All to Play For (32 page)

“Sorry mum, I knew you’d be cross. I was waiting for it. That’s why I flew off the handle.”

Jill looked up at her son and saw he had grown up behind her back. She felt a wave of love rush through her and hugged him.

“Alright, alright,” he said, pulling back.

“I’m sorry darling,” she said, trying not to cry. “I love you so much. But you’re right. I’ve been too wrapped up in work lately.”

“It’s alright.”

“Not any more, though. The show’s cancelled, I’m out of work!”

Sam looked sympathetic. “I’m really sorry.”

“Never mind. Something’ll turn up, I expect.”

“So what do you think?” Sam modelled his earring for her.

“I suppose it looks quite nice, in a way,” she said reluctantly.

“I thought I’d get it done for Dad’s wedding.”

The wedding was taking place on the following Saturday. Sam would be in the photos wearing an earring. Her mother would never get over it.

“Does he know?”

“Not yet.”

Jill decided to leave Neil to sort that one out.

Carmen was very sympathetic when Jill called to tell her the news about
Lover Boy
. She was feeling good, since her own project was still very much in development. Anthea had suddenly left the BBC, taking Carmen’s project with her, and was now heading a new independent production company called Sisters in Synch. They had funds to see the script right through, and the slot was still open at the BBC provided the controller didn’t change his mind, which was always a possibility, but they were fast-tracking it since it was a topical subject. If they turned it down after all there was an excellent chance that Channel Four would pick it up; there was even a possibility of turning it into a feature film. Jill was miserably delighted for her.

“You need to get pissed.” Carmen proposed. “JoJo’s on at the King’s Head tonight. Why don’t we go?”

Jill quite liked that idea. She had grown to appreciate JoJo in the years since their first bizarre encounter in Edinburgh, even though she sometimes found her humour a little hard to take. Stand-up comedy would take her out of herself a bit without requiring her to talk a lot. She agreed to meet Carmen there and rang Ivy, who promised to come by after bingo and keep Sam company, then she spent an hour or so playing a Jurassic Park computer game with Sam, wishing she was better at it and could give him decent opposition. She strongly suspected he was being kind to her and not playing his best. Who’s the kid in this relationship now? she thought to herself.

The King’s Head was busy and full of smoke. Jill didn’t often go as the comedy was mainly for twenty and thirty-somethings without children and she felt superannuated when the stand-ups’ material consisted entirely of jokes about school, drug-taking, and sexual insecurities. She rather wished there were comedy clubs for the over forties, with comfy seats, nice food, and jokes about bringing up kids and mid-life crises.

JoJo was always entertaining. She was petite and pretty, and had a slightly different angle in that she was a lesbian. She had managed to develop a persona which appealed to everyone. Her catchphrase was ‘Oh, my aching fanny!’ which made some of the audience uncomfortable at first, but by the end of her set they would be joining in.

She sat down with Carmen and Jill afterwards, lining up a couple of pints and drinking them faster than Jill would have thought possible.

“Thirsty work,” she explained. “Anyhow, a comedian who wants to get ahead has to have an alcohol problem or no-one takes them seriously.”

Jill related her bad news again, and JoJo commiserated.

“They’re all bastards,” she declared. “Sonia Longbow called me the other day. You remember I applied for that new writing initiative the BBC were setting up last year? I met her and did loads of work on a treatment, which I never got a penny for. Then there was silence for months – I’d almost given up on it. Well Twinkletits casually rings up and says I was on the shortlist and would have won a commission, but they’ve pulled the plug on the scheme and it’s all off.”

“No!” exclaimed Carmen and Jill. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. All that effort. I felt like suing them for wasting my valuable time. Then I thought, get your revenge by telling jokes against them which are so funny they’ll just curl up and die of humiliation!”

Jill liked that idea. “I wish you’d done some tonight.”

“So do I. Only problem is, I can’t think of any.”

“Actually I heard Sonia having a go at Chris Briggs about it at the writers’ party. At least she tried her best. I’m not sure Rhiannon did.”

“Who cares? What’s so special about Chris Briggs anyway?” She grinned. “If I never achieve anything else in my life, at least I’ll always have the satisfaction of knowing that I once got him arrested! He’s hardly likely to put work my way after that, is he? I don’t need the BBC, they can take a running jump. In any case, Channel Four’s my natural habitat. I’ll just have to stay in the ghetto.”

By eleven thirty Jill felt lot happier. It made all the difference to know she was part of a fellowship. She hugged her friends goodbye, and staggered up the hill to her flat. Ivy had dropped off with the television on but Jill pretended not to notice and closed the front door a second time, more loudly, allowing her to wake with dignity intact.

“Got your outfit for Saturday, Ivy?”

“Thought I’d wear the same dress I wore when he married you.”

“He wouldn’t even notice.”

“He will when he sees the photos!” They both laughed.

“There’s only a little do, you know. Very informal.”

“You know why, don’t you?” asked Ivy rhetorically. “’Cos it’s only for the bleeding Labour party. And he can’t invite all of that lot because he wants to give the impression he’s been married for years.”

“Well he has lived with Sandra for seven years.”

“I’ve a good mind not to go.”

“That would be a real shame.”

“I know,” Ivy sighed. “’Course I’ll go. I just can’t stand this New Labour type he’s turning into. New Labour, New Tory if you ask me. Mark my words, see what he serves up at the reception. It won’t be beer and pickled eggs down the pub this time, you know – it’ll be champagne and sushi whatsits in some poncy wine bar.”

Jill laughed, and as it turned out, Ivy was absolutely right.

*

A fortnight later, Jill was sitting at her computer thinking up possible storylines for
The Bill
, which her agent was trying to get her an interview for, when the phone rang. It was Sally Farquar-Binns.

“Jill! Do you remember me? We met at the writers’ party, and you rescued me from that ghastly man.”

“Billy Trowell?” Jill smiled at Sally’s heartfelt description.

“Who else!”

“He’s alright when he’s sober.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Listen, I’m frightfully sorry to hear your project was put in turnaround.”

“Thanks. So was I.”

“I was wondering – are you doing anything else with it?”

“No, no I’m not.” Jill had been trying not to think about it, it was too painful.

“Only I’ve got an idea. Would you like to have lunch one day and I’ll tell you about it?”

Jill thought she had nothing to lose. They arranged to meet the next day.

Sally took her to Albertine’s, a wine bar in Shepherd’s Bush whose clientele was almost entirely BBC drama people, and apologised for not being able to pay for Jill’s meal.

“We can’t lunch writers unless they’re commissioned,” she explained, “and even then we have to get permission from Morag beforehand.
So
embarrassing.”

Jill felt slightly annoyed as she was broke, and chose the fixed menu, hoping Sally wouldn’t pick something pricey and then suggest splitting the bill equally. Fortunately Sally followed her example.

They tried to relax at the tiny cast iron table. Jill was agog to hear what Sally had in mind for her script, but Sally made small talk until they had eaten their starters.

“Now then, this is all very nice but we’re here to talk business!”

“Absolutely,” agreed Jill.

“You’ll probably think this is a terrible idea and run screaming into the street,” she hesitated while Jill murmured vaguely. “But there are a couple of possibilities.”

“I thought the slot had gone?”

“Yes,
that
slot has,” said Sally. “But I thought it just might work in a different slot. It would mean a few changes. “There’s a really big push to establish a new precinct drama, for a start.”

“Does that mean set in a shopping centre?”

“No, it’s like
Casualty
, basically. The precinct is where it all happens.”

Jill was at a loss to see how
Lover Boy
could become a returning series.

“Well the precinct would be the school, obviously, and the central story would have to be different – the love story could be a long-runner through the whole thing.”

Jill thought about it. “I’m not sure Epping’s interesting enough,” she said at last. Sally agreed instantly.

“Oh no, it couldn’t be set in Epping. It would have to be an inner city school, lots of problems. Gangs, immigrants, that kind of thing.”

Jill wrestled with the concept. “To be honest Sally, it’s taking me a long way away from what I originally wanted to do with it. If I were writing a new series I’d want to start from scratch.”

“Fair enough. I thought you might say that. Okay.” Sally tossed her blonde hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I think you’ll like this idea better. They want ninety minute films, especially thrillers. That’s rather exciting, isn’t it?”

Jill was stumped. “Is it?”

“I’m sure you could get it down to ninety minutes.”

“Maybe, but it’s not a thriller by any stretch of the imagination.”

“I bet it
could
be though, couldn’t it? All it needs is a hook and an anti-hero, you know, a bit of a chase and a cliff-hanger ending.”

Jill’s shell-shocked mind pictured Luke being chased over a cliff by Captain Hook, and hanging by his fingernails. “I’m not sure.”

“You could really push it dramatically, you could have, say, steamy sex in the staff room!” Sally giggled. Jill stared.

“It’s a lot to take on board, I know,” said Sally as their main courses arrived. “Why don’t you think about it?”

“Okay,” said Jill cautiously.

“If you have any brainwaves you could fax me.”

“Yes,” said Jill faintly, and turned her attention to her pissaladiere.

They munched in silence for a minute, gazing vacantly at the mirrored partitions.

“The other angle,” continued Sally. “Is that it would be absolutely perfect if you could write a role for one of the stars we’d like to find vehicles for. That would
really
make it attractive to the controller.”

Jill braced herself. “Anyone in particular?”

“David Jason, of course, for one.”

Jill scanned her cast and arrived at Ian Woodward. “He could play Luke’s father,” she suggested.

“Oh no, he’d have to have a bigger part than that.”

“He’s a bit old for Sharon’s husband,” said Jill doubtfully.

“What about the Headmistress? She could be a man. You could develop the part, maybe, make it more central.”

Jill tried to make the idea work for her. “Any other actors?”

“Apparently Julie Goodyear’s leaving
Coronation St
soon. It would be a bit of a coup to get her.”

Jill pictured Bet Lynch and shook her head. “Nothing against her, she’s a great actress, but I really couldn’t see her – not even as Luke’s mum.”

“Well I think you’ll love this idea. One of Take That to play Luke!”

“Mmm. Do they act?”

“Oh one or two of them are bound to.”

As Jill didn’t know much about Take That she felt obliged to accept the proposal.

“Great,” said Sally, scraping her plate clean. “I knew we’d come up with something! I have to get back to the office now, got a two o’clock. Can you send me something by next Wednesday?”

Taken aback, Jill said, “I’ll try,” and Sally put a ten pound note on the table.

“Do you mind awfully taking care of the bill? I’m
terribly
sorry to rush off like this, I just noticed the time. It was
really
nice meeting you.” She shook Jill’s hand enthusiastically, and hurried out.

Jill ordered a coffee and contemplated the meeting. Her immediate reaction was to forget it as soon as possible, but as it began to sink in ideas occurred to her, and she thought it might be possible to come up with something she could get interested in which would also suit Sally.

The bill arrived with her coffee. With service it came to thirty seven pounds. Jill asked the waiter for a cork so she could take the remaining half bottle of wine home.

Chapter Fifteen

Losing
Lover Boy
was a low point for me. I crashed emotionally, and realised I needed to re-think my attitude. It’s not enough to be tenacious and try try try again: you could scrape away at a rock face with a pick axe until you dropped dead, but if you stood back and thought about it you might find a way round the mountain that takes a fraction of the time and effort. There’s nothing immoral about abandoning the hard route for an easier one and sometimes it’s just common sense. I’d been fixed on working my way up the ladder on a strictly democratic, meritocratic basis. Perhaps it was the moral influence of my chapel-going ancestors in my DNA. I don’t know why else I made life so hard for myself.

I was feeling very lonely. I’d thought I was close to Jill, and it turned out I wasn’t. It was naïve of me. After all she was at least ten years older, with a different background and life circumstances. From her point of view I was just another BBC insider with the power to give her work. Supposedly. I longed for the team fellowship I’d known at
Grange Hill
. Being stuck in development really was a kind of hell; you were in a constant state of waiting, compounded by being in competition with all your colleagues, like a flock of pigeons ready to descend on the same soggy biscuit. I really missed Maggie, who was still in Bristol. She was a colleague I felt no rivalry with. She was too straight to bother dissembling. Her Yorkshire bluntness, which got her into trouble in the mannered society of the south east, was refreshingly easy to deal with if you knew where she was coming from, and I did: Cardiff and Huddersfield were far more like each other than London. I called her one evening for a chat, and she sympathised with my situation and pointed out that I needed to ally myself differently.