Woman of the Hour (5 page)

Ziggy is the most vulnerable of the three so far. She had the most horrific childhood. Her mother was a heroin addict who died when Ziggy was nine years old. It was a social worker who found little Ziggy lying next to her mother’s dead body. Her father died a year later, also of a heroin overdose, but he had played no part in her life. She was fostered at a number of homes since the age of nine. She’s a thin little thing with a pale face and short dark hair that sticks up. She’s bright and did well in her GCSEs, considering her troubled and unsettled upbringing. She had no desire to go to college and told her social worker that she was keen to get a job.

I saw Ziggy standing by our big printer and walked over. She was dressed in her usual outfit of baggy boyfriend jeans and a faded black T-shirt. She was hugging her thin arms over her chest and round her ribs as she watched the printer disgorging its copies. I’ve seen her do that hugging thing before and it reminds me that she is vulnerable and feels the need to protect herself from a hostile world. I suggested to her that we have a catch-up in the Hub later this week.

Chalk Farm flat, 8 p.m.

I was on my knees putting dirty clothes into the washing machine and thinking about how Julius had looked as I left the station tonight. I had walked past his room and he was sitting with his chair turned to face the wall where a framed certificate of one of his awards was hanging. I could see his profile. He was staring at the certificate but it was the expression on his face that struck me. He looked worried and sad. He must have caught my movement out of the corner of his eye because he turned his head and swung his chair round. I waved at him and he waved back, but he didn’t smile.

After all this time working together you would think I would know Julius well, and at some level I do. He is intensely private but I have picked up a few scraps of knowledge over the years. I know he comes from a modest background and that his parents ran a post office in a small town in Essex. He moved into the democratic world of television and reinvented himself as Julius. Few people know that he was born Nigel Jones and I found out by accident. It’s an interesting choice of name. He has worked hard to become a successful and award-winning programme maker and I respect him for that. Occasionally you get glimpses of a decent man struggling to get out.

I had reached Flo’s favourite T-shirt at the bottom of the pile and I picked it up and sniffed it. Yes, it was unmistakable, the smell of cigarette smoke. I didn’t stop to think or count to ten; I got up and went straight into Flo’s room without knocking on her door.

‘This smells of cigarettes,’ I said, holding up the offending T-shirt.

An expression flitted across her face but I couldn’t interpret it.

‘You didn’t knock,’ she said sounding aggrieved.

‘Are you smoking, Flo?’

‘No!’

‘So why does your T-shirt smell of smoke?’

Flo rolled her eyes in the infuriating way she often does these days.

‘Paige smokes,’ she said, as if she was stating the obvious.

‘You’re saying your clothes smell because your friend smokes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please don’t do this. Smoking’s not clever or cool, you know.’

‘So why did you and Dad do it then?’

‘That was when we were students, years ago, and I gave up when I got pregnant.’

I still craved the occasional cigarette but I wasn’t going to admit to that. It’s a mistake to get into these arguments with Flo.

‘And frankly it’s irrelevant whether Dad and I smoked in our twenties. You’re fourteen!’

She scowled at me and crossed her arms over her chest and I could see I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. I left her room and shut her door with a sharp click. I knew I had not handled the conversation well. A low-key approach works better with Flo and best of all is when I can defuse any potential conflict with humour. But I rarely manage to control my anxieties about her. I wish I could be more like I am with my team where I am able to keep a lid on my emotions. I put her T-shirt into the machine, added extra fabric softener and turned on the wash cycle. I would ask Janis if she thought Flo was smoking.

The changes in Flo’s behaviour started around the time of her thirteenth birthday. Friends had warned me that this would happen and said don’t get upset if she started to pull away from me. It was entirely normal and we would probably go through a rocky phase and then she would come back and our relationship would be stronger than ever. I dreaded it though because we had always been so close, and being a mum to Flo and working to give her a good home is one of the defining purposes of my life.

I remember that when she turned thirteen I took a photograph of her sitting out in our little garden. There was a warm light on the wall behind her and it is a lovely tender picture. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder and there is such a freshness and a ripeness about her face that it makes my heart ache to look at it. She has her dad’s dark brown eyes. I printed three copies of this photo and put them into nice frames. One sits on my desk at work. One I sent to my mum who lives in Glasgow, and the third one I sent to Ben. He phoned me when it arrived and said how proud the picture made him and what a wonderful daughter we had. It was a special moment because it is rare for Ben and me to share kind words and to feel so united.

StoryWorld TV station, London Bridge

Simon made me laugh this morning. I’d told the team last week about the Great Pastel Colour Edict. This was greeted with much derision from Simon and Molly as I’d expected. Now Simon was describing how there has been an outbreak of pink shirts at StoryWorld, not only among the presenters but also among the journalists.

‘The
news
journalists,’ he said, grinning widely.

We are all involved in the deep-seated rivalry at StoryWorld between the news and feature teams. The news boys look down on us because we deal with the softer side of life and they deal with death and disasters. But it is the feature content of our shows which pulls in the viewers.

‘They want to suck up to Julius and they’ve found their inner pinkness,’ he said.

We all laughed, except Harriet who was looking awkward as if she didn’t get it. I think she’s finding it tough to settle in. Her first attempt at an interview briefing note for Fizzy was poor. The guest was a woman who had scored a surprise hit TV show on the art of embroidery and needlework. Harriet’s brief was not much more than a cut and paste job from the press release the publicist had sent us. When our meeting came to an end I asked her to stay behind. I sat down next to her on my sofa and picked up her notes.

‘This needs a lot more work, Harriet,’ I said.

I could feel her bristling next to me.

‘In what way?’

‘There’s not enough here. It’s very thin on any detail that Fizzy could use in an interview.’

‘But I’ve included everything which the company sent me,’ she said.

‘We never just rely on their releases. They are simply promoting their show but as a researcher you have to find other angles and other talking points so that Fizzy can sustain a conversation.’

Harriet looked down at her notes.

‘Where do I find those?’

‘You research her life and look for interesting details about her. It’s easy enough with Google and Wikipedia. And trawl through any news stories about her. Find out what she was doing before she had her hit show. Is she a city or a country person? Does she have pets? What does she love doing in her free time apart from sewing? You know: the stuff of life that reveals a person.’

Harriet nodded. ‘OK.’

‘And when it comes to layout what I do is divide it into bullet points on the point of the interview, then the key background and talking points and finally I list suggested questions. Try to keep it to two sides, though.’

‘Suggested questions? Doesn’t she think up her own questions?’

‘No. We do that.’

‘But surely that’s the job of a presenter. It’s what they do, isn’t it? Ask the questions?’

She seemed genuinely affronted, as if Fizzy was being lazy.

‘Look, Fizzy may be interviewing up to six different people in any one show. She can’t be expected to know all the angles. So we think about what she should ask them to get the best out of the guest. Do you see?’

I handed her back her piece of work and her cheeks were slightly flushed.

‘Have another go at it. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Ask to see a couple of Simon’s briefs. He’s got them down to a T.’

‘I was wondering if there are any PR launches this week?’ she said.

I knew it. She thinks working in TV is all glamour and glitz, whereas in fact there’s a lot of routine and graft to being a researcher. I had to grit my teeth to stay civil. I did not want to piss off Saul Relph, our MD, but really she was irritating and vacuous and would never have made it here if we’d gone through a proper job interview process.

‘We share out the launches and I update the team on them as they come in.’

‘I’m particularly interested in fashion,’ she said.

‘Thanks for letting me know that,’ I said drily.

She stood up and left my room. I watched her go out and sit next to Simon. He is cute-looking in a Harry Potterish way. As she slid into the seat next to him I saw him push his spectacles up his nose and look at her seriously. He took her notes from her and I saw him start to write all over them while she watched him. She was getting him to do her work for her and this made me even more cross.

This afternoon I had a difficult meeting with Betty, our agony aunt. She is back from Canada and had heard about the John from Sheffield item. She sees it as her territory and wants to take it over when we get John back into StoryWorld again. She said as much to Fizzy and sharp words were exchanged between the two women. Betty had come to me to adjudicate.

‘I was away so I won’t complain that you went ahead with this item but let us remember John wrote to
me
for advice, not to Fizzy,’ Betty said.

It was typical of Betty to say she wouldn’t complain when in fact that was exactly what she was doing.

‘Had you been here we would have had you do it, of course. But now we’ve aired the first interview it’s difficult to change horses midstream.’

‘Change horses?’ Betty said in a mildly outraged tone of voice.

When I recruited Betty she was working as a senior probation officer who was running an advice column in a publication aimed at prisoners’ wives. I had seen her column and liked what I saw. She was in her mid-fifties, had encountered all sorts of dark stuff during her career and was down to earth and no-nonsense. She made the transition to TV agony aunt well but I’ve noticed that being on camera does something to people. It spoils them. Why else would she be making a fuss about this?

‘Fizzy feels the way she dealt with the interview helped get the viewers onside and she’s committed to continuing with it.’

I hadn’t checked this with Fizzy but I knew that all hell would break out if I tried to take John of Sheffield away from her. And Betty needed reminding that I was the boss here.

‘I’m not happy about this,’ Betty said.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way but let’s move on,’ I said.

*

There was more presenter angst this afternoon. Julius rang me at four and said could I come to his office straight away please. When he summons me like this it nearly always means trouble. I checked my hair in the mirror by the door and put on lipstick to bolster myself. He has the large corner office with the best views over the river and acres of polished oak floor. I tapped on his door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

I was hardly through the door when he was striding across his room. He came up close to me, so close that I could smell his aftershave and I thought he had a triumphant look on his face.

‘Your precious Ledley’s been a naughty boy,’ he said.

I took a step away from him. I know he resents the fact it was me who spotted Ledley and signed him up. I first saw Ledley when I was having dinner at his Jamaican café in Balham. He was walking around the café talking to his customers and making them laugh and I knew immediately that he had star quality. I persuaded him to do a screen test and now he’s one of our most popular presenters.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Only the most blatant product placement.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you noticed how he always uses a particular brand of cooking oil? It seems to turn up in most of his revolting recipes.’

‘Well, yes, I had noticed that.’

‘And you weren’t suspicious?’

‘No.’

‘Turns out he’s getting a nice little retainer to plug that product.’

‘You’ve got proof of this?’

He smiled in a nasty way. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Damn,’ I said wearily.

I sat down on his leather sofa.

‘I know you think he can do no wrong,’ he said.

‘It’s not that. He’s so popular and so easy to work with and now I’m going to have to bawl him out.’

‘Let’s get him up now and we can do this together,’ he said.

I could tell he was relishing the thought of hauling Ledley over the coals. He was almost rubbing his hands at the prospect. Julius likes nothing better than to exert his control.

‘No, let me deal with it. Please.’

‘If I see that brand of oil one more time...’

‘You won’t. Leave it with me.’

I headed out of his office. Sometimes I hate my job. I seem to lurch from one trivial crisis to another.

Chalk Farm flat, 10 p.m.

I phoned my best friend Fenton to have a good old moan about work and about having Harriet imposed on me. Fenton lives in Kent, in Folkestone, and I would be lost without her. Most of us have someone in our lives who acts as our moral compass; the person who we ask of ourselves how would they judge my behaviour in this situation? It’s not my mum, even though she is a brave woman who does her best. No, that person, my moral compass, is Fenton. We met at the University of York where we were both studying history and we’ve been as close as sisters ever since.