Nocturne (12 page)

‘
No, thanks.
’

‘
Never use it?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Ever tried it?
’

‘
No.
’
.

‘
Don
’
t think you might be missing out?
’

I steered him towards a kitchen chair, sitting myself down at the
other end of the table. Whatever else cocaine did for him, it certainly
cheered him up. The maudlin depressive I
’
d just shared a meal with
seemed to have disappeared. In his place, there was someone infinitely
more self-confident.

On the shelf behind his head was the alarm clock I normally took to
bed. It would be fifty minutes before the mini-cab returned so I decided
to treat what remained of the evening like a research interview. Most
men adore talking about themselves.

‘
Why Doubleact in the first place?
’
I asked him.
‘
How come you got
involved?
’

Brendan misinterpreted the question, although it took me several
seconds to realise he was talking about his marriage. It had been a
challenge, he said. He
’
d done it on impulse, one of those things that
feel right at the time, and to be fair the first couple of years had been
pretty good.

‘
So what went wrong ?
’

‘
Sex.
’

‘
What?
’

‘
Sex. She lost the taste for it, didn
’
t want it, too busy, too fucking
preoccupied, and you know what happens then? You get a bit lonely,
and maybe a bit reckless, a bit fuck-you-too, and you know what
happens
then
?’

I shook my head, regretting I
’
d ever started the conversation. We
should have stuck to his mid-life crisis and what his therapist thought
about it all.

‘
Tell me,
’
I said.
‘
What happens then?
’

Brendan had produced a little silver compact. He opened it. On one
side was a mirror. On the other, nestling amongst the tiny polythene
twists of coke, I counted three condoms. It was a pathetic piece of
late-night theatre, at once crude and offensive, and I told him so. He
looked at me in genuine bewilderment.

‘
I
didn
’
t mean it that way,
’
he said.
‘
Jesus, don
’
t get me wrong.
’

‘
What do you mean, then ?
’

I
mean that this is what happens. You go off the rails, you flail
around. Sex, drugs
…
’
he shrugged,
‘
…
crap quiz shows, it
’
s all part
of the same gig.
’

‘
You
’
re telling me it
’
s your wife
’
s fault? She doesn
’
t understand
you? Is that it?
’

‘
That
’
s part of it.
’

‘
What else, then?
’

‘
I dunno. Truly, Jules, I don
’
t. All that stuff I was telling you, about
you, about what I feel for you, want for you. I meant it, every little bit
of it, mean it, present tense. But it
’
s a symptom, isn
’
t it? It means I
’
m
half crazy.
’
He paused.
‘
You want me to go? Just say.
’

I poured myself another coffee. T
here were bits of Brendan that
were undeniably attractive. Not the bits that he
’
d be proudest of - the
fame, the profile, the money - but his occasional gaucheness, and odd
glimpses of a kind of innocence that lay behind it. When he talked
about his early career in documentaries - he
’
d started as a researcher
on
World
in
Action
- I thought I detected a genuine wistfulness that
those early days were over. He
’
d stayed with Granada for most of the
Seventies, ending up as a Factuals Producer. He seemed to have been
good at it. And he seemed to have really cared.

I settled at the table again, reaching for the sugar bowl. Brendan was
telling me about
Members
Only
.
Apparently the BBC apparatchiks
loved it.

‘
We
’
ll get recommissioned,
’
he sniffed again.
‘
Definitely.
’

‘
When do they make the decision?
’

‘
It
’
s made.
’

I must have looked surprised. I was clueless when it came to the
politics of television but the vibe in the
Members
Only
production
office wasn
’
t that wonderful. The ratings had only recently begun to
climb
and
one
of
the
kinder
early reviews
had
described
the
series
as
‘
stillborn
’
. The opening programmes had lacked bite. There was no
genuine venom. We
’
d been too polite, too deferential, a raft of half-
funny parlour games lashed together with nods and winks about the
week
’
s goings-on at Westminster. Brendan, with his proud talk of the
ever-lengthening queue of politicians eager to clamber aboard, seemed
to me to be confirming this.

‘
So how come the Beeb want us back so soon?
’
I asked.

‘
Because we
’
re safe. Because we square the circle.
’

‘
What circle?
’

‘
The one they can never crack. They
’
ve got a problem with
politicians and it
’
s getting worse. Everyone hates them, everyone
knows they
’
re at it all the time, fingers in the till, backhanders
wherever they can get them, mistresses in love nests, all that. Problem
is, what do they do about it in programme terms?
’

‘
Expose it,
’
I said at once.
‘
Use
Panorama
.
Or
Newsnight
.’

‘
Of course,
’
he nodded.
‘
And that happens. But it
’
s risky. Politicians
have long memories. They don
’
t take prisoners, either side. And when
they hold the purse strings, licence-wise, it suddenly isn
’
t simple any
more.
’

‘
Yes it is,
’
I insisted.
‘
You expose it.
’

Brendan was looking at me the way he
’
d done in the restaurant, a
great fondness in his eyes. I think he
’
d accepted by now that a fuck was
out of the question but that still left him a number of other options. He
could play at being my mentor, my guardian, my friend. The facts of
life, after all, was a big, big phrase.

‘
You need to know how these things work,
’
he said gently.
‘
It
’
s not
as black and white as you might think.
’

‘
Yes it is. Half the MPs we get on the show are corrupt. Small time,
big time, it makes no difference. If we know it, if we can prove it, we
should say it.
’

‘
Ridicule
’
s just as effective. They hate being laughed at.
’

‘
I agree.
’

‘
So what
’
s the problem? There are dozens of ways of skinning the
cat. Just because we don
’
t happen to go for heavy documentary, does
that—?
’

‘
No, of course it doesn
’
t. But that
’
s just the point. We don
’
t ridicule
them. We invite them along and let them party. It
’
s all so fucking good
natured, so matey. They come across like actors, only richer.
’

‘
That
’
s because they are actors.
’

‘
No, they
’
re not. They
’
re politicians. They represent us. We trust
them with our votes. Democracy? Parliament? The voice of the
people? Remember all that?
’

I broke off, embarrassed at my own passion, at the way it had
tumbled out. We
’
d had exactly this argument in the office and a couple
of us had concluded that there was precious little difference between
Luvvies
and
Members
Only
.
Both had been risk-free, another
twenty-six minutes of late-night wallpaper that no one would ever
remember. With actors, that didn
’
t matter. With politicians, it most
certainly did.

Brendan was miming applause. I ignored him. One minute he
’
s
itching to save the world, I thought bitterly. The next he
’
s counting the
money in the bank. One of these was the real Brendan Quayle and it
didn
’
t take too many light years to work out which.

‘
Who can blame you?
’
I said at last.
‘
You
’
ve got it cracked, you
’
ve
made it, you can even kid yourself you
’
ve tried to make a difference,
and
still
be rich. Nice work .. .
’
I offered him a cold smile,
’
…
if you
can get it.
’

Brendan, chastened, was looking at the open compact and for a
second or two I sensed how important it was for him to have someone
forceful around. He liked to slip the leash, test the limits, but he liked
discipline too. No wonder he
’
d ended up with someone like Sandra.

I got to my feet, newly businesslike, checking my watch.

‘
Listen,
’
I said,
‘
I
’
m not being rude but we ought to get one or two
things straight.
’

‘
Like what?
’

‘
Like quite where we go from here.
’
I tried to soften my voice a little.
‘
You
’
re my boss. I work for you. But we
’
ve got a problem, haven
’
t
we?
’