front
of the whole meeting.

And watching that confident, catlike smile she knew with absolute blazing certainty that Conrad would not give the job to Andrew. He would give it to Claudia.

A month ago, when she’d thrown up her promising job at the BBC to join Metro, it had been to help make it the most exciting network in British television. Challenging. New. Exciting.
Different. And what would it be like under Claudia? Cheap. Derivative. Tacky. Predictable.

Liz sat motionless, gripped with panic. The drama over, everyone began to pack up their papers and leave, congratulating Claudia and Andrew as they stood up. The moment was slipping away.

Suddenly Liz heard her own voice, surprisingly calm and controlled, cut through the murmurs of excitement. ‘Since you clearly think a woman Controller would be a good thing, Conrad,
I’d like to pitch for the job too.’

‘Can I have the circulation figures for the last two weeks, Julie?’

David tried to make his tone carefully neutral. As yet no one but he had noticed the small trickle of readers away from the
News
to its rival the
Daily World
. But he had, and
he didn’t like the look of it. Trickles, in newspapers, had a nasty habit of turning into floods unless you caught them early, and he wanted to see exactly when and how it had started, before
he found Logan sitting on his desk bellowing at him about what the hell was going on.

Fortunately, studying sales figures bordered on obsession in these days of circulation wars and Julie probably wouldn’t think anything of it.

David picked up a copy of the
Daily World
and rolled his eyes heavenwards. He wouldn’t have minded so much if they were losing readers to the
Sun
– no, that
wasn’t true, he would, of course he would, but at least it was a fucking newspaper. But the
World
! The
World
was a rag, half porn, half fantasy, with any semblance of
journalism thrown out of the window.

Look at that splash, for Christ’s sake:
I WAS KIDNAPPED BY ALIEN SPACECRAFT
. It was typical of the stuff the
World
churned out. Ludicrous stories they
never checked because they knew they were crap. True Confessions. Telephoto pictures of Joan Collins or Princess Di sunbathing. And wall-to-wall gossip. Though their gossip writer, Steffi Wilson,
was about the only good thing about the rag. A bitch, of course, but at least she was good at her job.

David stood up and chucked the
World
in the bin with such force it fell over. It was time for the first editorial conference of the day and they’d be discussing real stories,
thank Christ. But for how long? If he didn’t manage to turn the tide he knew what would happen. Logan would want the
News
to fight back. Using the same weapons as the
World
.

‘Yuk, Mum! You look just like Mrs Thatcher!’

Jamie, stark naked, stood in the doorway surveying Liz among the heap of discarded clothes she had tried on in her attempt to look the part of the Thrusting Career Woman for the biggest
interview of her life.

For nearly half an hour she had rummaged through her wardrobe wishing it wasn’t so full of disasters: hideous sale purchases, elasticated jodhpurs that made her bum look like a sumo
wrestler’s, purple tracksuit tops. If only she’d bought Neutrals, like the magazines advised. Then at least her mistakes would go together.

A taupe cotton suit had looked promising till she noticed the small greasy handprints along the hem, and she’d had high hopes of a black linen sheath, but it was too low cut. She could
hardly answer questions on scheduling while peering down her own cleavage.

Her last chance had been a beige linen pinstripe, two years old with power shoulders and a knee-length skirt. Below the knee and even she would have had to reject it as too old-fashioned. No, it
looked OK. Zipping it up she tried not to think about what Claudia would be wearing.

For two hours last night she’d sat staring at a blank piece of paper thinking
What the hell am I going to say tomorrow
?

And then it had come to her. Independent Television’s problem was its audience. The commercial TV viewer was old and downmarket – the Alf Garnett of the viewing public. The BBC had
cleverly snaffled the younger, richer viewers – the Martini drinkers and the BMW drivers – yet they were exactly the audience the advertisers wanted. Somehow she had to think of a way
of wooing them back.

When David came in at two a.m. to see if she was coming to bed, she’d been so absorbed in programme plans that she’d looked up in amazement. I want this job! she’d realized
with a sudden rush of excitement.
I really want it
!

Now in the cold light of day her nerve was deserting her. Would the presentation be just to Conrad or the whole Board? When the taxi driver rang the doorbell ten minutes later it was almost a
relief. She glanced across at David, deciding not to wake him as he seemed so exhausted at the moment, and tiptoed towards the door.

‘Hey,’ a muffled voice from under the covers protested, ‘isn’t today the big day?’ David’s sleepy head appeared from under the covers, grinning. ‘You
can’t leave without a good-luck kiss. I bet Claudia’s getting one.’ He leered suggestively.

Liz sat on the bed and ruffled his hair. She’d been worried about him last night. He’d seemed silent and preoccupied. ‘Are you OK, love?’ She lifted his hand and kissed
it.

For a split second he considered telling her about the circulation figures and dismissed the idea. He was being a selfish shit. This was her big moment. What she needed was a clear head, not
having to worry about the problems her husband ought to be able to sort out on his own. Smiling, he pulled her to him to kiss her, noticing at the last minute her shiny red lipgloss.

‘Now what would Bogey have done about lipgloss?’ He leaned towards her threateningly.

Laughing, she ducked away, but he grabbed her, serious suddenly.

‘Now just listen to me, kid. You’re brilliant and you’re beautiful. Just remember that. And you’ll walk all over Claudia. Now off you go. And don’t forget to call
me and let me know how it went.’

Basking in the warmth of his love she felt her confidence start to flow again. She stopped at the door and blew him a kiss but he’d already retreated under the duvet and was fast asleep.
Still smiling, she ran down to the waiting cab, her nerves forgotten.

As she settled back into the minicab’s furry seat she asked the driver if he’d mind turning down the radio. If she quietly read her notes for twenty minutes she’d be ready. But
the driver took her request as the cue for a cheery chat.

‘Nice day, eh?’

‘Very nice. Look, do you mind if –’

‘Metro Television, eh? I ain’t heard of that one. Who’re they then?’

‘A new company. We’ve just won the franchise from Capital TV. We take over in three months.’

‘Bloody good thing too, crap they put out. You know what’s wrong with TV?’

Oh God, he was going to give her his views on television. Today of all days.

‘They never watch it, TV people don’t. Never sit down and
really
watch it like us poor sods at home.’

‘If you don’t mind I wanted to . . .’ Liz attempted to interrupt him. She couldn’t stand much more of this. ‘Look, I’ve got some urgent reading to do.
I’m afraid I really do need to get down to it.’

Keep calm, she told herself, sooner or later he’ll have to stop talking. But she was wrong. By the time they reached the Metro TV Building by Battersea Bridge Liz was at screaming point,
her nerves in shreds. As he stood holding the door open for her the wretched man was still giving his views on competitive scheduling and the lack of Nature Programmes. Liz swung out of the car so
fast she caught her tights on the door and ripped them.

By the time she got to her office it was nine-fifteen and she was almost hysterical. Viv, her secretary, always first at her desk on their floor, was already putting the coffee on.

Liz flopped into a seat. Wordlessly she pointed at her ripped tights, the only pair she had with her. Claudia would have had a spare pair in her drawer, six spare pairs, along with the dildo and
whip she no doubt kept for subduing male colleagues. All Liz had was an aged Slim-A-Soup and one of Daisy’s dummies.

Liz looked at her secretary in astonishment. Viv was peeling off her pale beige Le Spec tights in full view of the mercifully empty office.

‘Here you go. Just as well I’ve been on the sunbed. Your need is greater than mine, as they say. The only way I’m ever going to be Programme Controller is if I buy a video and
do it myself at home. This is your Big Chance.’

Viv pulled her skirt down over her long legs and put her shoes back on. ‘And if you want the secretaries’ view, we reckon Conrad’s had it up to here with Claudia Jones,
she’s been pushing him too far in and out of bed. And Andrew Stone’s so wet we don’t believe even Conrad would give him the job. So we reckon you could be in with a
chance.’

Viv strode off bare-legged to pour them both a coffee, leaving Liz speechless. How on earth did the secretaries know all that? Five minutes later Liz did a twirl in beige pinstripes with
matching Le Spec tights. She sensed her nerve returning with every sip of the hot coffee. Feeling calmer and clutching her carefully planned speech, she was finally ready to go up to Conrad’s
office.

In the lift she found Andrew Stone reading a newspaper cutting, looking even more nervous than she was. Poor Andrew. He was one of those men who sweated like Richard Nixon taking a lie detector
test. She knew that his handshake would be soft and damp and that his breath would smell faintly of curry, even though he’d brushed his teeth. No wonder his wife had left him.

Still absorbed in his article, Andrew suddenly realized that they were on the fourth floor and that Liz was getting out. He made a rush for the door just as it was closing. But it was too quick
for him and he stood there trying to prise it apart, like Woody Allen playing Clark Kent, while his folder fell to the floor, scattering notes and cuttings all over the lobby.

‘Oh Jesus!’ he yelped, ‘those are supposed to be in the right order!’

Hearing the panic in his voice, Liz gave him a quick smile of sympathy and helped him to pick them up.

As they scrabbled on the floor the lift doors opened again and Claudia stepped put. Suddenly the lobby was filled with the heady scent of Giorgio, as brash and impossible to ignore as Claudia
herself. Bloody Claudia! How did she always manage to find you at a disadvantage?

‘Hello, Lizzie darling. Hi, Andrew. Don’t get up.’ Claudia stepped round them, her four-inch heel narrowly missing Andrew’s hand. Her short dark bob gleamed as she
sashayed past them in a bright-red tailored suit with gold buttons. Her lips and nails matched it exactly.

And worst of all, Liz thought furiously, as an admiring sales exec held the door open for her to pass regally through on her way to Conrad’s office, her hands were empty. No folder. No
cards. Not even a Filofax. She was going to make her presentation without a single note!

Liz handed Andrew the last of his cuttings and tried not to feel dashed. That was exactly what Claudia wanted. She’d felt so unreasonably proud at reducing her notes to a single sheet,
then Claudia swans in with it all in her head. Blast her!

Keep calm! You’re the one with the ideas, not Claudia. Claudia only knows about how to screw agents and massage stars’ egos. David’s right. Claudia couldn’t dream up a
strategy for the network to save her life.

Liz smoothed down her linen skirt, which was now wrinkled and creased from bending, pushed a strand of hair out of her eye and held the double doors open for Andrew in case he dropped everything
again.

Outside Conrad’s office, Claudia sat sipping a cup of black coffee, her legs in their sheer black stockings folded demurely to one side, looking exactly like the illustration from one of
those infuriating articles about who would have the top jobs in five years’ time.

The door opened and Conrad stood there. ‘We’re ready for you now, Claudia.’

Claudia calmly put down her cup and stood up.

Watching her retreating back Liz noticed that there wasn’t a single crease in her suit and felt a stab of furious jealousy. If only Claudia would put a foot wrong, forget her lines,
suggest some ludicrous programme idea, fail to understand about marginal costing, betray
some
kind of humanity!

But Claudia wasn’t human. She was an alien in a red suit who had every move programmed, calculated, planned. If you ripped off that self-satisfied face you’d probably find not blood
vessels and bone but wires and terminals.

As Claudia closed the door, Liz offered up a silent prayer. She hardly ever prayed and she didn’t suppose that God would greatly approve of her sentiment. But she said it anyway.

Dear God, if there is a God . . . just this once . . . please . . . let Claudia fuck up!

From the smile on Claudia’s face when she emerged Liz deduced that her prayers had not been answered. It announced, simply but subtly, that Conrad and the Board had found
their Programme Controller, and that any other interviews would simply be for form’s sake.