Coming Clean (13 page)

Of course, it hadn’t been raining when I left home and I’d come out without an umbrella. By the time I’d walked from Oxford Circus to the GLB building behind Carnaby Street, my hair, which for once I’d not only blow-dried but ironed because this morning of all mornings I wanted to create a good impression, was soaking and plastered to my skull.

I got out of the lift and headed straight for the office kitchen. There was always a pile of clean tea towels in the cupboard under the sink. I would use a couple to dry my hair. Except today, there weren’t any. I guessed they’d all been used and the cleaner had sent them to the laundry.

I was attempting to dry my hair with a couple of squares of paper towel when Nancy appeared. “God, what happened to you?” she said, accusing rather than concerned. Nancy was so much more agreeable when she was drunk.

“Forgot my umbrella and there was a person under a train at Stockwell.”

“Typical. You know, sometimes people can be so inconsiderate. I’ve got nothing against suicide per se, but throwing oneself under a train makes such a mess. And do they really have to do it on a Monday morning when everybody’s so frantic?”

“Yeah, Wednesday would be better,” I said, “when we’ve all got into our stride. Or Friday—it’s the end of the week. Nobody gives a toss about Fridays.”

“Very funny, but you know full well what I mean.” Nancy took a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Anyway, for your information, the media change consultant arrived over an hour ago, along with a couple of GLB bigwigs. You missed the meet and greet. It goes without saying that as senior producer, your absence was noted.”

I carried on rubbing at my hair. “I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do.”

“Well, you’d better go and introduce yourself and offer your apologies.”

“Thank you, Nancy. I hadn’t thought of that . . . So, what are we dealing with, some big shot who’s announced he’s here to kick ass, not kiss it?”

“Actually, he’s a she,” Nancy said.

“Oh God.” I was imagining some haughty, chisel-faced despot.

“I have to say that at first glance she seemed quite pleasant. But I suspect it’s only an act—you know, the charm before the storm.”

By now we’d been joined by Des. He was one of only three male producers who worked on the show. Des was in his fifties and a really talented producer. Even though he’d worked on
Coffee Break
for twenty years, his gifts had never been properly rewarded. This was on account of his being an activist in the National Union of Journalists and something of a left-wing agitator. Somebody only had to be served an undercooked chicken burger in the staff canteen and Des was practically calling for strike action. A few months earlier, when all the loos in the building ran out of toilet paper—some manager had forgotten to place the order—Des decided it was a capitalist plot. The way he saw it, the lack of toilet paper was a message from management to the workers to let them know that it wasn’t there to wipe their arses.

“Too right,” he was saying now, re Nancy’s charm-before-the-storm remark. He flicked the switch on the kettle. “Take it from me that, underneath the smiles and superficial civility, the woman is a regular Nazi in nylons.”

“Oh, and FYI,” Nancy said to me, “she’s Australian. And get this—the woman is called . . . Shirley Tucker Dill. I mean, who was her father? The Jolly Swagman?”

“I just Googled her,” Des said. “She’s some hard-hitting corporate firefighter who goes around the world nursing ailing companies back to health. The media is her specialty. Oh, and apparently Shirley Tucker Dill is known in the business as STD.”

“Wow, people must truly adore her,” I said.

Nancy tugged at the ring pull on her Coke can and went hunting for a glass. “This is not looking good. She hasn’t said what her plans are for the program, but if this woman takes
Coffee Break
down-market and turns it into some trashy tabloid chat show, she’s not going to want me presenting it. I’m far too highbrow.”

It was true. Nancy was too highbrow, but did she have to be quite so snotty?

“Right,” I said, after Des had left with his mug of tea. “Guess I’d better go and say hi to Shirley Tucker thingy.”

“Dill,” Nancy obliged. “And maybe it’s best you don’t go in looking like you’ve just been rescued from the
Titanic
.” She put her hand into her jacket pocket. “Here.” She handed me an elastic hair band.

“Brilliant. Thanks.” I could never work Nancy out. Her self-centeredness drove everybody round the bend. Then she would perform some small act of kindness, which would leave people thinking she wasn’t so bad after all. Ditto when she got drunk and started kissing everybody.

“By the way,” Nancy said, halfway out the door with her glass of Coke, “you’ll find Shirley Tucker Dill in Liz’s old office.”

I put a brush through my still damp hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. I felt like a fourteen-year-old about to be hauled up in front of the school principal.

•   •   •

S
hirley Tucker Dill’s door was open. I gave a polite tap.

“Hello, I’m Sophie Lawson,” I said, hovering in the doorway.

Shirley Tucker Dill looked up from the papers on her desk and pushed her reading glasses onto her head. She couldn’t have looked less haughty or chisel faced. Sitting in front of me was a plump, smiley woman—sixtyish at a guess—with big cotton-candy hair, her crepey bosom spilling out of a very mauve, very low-cut, cheap Lycra top. If she was the devil, she certainly wasn’t wearing Prada.

“G’day, Soph,” she said. “Come in, come in. We missed you at the meet and greet.” Her face still on full beam, she bustled around to the front of her desk and took my hand in both of hers.

“I’m so sorry about that.” I explained about the person under a train at Stockwell.

“No worries. Better late than never. Now, then, sit your body down and I’ll sort us out a cuppa. Dunno about you, but I’m as dry as a dead dingo’s donga.” I took that to mean that Shirley Tucker Dill was very thirsty indeed. I said that I would love a cup of coffee. She motioned me to the leather sofa. Meanwhile she went to the door that connected her office to the one belonging to her PA. “Wend—two coffees, please. Quick as you like. And where are those financial reports I asked you for?”

So she’d kept Wendy on. Wendy had been Liz’s PA.

“I put them on your desk,” Wendy’s voice came back.

“Oh, right.” Shirley Tucker Dill went to her desk and started leafing through the stack of papers.

“What’s going on? There’s nothing for 2008 or 2009. Wend, could you get in here?”

Wendy appeared and shot me the briefest of eye rolls. She was a young graduate, her heart set on a career in media management. Everybody liked Wendy. Liz had thought the world of her. She was obliging and easygoing, not to mention great at her job. Nothing got under Wendy’s skin. Until now, it seemed. After only a few hours in Shirley Tucker Dill’s employ, the poor girl was clearly feeling the strain.

“I’m sorry, Shirley. I must have forgotten to print it off.” This was a first, seeing Wendy flustered.

“Wend, I need you to get your act together. I’ve got a meeting with the finance director later. We’re meant to be going over the new budget proposals and you’re sending me in unprepared. I need that printout right away.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I’ve got the coffee.”

“No, Wend. You’ll do it now.”

“Fine.”

Shooting me another glance, Wendy left the room.

Since this was Shirley Tucker Dill’s first day in a new job, I felt that I should give her the benefit of the doubt and put her behavior down to anxiety. But deep down I suspected that Nancy and Des had got her pegged. Despite her superficial charm, Shirley Tucker Dill clearly had despotic tendencies.

She came over and lowered herself into the armchair opposite me. “You know, Soph,” she said, crossing her legs and revealing rather too much fat, dimpled thigh. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. From Liz. I called her last night to get the lowdown on everybody who works on the program. She sang the praises of the entire team, but she singled you out. Said you do a terrific job and that you’re very popular in the office.”

I felt my cheeks burning. I wasn’t good with compliments. “That’s very kind of her.”

Just then Wendy appeared carrying a folder. Shirley Tucker Dill didn’t say anything. She merely motioned her hand towards the desk.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Shirley Tucker Dill continued. “Liz was telling it the way she saw it. Look—as you’ll discover, I’m not one to beat about the bush, so I’ll get straight to the point. Liz suggested that you should take over as editor.”

It had occurred to me that as senior producer I might be considered for Liz’s job, but I’d rejected the notion on the grounds that GLB had appointed a media
change
consultant, not a media keep-things-pretty-much-as-they-are-with-a-few-tweaks-here-and-there consultant.

“I’d assumed you’d be bringing in somebody new,” I said. “You know—fresh blood and all that.”

“Why on earth would I want somebody new? By all accounts, you’re great at your job and I’m a firm believer in rewarding talent.” Could this mean she wasn’t planning drastic changes to the program after all?

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said.

“Now, as far as money is concerned, they won’t be able to offer you a pay raise right away. You’ll appreciate that these days the budget’s pretty tight, but if things work out there might be a small salary increase sometime next year. So, what do you say?”

“Shirley, I’m very flattered—”

“So, can I take that a yes?”

Not exactly. I couldn’t accept the job until I knew for certain that she wasn’t planning to turn
Coffee Break
into some trashy tabloid show. If she was, then I would have to turn it down. I wasn’t about to become Shirley Tucker Dill’s puppet and implement changes that would destroy the program.

“Shirley, there’s something I need to ask you. We all know that James Harding is insisting on a complete face-lift for the program, so I’m assuming that you’ll be making quite a few changes—”

With exquisitely bad timing, Wendy reappeared. She was carrying two cups of coffee on a tray, which she set down on the low table in front of us.

“By the way,” she whispered to Shirley Tucker Dill, “the chairman is waiting outside. Apparently you had a meeting arranged.”

“Good God! Of course we did. Well, don’t leave the poor man hanging around outside. Show him in, show him in.”

Shirley Tucker Dill and James Harding fell into each other’s arms.

“Jimmy, you old bastard!”

These two clearly went way back.

“Less of the
old
, if you please.” “Jimmy” grinned.

“So, why weren’t you here to meet me when I arrived?”

“Apologies. I was driving down from Manchester. The M1 was chockablock coming into London.” He took both her hands in his and stepped back. “You’re looking good, Shirley.”

“Flatterer. Truth is, we’ve both packed on a few pounds over the years. But thank Christ I still have more hair than you.” Shirley Tucker Dill turned to me. “Jimmy and I met when we were both interns at Radio Mersey in Liverpool. I’d come to the UK for a year as part of my university journalism course. Of course Jimmy was follicly challenged even then, bless him . . . So, I take it you know Sophie Lawson.”

James Harding, who appeared a good deal less at ease with this talk of his lack of follicles than Shirley Tucker Dill, turned to me and looked blank. “Yes . . . of course.”

“We’ve met a couple of times,” I said, stepping in to save the chairman from embarrassment. “At various GLB functions, but I’m sure you probably don’t remember me. I’m one of the producers on
Coffee Break
.”

“Actually,” Shirley Tucker Dill said, “Soph is the senior producer, but not for much longer. I’ve just offered her the job of program editor and she’s said yes.”

Before I could say anything, James Harding was shaking my hand and offering me his congratulations.

“Yeah, good on ya, Soph,” Shirley Tucker Dill said. “I’ve got this feeling in my waters that you and I are going to make a great team.”

“The thing is,” I said, “now that I’ve got you both here, there are a few questions—”

Shirley Tucker Dill was looking at her watch. “Soph, to be honest I really don’t have time to chat now. Maybe we could hook up again later. Right now Jimmy and I need to talk business.”

“Oh . . . of course. No problem,” I heard myself say. “I’ll leave you to it.”

•   •   •

I
headed back to my office, furious with myself for not standing my ground. Shirley Tucker Dill and James Harding might have had urgent business to discuss, but, without being rude, I could have insisted they hear me out. Instead, I’d allowed this woman to dismiss me as if I were the office junior. I wasn’t easily intimidated, but despite her homey charm Shirley Tucker Dill oozed autocratic brusqueness, the certainty and self-belief that said, “Nobody messes with me.”

Intimidating as she was, there was no way that I could allow her to bulldoze me into accepting the editor’s job—at least not until I knew her plans for the program. She had suggested that we meet again “later,” whenever that might be. I wasn’t prepared to wait. I pulled myself up to my full five foot, four and a half inches and decided to call Wendy to see if I could get back in to see Shirley as soon as her meeting with James Harding was over.

Back at my desk, I dialed Wendy’s extension, but there was no answer. I decided to give it a few minutes and try again. Meanwhile, I started listening to a feature that one of our freelancers had just handed in. It was a cheery piece on the social consequences of the Black Death with particular reference to the persecution of ethnic minorities such as the Jews. I couldn’t concentrate. I could imagine a time when I might be able to turn my mind to pus-oozing boils, but this wasn’t one of them.

I was in the middle of dealing with e-mails when Greg called. He wanted to know if I’d received a letter from my lawyer outlining his maintenance offer for the children.

“I know it should be more,” he said. “And I’m working on it. The thing is, now that I’m living with Roz, I’m contributing towards her overheads, so at the moment it’s the best I can do. But if you think about it, things would be even tougher if I was still paying rent on that flat.”