But I don’t just feel ambitious for myself anymore. It’s all about the company. Since Simon gave me some shares I feel I need to prove myself, and a win would surely make him feel his faith in me had been justified?
As we sat down at our table I realised that I wasn’t going to be able to talk to everybody. I couldn’t even see some of the VIP guests that Simon had invited because of the tall candles and a mass of wine bottles in a huge silver ice bucket, but as the night wore on and the wine was greedily devoured, I caught the eye of the man sitting opposite me. He seemed vaguely familiar, and very interesting! I guessed he was about forty, and he had thick, dark hair that like the rest of him was impeccably styled. Every man in the room was wearing a dinner jacket, but somehow his looked better - blacker, better fitting, more elegant. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but I made a bet with myself that they’re dark blue. And he was watching me! He lifted his champagne flute and raised his glass just a fraction higher, offering me the most subtle of silent toasts as it reached his lips. It was so
charming
… I can’t think of another word for it (except sexy, perhaps!). But I didn’t have time to respond to his little flirtation, because there was a loud drum roll, and over the speakers came the voice of the master of ceremonies.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Please be seated. The awards’ ceremony is about to commence.’
You could practically feel the thrill of anticipation in the room. Now I know how people feel at the Oscars. I sat back, trying to look nonchalant whilst all the time my heart was pounding so hard I thought it was going to burst from my chest!
And just like the Oscars, they showed a clip of each of the finalists. My film was all about domestic abuse. Not necessarily the physically violent kind, but more the controlling and demeaning type. Honestly, the things that go on behind closed doors! The clip they showed was from one of the dramatic scenes that we built in. The acting was great. The guy who played the bullying husband managed to just create the right feeling of threat without ever laying a finger on his wife. But did you know that quite a lot of men are bullied too?
You wonder how they allow it to happen to them, but when we were planning the show I spoke to quite a few people who were not at all what you would expect of a typical victim. Many of them were intelligent with good jobs. As one of them said to me “The slow relentless destruction of self confidence is something that is impossible to explain”. I bet you thank God that you’re married to Will!
We had to sit through the clips from the other nominations in my category, but finally it was the moment of truth.
The host stepped back up to the microphone.
‘And the winner is… “It’s All in the Family.” Please welcome to the stage the producer of the programme, Laura Kennedy!’
The next half hour passed in a complete blur for me. Congratulations abounded, and champagne flowed. Everybody was great - lots of smiles and best wishes even from those we’d beaten (although no doubt through gritted teeth). But I could feel that I was still being watched… and I loved it.
I tore myself away from our crowd for a moment, because I thought I should have a quick word with the judges - just to say thanks, really. But there was one woman who looked completely stony faced.
‘Don’t thank me, Laura. I didn’t vote for you,’ she said.
With that, she stood up from the table and walked away. I recognised her. It was the journalist, Sophie Miller. She’s pretty well known herself for reporting on sensitive subjects, so I was a bit shocked, but I tried to keep my cool. I smiled at the others to cover my embarrassment, and made my way back to our table.
I was feeling slightly deflated, but I think I hid it well. Then I heard a quiet voice behind me.
‘Miss Kennedy?’ he said (how very formal!). ‘Hugo Fletcher. Congratulations on a well deserved award. I was impressed with your film tonight - at least, the part I saw. I’d appreciate an opportunity to talk to you about it in more detail, and tell you something of the work that I do in my charity. But clearly tonight is not the occasion. Would you care to have lunch with me one day? There’s a rather good restaurant off the King’s Road that I would very much like to take you to. Here’s my card. Have a think about it, and give me a call.’
He gave me a little bow - yes, really - and made his way out. I have to say I was sorry to see him go. Just knowing he was there and watching me had added an extra frisson of excitement, and everything felt a little less sharply defined once he’d gone, if you can understand that.
Anyway, I pulled myself together and was about to jump up to dance when I saw that awful Sophie woman heading for the stairs so I dodged around the tables and made my way after her. I caught up with her whilst she was queuing for her coat.
‘Hello,’ I said in a pleasant voice. ‘We didn’t get a chance to chat properly earlier, but I got the impression that you didn’t like my programme. I’d be really interested to understand what it was that you had a problem with.’
She didn’t blink or look even slightly embarrassed. Her eyes were dark and unsmiling, and her response was short and to the point.
‘Your film was well made. It was well paced, and the drama sections were decently acted. Unfortunately it had one major flaw. It was abundantly clear to me that you know absolutely nothing whatsoever about the subject. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
With that, she walked past me without a backward glance and out through the double doors.
I just stood and watched her leave. There was no suitable response to this, and there was really no time to ponder as Simon came chasing after me to drag me to the dance floor.
The rest of the night passed in a blur - but I remember thinking that my life was about to change forever.
*
I know that by the time you read this, you will know all about the award - so sorry to be boring. But it all somehow fits together, so it was important to capture the whole atmosphere of the evening and my swirling emotions!
Predictably the next day was
not
a good day for working in the TV production office. Nobody had made it to bed much before 4 am, and our heads were throbbing. I, however, was still smiling. I actually didn’t mind the headache and the mild feeling of nausea.
I’m not sure if it was the hangover or not, but I kept seeing images of the previous night flash before my eyes in technicolor.
Flash
: a sea of faces as I look down from the stage, clutching my precious crystal pyramid.
Flash
: a single face; the face of a man, offering me just a suggestion of a private smile.
Strangely, the second of these two occurred with rather more frequency than the first.
My past performance with men hasn’t really been that great, has it? It’s been so different for you, with Will. But I’ve never had a really serious relationship. Everybody just seems to want casual sex these days. Some men think they just need to buy you a quick beer in the pub, and then it’s back to your place. I know I sound cynical, but I need to make some connection with a man I’m going to have sex with. And I’ve never met anybody who makes me feel the way you do about Will. Certainly no man has constantly intruded on my thoughts. Until Hugo Fletcher.
I was dying to ask Simon about him, but he didn’t make it into the office until 3 o’clock! One of the privileges of being the boss, I suppose. Of course, everybody wanted a verbal rerun of the previous night’s events - but strangely enough, I just wanted to get Simon on his own, so I could pick his brains. Finally, I managed to corner him.
‘Laura, I don’t miss much, you know. You want to talk to me about Hugo Fletcher, don’t you? He couldn’t take his eyes off you all night, darling.’ (TV speak - please don’t let me slip into that - I love Simon, but I even heard him call the electrician ‘darling’ the other day.)
Anyway, this was music to my ears, and I sat there entranced as Simon told me everything he knew about the man, his charity, his business, his investments… and his wife!
Why had it never occurred to me that he’s married? And I just
don’t do
married men. Never - at least knowingly - would I become a party to the inevitable misery. Somebody always suffers, and I’ve seen enough of it in my life to recognise this. I know you’ll understand that.
I was getting a bit ahead of myself, though. We’d only exchanged a few words! But there was such a spark, or at least, that’s how it felt to me.
Having just about decided that I wouldn’t follow up on his offer of lunch, Simon surprised me.
‘I think you should meet him. You should flirt with him a little. I know that’s as far as you’ll let it go, because you are who you are. But he’s important to us. He’s very wealthy, but also he’s never allowed anybody to make a documentary about his charity, and it would be a major coup. You have to learn to use your assets, darling. You underestimate how gorgeous you are, and if it’s okay to win business by brains, why not by beauty?’
What do you think of
that
, Imo? I wasn’t quite sure if he was suggesting that I didn’t have a brain, but I don’t think so.
*
It might have been a dangerous decision to make, but I finally arranged a lunch date with Hugo. I’d put off making the call, but I’d thought of little else. So it had to be done.
I wanted to look perfect - business-like, but attractive - so I’d splashed out on a Donna Karan suit, and a gorgeous pair of long grey suede boots. I decided to leave my hair in its natural waves, and I felt good.
The taxi driver was droning on about Arsenal and Manchester United fighting for the top of some league or other. I feigned interest, as you do, but I really just wanted to tune out and focus on the hours ahead. We turned into Egerton Crescent and what a charming place it is, with the beautiful white painted houses all looking pristine even in the grey February weather.
I did feel a few butterflies as I ran up the path to get out of the rain, and the young woman who opened the door somehow managed to make me feel like a country hick, even in my smart new suit. She had that look of class that comes with years of shopping in the right places. Wearing what was unmistakably Chanel, I felt that I had altogether missed the mark. But I wasn’t going to turn tail and run, so I gave her my brightest smile.
‘Hello, I’m Laura Kennedy. I have an appointment with Sir Hugo Fletcher,’ I said, putting out my hand to shake hers.
A rather limp hand was extended. I never know what to do with people who just let their hands drop into yours, do you? Are you supposed to squeeze them reassuringly, pump them frenetically, or match like with like and let both hands hang lifelessly together for a few seconds? I opted for a gentle squeeze and a mild shake, and hoped that would do. Obviously I was being judged, and I suspect found wanting, by this rather po-faced girl. She didn’t quite look me up and down with a sneer on her face, but it was a close thing!
‘Good morning, Ms Kennedy. I’m Jessica Armstrong, Sir Hugo’s personal assistant. He’s expecting you. Please come in.’
I was shown into Hugo’s private office where he rose to meet me from behind his desk. It was like no office I’d ever been in, with dark green walls covered in classical art, and walnut furniture which was clearly antique. The desk itself was enormous, and was devoid of a scrap of paper. There was a large blotter, unmarked by ink or doodles (which shows enormous restraint) and a Mont Blanc silver fountain pen was lying perfectly straight against the upper edge. The only other thing on the desk was a huge leather bound diary, with the current year stamped in gold on the front. Thank God I didn’t invite him to my office, which is the exact opposite to this in every way possible.
Hugo moved around the desk. ‘Welcome, Laura. You don’t mind if I call you Laura, I hope?’
Rather bemused at what else he might want to call me, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘It’s good to be here finally, and I’d be delighted if you would call me Laura. I have to admit, though, that I haven’t a clue what I should call you!’ God, how crass! Why does this man make me feel so
edgy
?
He smiled at me benignly.
‘I hope we’re going to be good friends, Laura, so please call me Hugo. Do have a seat. Jessica will be bringing some coffee through, and we have an hour to talk business before I have the pleasure of taking you to lunch.’
He told me all about his charity, and he’s so passionate about it! It was wonderful to just sit and listen. Apparently he inherited a “rather considerable sum” from his father, mainly in property, which is managed by his company in Canary Wharf. But Hugo prefers to focus as much of his time as possible on a charitable foundation that he set up, which helps young prostitutes who end up on the streets through no fault of their own. Isn’t that an amazingly good cause? I asked him why he had chosen this type of charity, and it’s the most incredible story so I asked permission to tape him as research for a programme. He said I could record it, but he wasn’t sure if he would let me use it. Anyway, this is what he told me.
‘A bit of rather embarrassing family history came to light some years ago. The wealth of the family is inherited, of course - but it turns out that the family fortune was built on slavery back in the 19th century. My great great grandfather failed to adhere to the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in the early part of the century, and continued trading in various areas of the British Empire until well into the middle of the century. He invested his ill gotten gains in property. There was some talk of my great grandfather - his son - also doing rather well out of prostitution, although we haven’t been able to prove that. But most of the working girls in that era were considered of a lower class, and he’s reputed to have founded a few clubs with ‘clean’ girls for his rich friends. I can’t find any evidence to that effect, but apparently there was one prostitute to every twelve adult males in London in his time, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Now
that
would make rather a good subject for a documentary!’
‘So that’s why you chose to help prostitutes?’ I asked.