Acquired Tastes (28 page)

Philip felt curiously lightheaded. If he could, he would have hugged Jenny Haigh. The meeting was not after all about
Forbidden Fruit.

As she opened the committee room door and ushered him in, he felt the unfamiliar sensation of a smile beginning to form, but it was stillborn.

'Sir Norman, this is Philip Pryce of Right Pryce Productions,' announced Jenny Haigh.

Sir Norman was sitting at the head of a long table. On his left sat a large solid looking woman in a severely tailored, powder blue suit and a blouse with a large floppy bow at the neck, mirroring her several chins. Her bouffant blonde hair was anchored rigidly in place by a liberal application of hairspray.

On Sir Norman's right sat an elderly, greying man with the mild expression of a country parson. Jenny Haigh sat down next to him and indicated that Philip should sit opposite.

Sir Norman looked gimlet-eyed through thick-lensed glasses at Philip. 'Haven't we met before?' he demanded.

Philip took a deep breath. He had prepared himself for this. With his career at stake, he had decided a little white lie was worth a try.

'At the Golden Screen Television awards,' he began. Sir Norman had been on the table next to his, although they had not been introduced. 'You may remember …'

'Yes, yes of course,' Sir Norman interrupted impatiently, before Philip could finish. 'Television spends much too much time patting itself on the back for my tastes.'

Philip stared. Sir Norman obviously hadn't remembered him from the toilets in the restaurant. Then it dawned on him: Sir Norman had not been wearing his glasses in the restaurant and judging by the thickness of the lenses, he would have a hard time seeing without them. He must be even vainer than me, thought Philip with a grim smile. He tried to concentrate as Jenny Haigh continued with the introductions.

'On Sir Norman's left is Mrs Mildred Proudfoot. She is Chairwoman of the Campaign for Decency and Family Life. Sir Norman has recently co-opted her on to the Committee. On my left is Basil Grimshaw who, like me, is a survivor from the old Independent Broadcasting Council. He is our advisor on religious affairs.'

Basil Grimshaw gave Philip a beatific smile. Mrs Proudfoot had barely acknowledged his presence.

Sir Norman cleared his throat and turned to Mrs Proudfoot. 'I'm sure Mrs Proudfoot won't object if I use that old-fashioned term “ladies first”, and ask her to open the discussion.'

Yesterday evening over a glass of sherry, Mrs Proudfoot had asked him to call her Mildred, but he didn't think it appropriate in the circumstances. A weaker man might yield to temptation, but he was determined not to sully their relationship with any unseemly improprieties. After all, Mrs Proudfoot was a married woman.

'Gallantry will never be out of fashion in my books, Sir Norman,' Mrs Proudfoot said robustly. 'But sad to say, like moral standards in general, it is fast declining.'

Sir Norman beamed at her. They were two souls in perfect harmony.

Mrs Proudfoot rewarded him with a gracious inclination of her head but when she looked at Philip, her face was implacable.

'Tell me, Mr Pryce, where do you stand on the freedom of the press?'

Philip smiled what he hoped was a reasonable smile, clasped his hands in front of him, and began the speech he had rehearsed in the taxi.

'I must preface my comments by saying that I believe the freedom of the press is one of the cornerstones of our great democracy. However, freedom brings with it responsibilities that broadcasters ignore at their peril.'

Here, he paused portentously and looked around. Mrs Proudfoot still looked stern, but Basil Grimshaw was nodding vigorously. Jenny Haigh was busy taking notes and Sir Norman was studying him intently, a puzzled frown on his face as though he was trying to remember something.

'I believe we have a responsibility not only to inform our audiences, but also to consider what effect that information will have on them. We must always exercise strict editorial judgement,' Philip continued.

'So where do you draw the line on sex and violence?'

There was something about this question that caused Philip to feel a tiny prickle of fear. 'I think the gratuitous portrayal of either is wrong. However, I do believe broadcasters have a duty to deal with difficult issues but they must be placed in their appropriate context.'

Philip glanced around the table. He had prepared the next part of his speech with care. It was intended to take the argument into the heart of the enemy. He took a deep breath. 'And while I would not go so far as to advocate beaming pornography into every home, surely the present government promotes free market principles, which means that television should operate on the basis of what the market place wants.'

His salvo hit home. Sir Norman flinched. Conservatism had been bred in him like an extra chromosome, and disagreement with its policies was unthinkable, but there were limits, and all this market place nonsense was one of them. People should be told what was good for them by those born to govern, and not be allowed to have something just because they wanted it. He looked across at Mrs Proudfoot for support, but she was searching for something in her handbag. When she looked up, her eyes had a purposeful glint in them.

'If you don't believe in pornography, why are you producing a sex show, Mr Pryce?'

With a triumphant flourish, she produced a newspaper cutting and placed it in front of Sir Norman, and then handed photocopies around the rest of the table. Basil Grimshaw produced a pair of pince-nez and began reading.

Mrs Proudfoot sat back and clasped her hands across her ample bosom.

'My association has a media monitoring panel of concerned members, and several of them have sent me this disgusting advertisement which is tantamount to an incitement to immorality and lewdness.'

Rarely had Sir Norman witnessed a trap so skilfully sprung or to such deadly purpose. If Mrs Proudfoot had been a man, she would have been a great general. She could even have been a great general's wife, he thought wistfully.

Philip stared at the newspaper cutting in front of him. His first instinct was to say it could not possibly be anything to do with his company - no one who worked for him would place such a crude advert. But as the words burned themselves deep into his consciousness, he knew there was one person who would - Vanessa.

His hands grew clammy. He wiped them on his trousers.

'That… that advertisement was placed by an over-enthusiastic producer who misunderstood the nature of the project,' he said desperately. 'It was an unfortunate error of judgment on her part. She will, of course, be severely reprimanded.'

'An unfortunate error indeed, Mr Pryce.' Mrs Proud-foot leaned forward, an unpleasant smile on her face. 'Pray tell us, what precisely is the nature of this series?'

'It was suggested by some research being conducted at Heartlands University, so it has a thoroughly sound academic pedigree,' Philip ventured limply.

Mrs Proudfoot snorted dismissively. 'I hardly think
that
recommends it. Universities are the breeding ground for most of the ills of our society.'

'The Prime Minister has an honorary degree from Heartlands.' For the first time Basil Grimshaw joined in the discussion.

Mrs Proudfoot gave him an uncharitable look, but Philip turned towards Grimshaw, sensing that from this quarter at least, he might get a more sympathetic hearing. He knew he could expect no mercy from anyone else at the table.

'I take the view that one of the benefits of television has been that it has allowed millions of viewers to explore the jungles, deserts, mountains and oceans of the world from the comfort of their fireside armchairs. This series will instead explore the hitherto unexplored landscapes of the mind … so to speak.' Philip held his breath.

Basil Grimshaw nodded vigorously. His head looked in danger of falling off his long, thin, scrawny neck.

'I must concur,' he said. 'Television always seems to concentrate on the literal world to the exclusion of the inner, spiritual worlds we all have within us.'

'I don't think Mr Pryce is planning a series on philosophy begging your pardon, Mr Grimshaw,' Mrs Proud-foot said tartly. 'This advertisement is about sex.'

'But surely you must admit that sex is a powerful motivation for the human animal, Mrs Proudfoot, whether for good or for evil. It is that element of human sexuality we are setting out to explore, in order that we can understand it better.' Philip tried not to remember some of the elements of human sexuality he had read about in the letters that had been arriving.

'Sex is sex,' Mrs Proudfoot declared. 'I don't believe in mincing my words. A nettle should be grasped firmly and pulled out by the roots. I demand we take action to stop this programme, Sir Norman.'

'I think we should avoid doing anything too precipitate,' Basil Grimshaw remonstrated mildly. 'After all, it is possible to throw the baby out with the bath water.'

'Well, I believe in striking while, the iron is hot,' retorted Mrs Proudfoot.

This exchange of proverbs was interrupted by Jenny Haigh passing a note along to Sir Norman. He studied it for a few moments and then loudly cleared his throat.

'Mrs Haigh has just reminded me that as this meeting was called informally, and the matter was not officially placed on the agenda, no ruling can be made at this moment in time.'

He looked across at Jenny Haigh who nodded her head.

'But Sir Norman … we can't possibly … my members …' Mrs Proudfoot protested angrily.

Sir Norman harrumphed loudly. 'I wholeheartedly agree, Mrs Proudfoot. Something must be done.'

He looked at Jenny Haigh for help, but she was scribbling notes.

Sir Norman harrumphed again. 'Well, if we can't order the withdrawal of this programme here and now, I propose that we, that is the members of the committee here present, come along to the recording of the said programme, after which we will officially make recommendations to place the matter on the agenda at a meeting of the full committee. I think that is a fair decision all round, don't you?'

Philip smiled wanly.

'I would welcome any observations you would care to make, Sir Norman. I'm always happy to co-operate with those seeking to improve the quality of our television service.'

His death sentence had been commuted to one of hard labour.

'You did what?' screeched Vanessa.

Philip looked pained. In the old days at the BBC his judgement had never been questioned. He rearranged his blotting pad and pencil holder before looking up.

'I have agreed to allow some members of the committee to attend the recording of the first show. In the current political climate one has to learn to bend with the wind, and I believe I have made an astute political move that will stand us in good stead.'

Vanessa put her hands on Philip's desk and loomed threateningly over him. 'I come up with the best money-making idea you've ever had and you give those narrow-minded, sanctimonious, self-opinionated killjoys free rein to destroy it.' Her voice had a serrated edge.

Philip winced. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was in danger of losing control of the situation again. 'Vanessa, may I remind you that if it had not been for your ill-advised and ineptly worded advertisement, this would not be happening.'

Philip saw one of Vanessa's eyelids flutter. She took her hands off his desk. He swiftly pressed his advantage home.

'May I also remind you, that not only have you antagonised one of the best and most professional presenters in the business to the point where she may not sign her contract, but you have also signally failed to persuade Dr Archibald to part with the rights to his research. Without them, there will be no series and consequently no job for you.'

Vanessa sat down.

'As it happens,' Philip continued, sensing he was enjoying a rare moment of dominance, 'I think we may now be able to offer Dr Archibald an improved deal - one which he will be more than willing to sign.'

Vanessa made a weak attempt to interrupt, but Philip held up a masterful hand. 'I have been giving the question of the presentation of the programme a lot of thought, and I have decided that it will be given added weight and credibility if we have a second presenter with the appropriate academic credentials. Dr Archibald is the obvious candidate.'

Vanessa sat upright. 'No way…'

'I will brook absolutely no argument on this point, Vanessa. I have taken an executive decision.' Philip leant back in his chair with a satisfied air.

Vanessa was silent for a moment. Then she carefully crossed her legs. Philip tensed. He sensed a counter attack.

'Have you told Gabriella about her co-host yet?' enquired Vanessa silkily.

Philip shifted uneasily in his seat. He had been trying not to think about how Gabriella would react.

'Not yet, but I am sure she will understand the wisdom of my decision,' he replied with a confidence he did not feel. 'After all, look at Oprah. She has some sort of expert on most of her shows explaining why people behave the way they do, and it hasn't done her any harm,' he added defensively.

The phone buzzed. Philip gratefully answered.

It was Heather. 'There's a Mr Eddie Spittle on the line, Mr Pryce, he wants to know if the advertisement is for real.'

Philip went pale and closed his eyes.

Eddie Spittle was a journalist on the
World on Sunday
newspaper. He was universally known as the Ferret, a nickname he had earned not only because of his physical resemblance to a small, grey, beady-eyed creature with an unpredictable temper, but also because of his reputation for sniffing into dark secrets and sinking his sharp pen into warm flesh.

Philip knew that if he refused to speak to him, Spittle would probably run the story anyway. He opened his eyes. 'Put him through,' he wearily instructed Heather, 'and then if Hugo is around, ask him to join Vanessa and me.'

The voice on the other end of the line was thin and nasal with a hint of Lancashire.

'Philip, we haven't had the pleasure, but I thought we could make up for it over a drink and you could tell me about this new programme of yours. Sounds like a real corker.'