Authors: Sue Margolis
“H
ello? Sophie, is that you?” Huck’s voice was barely audible through the static. It didn’t help that Annie and Gail were roaring with laughter at my “Hey, Fuck” remark. Never had I been so grateful for a bad connection. Huck tried calling back a couple of times, but the line was still impossible. In the end I said I would phone him from my landline when I got home.
Gail and I hugged Annie good-bye in the car park. She was still anxious about telling Rob that she was planning to go back to work, but promised she wouldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said, then turned to leave.
After Annie had driven off, Gail and I went first to her car and then to mine and exchanged belated Chanu-mas gifts for our kids. As usual, I had gotten Spencer and Alexa iTunes gift cards—the same as I’d gotten for Phil’s kids. Judging by the feel of the exquisitely gift-wrapped parcels my sister handed me, she had, as usual, gone to one of those exclusive kids’ boutiques in North West London and bought my two kids dry-clean-only Italian knitwear.
“By the way,” I said, slipping the parcels into my bag, “have you found a new bar mitzvah teacher for Spencer?”
“What? You must be joking. Nobody’s prepared to take on my little Prince of Darkness. They all say the same thing—that he’s not mature enough to be bar mitzvahed. They think we should postpone it.”
“How on earth are you supposed to do that?”
“That’s what I said. Everything’s booked for April—the tent, the caterers, the band. I’ve ordered the flowers, the disposable cameras, not to mention two hundred mini iridescent favor bags and the
SPENCER’S BAR MITZVAH
key rings to go in them.”
It turned out that it wasn’t just Spencer who was giving my sister sleepless nights. Alexa was still insisting on giving up mainstream school and going to a performing arts academy to learn how to be Beyoncé.
“Anyway, the good news is, my clitoris is pretty much back to normal, thanks to the hormone patch the doctor gave me. Apparently it contains testosterone, so I’m playing this joke on Murray. I’ve started watching TV shows like
What’s My Car Worth?
and
Ultimate Factories.
You should see his face.”
I gave my sister a hug. “You’re so funny, do you know that? It’s one of the reasons I love you.”
“You know one of the reasons I love you?” Gail said. “You’re strong. Stronger than I could ever be. I don’t know how you’ve coped on your own these last months.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever said thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“I won’t say it was a pleasure, but you’re welcome.”
“Happy new year, Gail.”
“You too, hon. And may this year bring you only good stuff.”
I laughed. “Even
some
good stuff would be nice.”
We exchanged final farewell kisses and thanked each other again for the kids’ gifts.
“Oh, and let me know what happens with Huck,” Gail said.
“How many more times? Nothing is going to happen. He’s just looking for somebody to hang out with.”
“Oh, behave. Annie’s right. He is so into you. Now go and have some fun. It’s time.”
• • •
I
knew that if I put off writing a thank-you note to FHF, I would forget to do it. So the moment I got home I grabbed some writing paper and a pen. I thanked her for the “fabulous” hat, adding that I was sure it would come in really useful once the serious winter weather set in. I signed off by wishing her all the best for the new year. As I sealed the envelope and added a stamp, I allowed myself to think that her peace offering and my profuse thanks might signal a fresh start between us.
The note out of the way, I called Huck. He seemed really glad to hear from me and asked if I was free on Saturday night. I told him that Saturday was great. The kids would still be with Greg—they were off school until the following Monday—which meant I didn’t even have to find a babysitter.
“Fantastic,” he said, sounding almost surprised, as if he’d pulled off a bit of a coup. I found myself thinking that maybe he was into me after all and that he was asking me out on a proper date.
“How do you feel about meeting early?” he continued.
“Sure,” I said, flattered by his fervor.
“I thought maybe you’d like to see the youth club. I’d really like to show you around and you can get some idea of the work we do.”
“The youth club? Oh—I mean, fine. Yep, that sounds good.” Suddenly, this wasn’t sounding so much like a date as a field trip.
“Might be best if you don’t bring your car,” Huck said. “Wheels have a habit of going walkabout over at Princess Margaret, particularly after dark.”
It occurred to me to call Greg and ask if I could borrow Tanky for the evening.
“If you take the bus, you can text me when you’re almost there and I’ll meet you at the stop.”
Since we were meeting after dark, I wasn’t about to protest at his gallantry.
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
I wished that Annie and Gail were here listening to our conversation. I wanted to say: “OK, wise guys, I’ve just been invited to take the bus to the youth club at the Princess Margaret projects, one of the most violent and notorious housing projects in London. Does that sound to you like he’s asking me on a date?”
“The thing is,” Huck went on, “and I know this is a bit of a cheek, but I’d like to pick your brains. You see, the charity that runs the club—it actually runs dozens nationwide—is monumentally strapped for cash. We get some lottery money and a small amount of government funding, but it goes nowhere. What we need is media coverage. That way, we can really raise awareness. It’s important people know how bad things are for the kids growing up in hellholes like Princess Margaret. I was hoping you might have some advice on how to go about it.”
“Absolutely. You give me the tour and afterwards we can have a bit of a brainstorm.”
“Afterwards,” he said, “I thought we could go for dinner at Chez Max.”
“Chez Max? As in Chez Max on Putney High Street?”
“Yes. Why? Is that not a good idea?”
“No. I mean yes. Chez Max is a great idea.”
Chez Max was a small, intimate bistro where couples cozied up by candlelight, giggled over the pinot grig and licked each other’s dessert spoons. In short, dining à deux at Chez Max was a semivertical expression of a horizontal desire. So Huck was asking me out on a
date
date after all.
“Actually, I’ve never been there,” he said.
Ah. “You haven’t?”
“No, but people tell me the food’s great. And it’s really quiet apparently, so we’ll be able to have a proper talk without being disturbed.”
So there would be no mutual spoon licking. My only consolation was that I had won my bet with Annie about whether or not Huck was into me and she now owed me a fiver.
• • •
T
wo days later I was back at work, along with the rest of the
Coffee Break
staff. The program had been pretty much off the air over Christmas and New Year’s. The couple of shows that were broadcast had been prerecorded before the holidays and were still in the old format. As usual, they were a bit ponderous and dry, but I was still convinced that the only thing the program needed by way of improvement was a few creative tweaks here and there. Even though STD had made it clear she wasn’t about to make a U-turn, I couldn’t give up. It was almost two months to the program relaunch. There was still time to change her mind.
To that end, I’d spent a fair amount of time over the break working on a new look for
Coffee Break,
which I hoped—naively perhaps—would satisfy STD’s need to make the program more popular and populist, without turning it into tabloid trash. I e-mailed my ideas to the other producers, who added some of their own, but at the same time they echoed my thoughts about being naive. The general view seemed to be that I was whistling in the wind.
I’d been at my desk a couple of minutes when Nancy popped her head around the door to wish me a happy new year.
“Not that anybody here has got much to look forward to,” she added. “Your proposals are excellent—I take my hat off to you, Sophie—but we all know STD won’t go for them in a million years. It’s just a matter of time before I’m out of a job.”
I begged her not to give up.
“I’m doing my best, but everything feels so damned awful right now.”
“What about the sex therapy? How’s that going?”
“Not great. I had such high hopes when we started, but Brian still finds it embarrassing to talk about my vulva, which in turn isn’t improving my genital self-image. Virginia suggested I have a clay replica made of it, which I could hang in the bedroom and Brian and I could take a few minutes to admire it each day. But to be quite honest, I’m not sure I fancy letting some potter fill my vagina with plaster of paris. Anyway, Brian’s homework for last week was to find a non-anxiety-inducing name for it, which Virginia thought might make things a bit easier. And do you know what he came up with?”
“What?”
“Becks, because it reminds him of beer.”
Before my face had a chance to break into a smile, the phone rang. It was STD summoning me to her office for a “quick chin-wag.”
“Sorry, Nancy,” I said. “Gotta go.” I picked up the folder containing my program proposals. “I know STD’s going to be a difficult nut to crack, but I’ve got some really good ideas here. With a bit of luck, I might just pull it off.”
“If you ask me,” Nancy said, “you’re going to need a damn sight more than a
bit
.”
• • •
I
could hear STD well before I reached her office.
“OK, now I am madder than a Baptist in a brothel. Where the hell are those quarterly expenses figures? Wendy, will you get in here?”
I tapped on STD’s door. “If it’s a bad time, I can come back.”
“No, come in, Soph. Come in. I need to talk to you. Happy new year, by the way.” STD was standing in the doorway that linked her office with Wendy’s. “Where is she? Here I am, busier than a one-armed cabdriver with crabs, and she’s done a runner.”
“And a happy new year to you, too. Look, I’m sure Wendy’s only popped to the loo.”
“Well, I wish she wouldn’t do it on my time . . . Right, sit your body down.” I took a seat on the other side of STD’s paper-strewn desk.
“So,” she said, lowering herself into her leather swivel chair. “Where are we at? I’m assuming that programming-wise everything’s in a go situation for the big day?”
“I’d like to think so.” I handed her the folder. “This is an outline of ways I think we can revamp the show. As you can see, I’ve proposed that we ax the serial. I’ve acknowledged that the program badly needs more humorous, offbeat items. More important, we need to be catering to a younger audience and less caught up with stodgy items on gardening and natural history. But at the same time I want to see us continue to discuss important social and political issues. I want us to carry on campaigning. Over the years, we’ve affected government policy, which has in turn changed people’s lives. We can’t give up on that.”
STD looked less than pleased. “But I’ve told you precisely what needs to done. I thought I’d made myself very clear.”
“You did, but if you could just take a look . . . You’ll see that at the back I’ve designed a sample program, which I think just about hits the right balance.”
She moved her specs from her head to her nose and began sifting through the pages. “Right. So what do we have here? . . . Women talking about postpartum depression? A feature on raising autistic children? A studio discussion on women’s pay? What’s going on here, Soph? This isn’t the brief I gave you and you know it.”
“But if you’ll look you’ll see it’s got much more popular appeal. I’ve suggested we find a couple of producers who used to work on
Britain’s Got Talent
to give candid interviews about what goes on behind the scenes. We could invite Alia Hashim onto the show—she’s this Muslim stand-up who performs in the hijab. She’s the hottest new thing on the comedy circuit, and caused a sensation at the Edinburgh Fringe. She does all these gags about how her parents are panicking because she’s twenty-two and not married and how she feels like an out-of-date milk carton.”
STD looked like she was going to bust her girdle.
I decided to press on. “I’ve also suggested an interview with Leonard Cohen, who’s going to be in town in the spring. He’s doing a tour and promoting a new album. Once we’ve talked about his music, I thought we could try to get him talking about how it feels to still be a sex symbol at almost eighty.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” STD removed her specs. “I told you what I wanted and you have purposely defied me. Where are the human interest stories? ‘I stole my sister’s husband’ . . . ‘He tried to kill me on my first date’ . . . ‘I spend thirty grand a year on my nine-year-old’s clothes, but she’s not spoiled’ . . . Where are the soap stars talking about how they came back from the brink?”
“We can’t do it.”
“What do you mean, you can’t do it?”
“I mean that nobody who works on the show has the heart to see it destroyed and turned into tabloid trash.”
STD leaned forward. “Sophie, read my lips.
Coffee Break
is hemorrhaging listeners. This is the only way forward.”
I wasn’t about to be intimidated. “No, it’s not.”
“You’re questioning my judgment?”
“Yes, I am. Look, we all know that the show needs a revamp. All I’m asking is that you put your faith in me, along with my producers and reporters, and let us make the changes we know will work and bring in more listeners. If we fail, we’ll think again about your proposals.”
“A few months?”
“Six, tops.”
“You want me to risk God knows how much money . . . on a punt?”
“It’s more than a punt. I’m pretty sure it’s going to work.”
“I don’t make decisions based on ‘pretty sure.’ My plans for this program have been tried and tested all over the world. They are a dead cert.”
“So you won’t even discuss some kind of a compromise that works for all of us and most importantly the listeners.”