Maeve
11
Funny, isn't it, how life turns out. Just as I was beginning to seriously stagnate in Brighton (and yes, I do know how trendy it is, and yes, I have seen Zoe and Norman walking around town from time to time, and no, I'm not mad to have got thoroughly bored with how small it is and how everyone knows everyone else's business), along comes an offer from Mike Jones.
Bored with Brighton. Bored with work. Bored with men. Most of the time I feel like I've worked my way through all the available men in Brighton. And some of the unavailable. Occasionally the men fall for me, but I have to get myself out pretty damn quick, because I'm far too caught up in work to give a relationship a chance.
Although there are times when someone will brush the hair out of my eyes so tenderly it will make me want to cry, and I'll want to drop the act and curl up into their arms, feel safe, and warm, and rescued. But then I remember: I don't do relationships.
Once upon a time I did. Back when I dropped out of college I fully expected a strong man to whisk me off on his white charger, to a palace where I could live out my days in loved-up luxury, never having to work again. This sounds ridiculous now, I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but I was so convinced that that was how my life would turn out, I didn't even bother to get a proper job.
Can you believe that?
God. Just awful. I was stagnating as a shop assistant in a sweater shop in a back street in Hove, praying for my prince to arrive, spending hours mindlessly folding sweaters and daydreaming about the great love of my life.
But then, much as Born Again Christians find Jesus, I found work. The sweater shop went under (no surprise, given they only had about ten customers the entire year I worked there), and I was left high and dry, with no sign of Prince Charming. I joined a temp agency and they sent me off to work for a local radio station. Ten months filing, making teas and coffees, showing guests from the green room (a cramped airless cubbyhole with an L-shaped filthy sofa that I swear was just huge bits of foam that were covered in fabric, a scratched glass coffee table with a few outdated copies of Billboard magazine, and an ashtray that was permanently overflowing) to the studio. Very very occasionally we'd get someone famous and exciting, but most of the time it was struggling bands who were on a university tour, or some town dignitary involved in a local dispute.
After ten months I was taken under the wing of one of the producers. Robert. It helped that I was sleeping with him, and even though I had grown very tired of him after a month, I carried on because, really, one had to think of the career.
Frankly, I've always said the old methods are best, and what's older, or better, than the casting couch? I proceeded quickly from all-round dogsbody to assistant producer on Robert's afternoon show. A few months later Robert left to join another, rival radio station, on the understanding that I would go too, continue as his assistant, and continue our desktop f*cking sessions. I bade him farewell—the plan being I would leave a month later, just so no one would suspect—and ran straight down the corridor to the boss's office.
I don't think anyone was surprised that Robert's shoes were a perfect fit, and although Robert was understandably pissed off, I heard that it wasn't long before he found another nubile young dogsbody to train.
Making the jump from radio to television was easy. Admittedly I had to start almost at the bottom again, but by that time I had a few years and a few schemes on my fellow researchers, and again, it didn't take long. That time I didn't even have to sleep with anybody.
Although I probably would have done. The boss at the TV station will have to remain nameless, but he was extremely attractive, extremely funny, and extremely married. Just my type, except for the marriage bit of course. Maybe you're surprised. I know some of my friends are. They think I'm “prime mistress material,” particularly given my aversion to any kind of emotional attachment.
But I lived through that with my mum. Lived through the pain of a divorce, and I really don't think I could do that to another woman. Of course I have had the odd fling with an Unavailable, I'd be lying if I painted myself as an angel, but, generally, the flings I had, I didn't know anything about a wife. I'd only find out later, and by that time I would have moved on anyway.
I'm not a marriage-wrecker, you see. I never wanted anything from the men I slept with who belonged to someone else, and I'd never be stupid enough to fall for someone and daydream about him leaving his sad and dowdy wife for glamorous old me.
I am neither that stupid nor that self-deluded. I only appear glamorous because of my red hair, and even that isn't, ahem, entirely natural, although that's not something I make a habit of telling people, and my great-grandmother did come from Cork so I can just about get away with it. I've even been known to adopt an Irish accent from time to time, despite having grown up in West Sussex, but I only do that if there's no one Irish around because it isn't very good and I'd be caught out pretty damn quickly.
But it's amazing how fast you can proceed up the career ladder if your hair is “rich russet red” and almost reaches your waist; if you adopt a uniform of tight trouser suits and killer stilettos; if you forgo the friendship of your equals in the office and concentrate on the people with true power.
Oh but how I missed those friendships with equals. I knew exactly what was said about me. I was a ball-breaker. I was a tough, uncompromising bitch. I was only interested in myself. Of course most of that was true. But no one ever said I could be thoughtful. No one said I was straight and honest. No one talked about the love I have for my friends and family. In fairness perhaps they never saw that side. Perhaps I was too busy furthering my career to concentrate on showing off my better aspects.
I learned very quickly that being nice didn't do it. Being nice won friends, but didn't influence anybody. I craved the influence far more than the friends, but there were times I thought I wanted the friends: when I'd walk into the office and silence would descend as if we were in a Wild West saloon; when everyone would go to the local pizza place for someone's birthday and I wouldn't be invited; when no one offered any help or assistance if, say, one of my guests dropped out at the last minute.
I told myself the benefits were worth it. While they were eating pizza, I was in a local upscale wine bar with the heads of the department. While they were getting pissed on beer and cheap white wine at a party in someone's flat, I was mingling with other television people in beautiful country houses, sipping champagne and making amusing small talk.
It's not what you know, it's who you know, my mother used to say, and nowhere is this more true, I discovered, than in the media.
Every job I ever had, every program I'd ever worked on, every promotion I'd ever been given was, directly or indirectly, as a result of mixing with the higher powers.
And that includes Mike Jones, Director of Programming for London Daytime Television, because I'd reached about as far as I was going to reach at Anglia, and I'd set my sights on something higher.
London Daytime Television.
I know all about Mike Jones, of course. Who doesn't, for Chrissakes? I've spent years listening to tales of Mike Jones's legendary drinking sessions, his womanizing, so I have to say it was something of a shock to hear him on the phone. Not an assistant, not some flunkie. Mike Jones himself.
“We need a producer,” he'd said, “last minute. Urgent as f*ck. Can you come tomorrow?” As if there were anything to think about.
I contemplated one of my signature trouser suits, and then decided on more of a floaty number. Less of the power-dressing, more of the flirtatious. Less Cindy Crawford, more Pamela Anderson.
But with a hint of seriousness, naturally. I wore a camel knee-length skirt with a lace hem, a pale pink cardigan over a Wonderbra that did a wonderful job of creating a cleavage I don't really have, and the obligatory killer stilettos. In caramel, of course. Shimmery tights, as it was far too cold to go naked-legged, and my delicious red winter coat with a huge fringed collar. I was ready.
I could see immediately what everyone was talking about when they talked about Mike Jones. His power definitely makes him attractive, and I noted him giving me a slow, cool once-over when I walked in.
We talked for a while about the job. He told me the situation, that the producer in question was about to take a sabbatical and was trying for a baby, and that they were looking to fill her shoes.
There was no question about whether I could do it. Standing on my head with my eyes closed.
“We haven't actually discussed the sabbatical with the producer yet,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. “In fact, I'd be much happier if everything we discussed in this office is kept strictly between us.”
“Of course,” I said, nodding. “And what if she, um, decides not to take a sabbatical?”
He was being indiscreet. He knew it. But the television industry thrives on gossip, and he couldn't resist. “I love this girl,” he said. “I've worked with her for years and I think she's talented as hell, but she's lost the plot. She's having the sabbatical whether she likes it or not, because she's one of the best people we've got and I can't afford to lose her permanently. But,” he continued quickly, “this series is a year. If we like you and you want to stay, we'll move you on and the sky's the f*cking limit here as far as I'm concerned.”
Now this really was music to my ears.
“So tell me about you,” he said suddenly, leaning forward, holding eye contact far longer than most, so long, in fact, I broke a cardinal rule and broke his eye contact first. Something I never do.
“I started working in radio,” I said, telling him about my quick progression to producer of my own show, but, obviously, omitting Robert.
“Nah,” he said after a few minutes. “Tell me about you. What makes Maeve tick. I need to know if you'll fit in with the team.” He looked at my expression and started laughing. “F*ck, I can't believe I just said that. What makes Maeve tick,” he mimicked as we both laughed, the ice now broken. “What a wanker.”
“I'm glad you said that,” I ventured boldly, buying time, because I hate being put on the spot like that. I never know what to say.
“Seriously, though,” he said, grinning. “What, for example, is your favorite film?”
I smiled back and relaxed for the first time. “The Great Escape,” I shot back.
“Interesting choice.” He raised an eyebrow. “More of a bloke's film, I would have thought, unless it's because of Steve McQueen.”
“Steve McQueen is a factor, but I'm more of a Brando kind of gal. The early days of course.”
“Of course.” He smiled, enjoying the conversation. “Not George Clooney, then?”
“Oh, please.” I grimaced in disgust at the obviousness. “So what's your favorite film?” I took a chance.
“Sleepless in Seattle,” he said, very seriously, as my mouth dropped open and hit the floor. “Oh, all right, then.” He was enjoying my reaction. “I lied. My all-time favorite film is Easy Rider.”
“Good choice. I take it you have a motorbike?” He nodded. “Let me guess. I'd say Harley but that doesn't seem quite you.”
“So what does seem like me?”
“I'd guess at a Norton, even though you're probably more of an Indian man, but I can't see you paying the money.”
The phone started to ring and Mike stood up, extending a hand. “Maeve,” he said, “you're undoubtedly a girl after my own heart.” He picked up the receiver as he shook my hand. “Thank you for coming in to see us. I'll be in touch by Friday at the latest, but I would say be quietly confident.” Quietly confident? I was more than quietly confident. When the conversation turns personal and, better yet, becomes fun in a job interview, you know you're in. No question.
On the way out I bumped into Julia, Lorna's friend, whom I'd met at the wedding. I'd liked her then, thought she was the sort of person I could be friends with, but Jesus, she looked so terrible now I barely recognized her. We had a brief insincere conversation in which I told her I was going to call her (which, actually, I would have done, except I completely forgot she even worked there, but that doesn't sound too good), but she was so spaced out she barely registered what I was saying.
It was only as I reached the tube that I was hit by the realization that it might be Julia whom I'm replacing. There, after all, was a woman who appeared to have very definitely lost the plot.
I must phone Lorna when I get home, I thought.
I move down to London a week before I'm due to start. My contract with London Daytime Television is such that I can afford substantially more than I have been paying in Brighton, which is rather lucky, considering that the rent for my house in Brighton would enable me to live in a pea-sized hovel in London.
I end up with a flat in Belsize Park. It belongs to a single woman, Fay, about my age, who is traveling for a year; I met her through a friend of a friend. Her home could not be more perfect: A tiny bedroom is more than compensated for by a vast living room with twelve-foot ceilings and a bay window that opens on to a flat roof just big enough for a table and two chairs.
Her furniture is also perfect for me: Conran-style minimalism via a touch of Habitat and a large dose of IKEA. (Cubed bookshelves: IKEA. Television stand: IKEA. Dining table: Habitat.) Everything is shades of nothing, with white walls and those wooden floors that property developers seem to adore, even though they're actually just plastic.
The rooms are filled with clothes, boxes, and suitcases. Fay tells me she thought she had found someone to rent it, another friend of a friend, but was let down at the last minute. She is leaving in three days and has been in something of a panic. She apologizes for the mess, for the clothes and the cases, but I can see past that. I can see that it is, thanks to the ceilings and windows, an impressive flat. It could very well be home for a successful television producer living in London.
“I won't bother telling you I'll give you a call after I've seen all the applicants,” says Fay, as we both drain our coffee cups and place them carefully on the coffee table (Heal's). “I like you. I can see you here, and I'd trust you, so if you want the flat for a year, it's yours.”
“I'll take it,” I say, smiling, and three days later I am in, with a week to unpack, settle myself, and explore Belsize Park.
Lorna gave me Julia's number. “She's so nice,” she said. “You must call her.” But I couldn't bring myself to, as by that time I knew I was her replacement, and I wouldn't have known what to say. As hard and ambitious as I am, confrontation is not my style. And anyway, I was here to work. Not to socialize.
One week and I love it. I have started work, met the team, checked schedules, cleared budgets, briefed researchers, lunched liquidly, and already feel part of the furniture.
“I can't believe you've only been here a week,” says Johnny, once Julia's right-hand man, until I started to work on him. I believe I am making some headway, as his phone calls to her are noticeably fewer (I know he's calling her when he speaks very quietly into the mouthpiece, bows his head, and takes quick furtive glances around the office to ensure no one is listening as he passes on gossip).
I have been invited to sit with various big cheeses in the canteen for lunch, or in the bar after work, and I have accepted as many times as I have declined, because age has—finally—taught me that it is not always wise to ignore your peers. Or indeed your team.
I have been firm but fair with my team. While I'm as friendly as I can be, I have also ensured that they are aware of the boundaries. And respect them. I am happy to socialize with them, to be friends with them outside of the office, but when we are in the office I need them to know that I am not their mate. I have little time for mistakes but will reward good behavior, as these years in the business have taught me that this is the best way to get the best out of people.
In fact Friday night, as a thank you for being so welcoming to me, for making my first week so enjoyable (political? me?), I am taking my team out after work. I suggested dinner and, being young, fun, and full of the joys of the weekend, we have decided to drink copious amounts of alcohol before hitting one of those American-style-baby-back-ribs types of places in Covent Garden.
Don't ever accuse me of not knowing the way to a young person's heart.
This is, incidentally, one of the advantages of working for London Daytime Television. The social life that comes as part of the package is enormous. Every night this week I have ended up in the bar at work, talking for hours, before going out for dinner with at least two colleagues.
Exhausted as I now am, the advantages are numerous. I'm starting to feel very comfortable here, I'm getting to know my colleagues, my face is being seen by all the right people, and I am definitely being seen to be committed. Plus it's a damn sight better than going home to an empty flat and drinking a glass of wine on the sofa alone.
Tonight it's Nat, Niccy, Stella, Dan, and Ted. Johnny wasn't feeling too hot and left early today, and I am thankful for that, because, much as I like him, I find it easier to relax when he's not around. And don't ask me why everyone's names are shortened. I have no clue, but it seems to be prevalent. I would, however, shoot anyone who called me May.
We are starting our evening with a few rounds in the company bar, sitting at two tables pushed together, wrapped in cigarette smoke and laughter.
“Tony Nolan,” Niccy is groaning. “Oh God. Do I have to?”
“Yeah!” the others chorus, all leaning in.
“I can't believe I'm going to say this. Tony Nolan?” Stella pauses before giving her verdict, and even I lean forward because Tony Nolan I have met. He is the News Director. Perfectly nice, but with the worst set of teeth you've ever seen in your life. Alternately gray and yellow, they are crooked, overcrowding his mouth, emitting a slightly sour odor that forces you either to back away or offer him chewing gum. Except that he doesn't like chewing gum.
The others lean forward in anticipation as Stella sips her beer before looking up. “Shag!”
“No way!” Dan and Ted almost spit their beer out, and a discussion ensues about Tony Nolan's teeth and how could she. We are playing Shag or Die, which doesn't seem to have any rules, and isn't particularly revealing other than the way people voice their opinions.
“Mark Simpson?” Ted then asks, looking at each of the girls as I listen, unable to join in, because most of the candidates are employees of the company, many of whom I haven't even heard of, let alone met.
“Nat?”
“Phwooargh. Shag.”
“Niccy?”
“Shag him senseless.”
“Stella?”
“Yes, please. I'd shag him for my country.”
“Who's Mark Simpson?” I'm laughing at the ludicrousness of this game, but slightly intrigued at the number of shags Mark Simpson could be getting should he so desire.
“Mark. You know. The lawyer.” My face is still blank as Stella rolls her eyes. “You were supposed to have a meeting with him yesterday but you rearranged for next week?”
Ah yes. Now I remember. “Of course,” I laugh. “I've had to learn so many names this week, and put so many faces to them, I couldn't remember. So what's so special about this Mark Simpson?”
“He's just gorgeous,” Nat sighs.
“Drop-dead delicious,” Niccy groans.
“He is gorgeous”—Stella lights a cigarette—“but that's not what makes him so attractive. He's got this little-boy-lost vulnerability that lawyers aren't supposed to have. No one thinks he's very happy in his relationship. God, it's not exactly a surprise when you think what's been happening there, and I suppose we all suffer from rescue syndrome. You just want to kiss him and make it all better.”
“Mmm,” Nat chuckles. “Kiss him all over.”
“Christ, you're pathetic,” Ted says with disdain. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, envy.
“So who's his partner?”
“You didn't know?” Ted looks at me in surprise. “It's Julia.”
I think back to Adam and Lorna's wedding. Of course I remember Mark, only I hadn't known this was the same person, and I certainly wouldn't have expected him to be this heartthrob. Handsome? Yes. Nice guy? Yes. Sexual fantasy material? Most definitely not.
Shag or Die? Ah. Well, that's a different kettle of fish altogether.