Coming Clean (14 page)

I agreed that this was some consolation. The problem remained that once all the household bills were taken care of, there was no money left for emergencies. If the roof started to leak or the car needed work, our only option was to pay for the repairs by credit card.

Raiding the kids’ school fees fund was an option, but not one either of us could entertain. The idea of our children paying for our divorce and their education suffering as a result was unthinkable.

“What a bloody mess we’ve made,” I said.

“I know, but there’s nothing to be achieved by beating ourselves up. We have to move on.”

“I guess . . . But what about the lawyers’ fees? Have you thought about that?”

“Selling the tank should raise a few grand,” Greg said.

“How’s that going? Any progress?”

“A few people have shown an interest.”

“But still no actual takers,” I said.

“Soph, you don’t seem to understand that I’m doing my best here.”

“And for your information, so am I.”

I told him that I was planning to let Klaudia go. Not that it was going to be easy. We all thought the world of her and she’d worked so hard to keep the kids’ spirits up after Greg left.

I explained that Debbie-from-down-the-road had offered to do the school run and watch the kids each evening until I got home. She said she owed me big-time, since Klaudia had spent months ferrying Ella and Jack to and from school after she’d slipped a disc. “Of course, I said she didn’t owe me a thing, but she insisted. It seems like too good an offer to turn down.”

I also mentioned that I was dispensing with Mrs. Fredericks’s twice-weekly cleaning services. She was always going on about how impossible it was to reach the dirt in my house because the place was so untidy and full of crap. There really didn’t seem much point in keeping her on. I’d just have to make time to clean the bathroom and kitchen, vacuum, dust, change the bed linen, do the laundry . . .

Greg seemed pathetically grateful, but I couldn’t conceal my bitterness.

“Though why the children and I should suffer so that you can shack up with your new girlfriend beats me.”

“Soph, stop it. It’s not like that. I’m not doing this to spite you, and like I just said, living with Roz works out much cheaper than paying rent on a flat. And I honestly don’t think she’s being unreasonable asking me to contribute towards the bills. We have to accept that splitting up costs money. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I guess. I’m sorry.”

I glanced at my watch and realized that
Coffee Break
was about to air. Missing the show was practically a capital offense. “Greg, I gotta go. I need to listen to the program. Don’t worry about the maintenance stuff. I’ll e-mail my lawyer and tell him to accept your offer.”

As soon as I put the phone down, I tried Wendy’s extension again. Still no reply. Nancy had told me that Shirley Tucker Dill was planning to watch the program go out. Maybe she’d taken Wendy with her.

I needed to get hold of Shirley before the daily postmort. I couldn’t risk her announcing my promotion in the meeting. I decided to try and collar her before it started.

The moment the program was over, I headed for the elevator, hoping to catch her. People came and went, but there was no sign of Shirley Tucker Dill. Then Tess emerged. Tess was our most junior producer and today, for only the second time, she had been put in charge of the show.

Despite being not long out of university, Tess was showing great promise and I knew that she would be eager to impress Shirley Tucker Dill. I hadn’t had the heart to warn her that her star feature on a women’s puppet theater collective was unlikely to find favor with our media change consultant. Judging by the taut expression on the poor girl’s face, Shirley Tucker Dill had already had words with her about it.

“So, what did she think of the program?” I said, knowing perfectly well what the answer would be.

“She pretty much hated everything—even the serial.”

Tess looked close to tears. Shirley Tucker Dill would be coming out of the lift at any moment and I didn’t want her to see Tess crying. I suggested we duck into the ladies’ for a minute.

“She called the show ‘boring’ and ‘worthy,’” Tess said, leaning against a sink. “And she gave me a right roasting over the puppet theater piece.” Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

I put my arm around her. “Tess, this isn’t your fault. You’re a talented producer and we all know how hard you work. This is about our new media change consultant having issues with the whole character and makeup of the show. As we suspected, she isn’t a fan. God only knows what changes she’s got in mind.”

By the time Tess and I got to the conference room, Shirley Tucker Dill was already there, seated at the head of the long table and chatting to a couple of other producers. I would get no chance to speak to her now. I decided that my only option was to let her announce her plans for the program. If they were as radical as we all expected, I would have no option but to tell her—in front of everybody else—that I couldn’t take the job after all.

It was a couple of minutes before we were all assembled. The tension was palpable. I suspected that today’s studio managers had already let it be known that Shirley Tucker Dill had been less than impressed by the program.

“Good morning again,” Shirley Tucker Dill said, with that same disarming smile. “This is of course my first postmortem, so I’d be grateful if you’d be gentle with me.”

There were a few nervous titters.

“To kick off, though, I’d like to make a few comments about today’s show.” She offered another smile before steepling her fingers and regarding us over her reading glasses. “To put it mildly, it left me seriously underwhelmed.”

People shuffled in their seats. Looks were exchanged. Tess looked ready to blub again.

“OK, I’m not going to sugarcoat the pill. As I’ve already told Tess, the feature on women’s puppet theater collectives was about as boring as a wet weekend in Wooroloo. The piece on Chinese women being forced to have abortions if they disobey the government’s one-child edict was just plain depressing. Ditto the feature on people sleeping on the streets in London. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t
do
depressing.”

“So,” I ventured in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, “I suppose a piece on the Black Death would be out of the question.”

STD burst out laughing. “Good one, Soph. You really know how to wind a woman up.”

Tess started to speak. “Shirley, for the record, I’d like to say that I worked really hard putting today’s program together and—”

“I’m sure you did. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not accusing anybody of laziness. I’m accusing the lot of you of being excruciatingly dull and boring.”

That was telling us.

“You should know that I have spent the last few weeks listening to recordings of
Coffee Break
. It’s polished and slick, I grant you, but at the same time it’s unbearably worthy and middle class. If I have to listen to another piece on tampons made of bark or Inuit women setting up seal cooperatives, I think I might be forced to eat my own face. It ends now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Nancy muttered.

“I’m assuming,” I said, “that from now on you see the program moving in a different direction.”

“You betcha.” Shirley Tucker Dill, hard-arsed corporate firefighter, leaned forward in her seat and prodded the air with a purple-frosted talon.

“I want the show sexed up,” she went on. “I want younger, hipper guests, more human-interest stories and media gossip. I want
X Factor
contestants talking about their personal struggles. I want transsexuals, rape and incest survivors.”

Eyes rolled. More looks were exchanged. Pens were flung onto notepads. If Shirley Tucker Dill noticed our nonverbal dissent, she chose to ignore it.

More than anything, she wanted stars, stars, stars. What she didn’t mention was that the budget was so tight that the program was hardly likely to attract A-listers. That meant we’d be forced to broadcast in-depth interviews with the likes of David Hasselhoff’s pool guy.

Shirley Tucker Dill’s plans for the program were far more draconian than anybody had expected. We were all too shocked to speak—even Des, which was a first.

Rather than pause to gauge opinion or permit discussion, she continued to set out her demands. Finally, just as it was looking like the end would never come, she started to wind things down by saying how much she was looking forward to working with everybody. I realized that any moment now she was going to announce my appointment as program editor. I had to set the record straight before anybody had the chance to think I’d betrayed them. I opened my mouth to speak, but Nancy beat me to it.

“The thing is, Shirley,” she said, “although we’re all agreed that the program needs a bit of fine-tuning—we know it can be a bit worthy—none of us is entirely sure about the wisdom of taking it down-market.”

Shirley Tucker Dill’s heavily penciled, overplucked eyebrows formed arches. This was a woman unused to being challenged.

“Our listeners are educated, middle-class women,” Nancy plowed on, “who aren’t really interested in tawdry human interest stories or Paris Hilton’s views on the world.”

There were several “hear, hears.” Once again I tried to speak, but this time it was STD who got in first.

“The listeners you have at the moment may not be interested,” STD came back at Nancy. “That’s why we have to find new ones. The point you’re missing is that
Coffee Break
is hemorrhaging listeners. The old codgers are all dying and nobody’s replacing them. If the show is to be saved—if your jobs are to be saved—there is only one way forward. We have to broaden the show’s appeal. And I should tell you that James Harding and the rest of the GLB board are in agreement.”

“But
Coffee Break
is an institution,” somebody piped up.

“So was the Third Reich, but we got rid of that.” STD laughed. “Look, I know that this has all come as one hell of a shock, but I assure you that this strategy is the only one that makes sense.”

“I disagree,” Nancy said.

“Disagree all you like, but let me be clear. I fully intend to see these changes implemented. As your former leader the late, great and glorious Iron Lady once said: ‘The lady is not for turning’ . . . Now, if there’s nothing else, there’s one more announcement I would like to make.”

This was it. She was about to tell everybody that I’d accepted the editor’s job.

“Shirley, I’m sorry, but if I could just break in—”

“Ah, our new editor is already exercising her powers, I see . . . Oops—I seem to have let the cat out of the bag.”

“Excuse me?” Nancy said. “Sophie has taken the job of editor?” She turned to glare at me.

“Reckon she has!” Shirley Tucker Dill said before I had the chance to open my mouth. “I’m sure you’ll agree that as senior producer she was the obvious choice and I know that you’ll be offering her your full support as the program changes kick in.”

Shirley Tucker Dill glanced at her watch and grimaced. “Stroll on a boat! Sorry, people, ’fraid I’ll have to love you and leave you. I’ve got a meeting with the finance director.”

She pushed back her chair. “Remember, I’m counting on you, Soph,” she said. With that she picked up her briefcase and headed for the door.

Nancy was glaring at me again, arms folded. “And she’s counting on you for what, might I ask? To convince us to do as we’re damn well told?”

“No. Absolutely not. Please let me explain.”

“I really don’t think any explanation is needed. She must have told you her plans in the meeting you had with her this morning. Suffice it to say that the words ‘turn’ and ‘coat’ spring to mind. So how much did she offer you? It was clearly enough to make it worth your while?”

“Oh God,” Tess said. “Sophie, please say you haven’t become STD’s bitch.”

“I most certainly have not. Look, will you both take it easy. This isn’t what it looks like.”

“So you haven’t taken the job?” Des said.

“No . . . yes . . . well, sort of.”

“Sort of?” he persisted. “Come on. Have you or haven’t you?”

I explained what had happened in the meeting. “The upshot is that STD thinks I’ve taken it, but I haven’t actually said yes.”

“And you really expect us to believe that?” Nancy said. “I mean, what abandoned wife with two children is going to turn down a promotion and a hefty pay raise?”

“Nancy, I’ll thank you not to refer to me as an abandoned wife. I’ve told you before, there was no third party involved.”

Several people accused her of being out of order. At least she had the good grace to blush.

“And there is no pay raise. At least not for the time being. And even if I do get one, it won’t be until next year and STD has made it clear that it’ll be minimal.” I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “But now that I know what STD’s plans are, I have no intention of taking the job. As soon as she’s out of her meeting with the FD, I’ll go and explain.”

“If you ask me,” Des said, “that would be a seriously bad move.”

I looked at him. “How do you work that out?”

“It’s obvious,” Des said, tweaking a couple of beard hairs. “If you turn down the job, then STD will be forced to advertise for a new editor. That means we end up with somebody who knows nothing about the program and has no loyalty to it. This person isn’t going to give a stuff about taking the program down-market. They’re simply going to roll over and, as Tess so eloquently put it, ‘become STD’s bitch.’ That means we end up doing battle with two people rather than one. With you as editor, we have a spokesperson. It means we can at least try to fight STD’s changes.”

It occurred to me that he might have a point. Judging by the noises of approval coming from around the table, it had occurred to other people as well.

There was one thing holding me back.

“Just to clarify,” I said, “when you say I would be your spokesperson, are you suggesting that I would be doing battle with STD on my own?”

“You wouldn’t be
alone
exactly,” Des said. “We’d all be behind you, supporting you all the way.”