One Minute to Midnight

CHAPTER Thirteen



28–29 December 2011

WE’RE IN BED by eleven. Dom falls asleep with The Economist on his chest at about eight minutes past. I have terrible sleep envy with Dom: he passes out almost instantly and will sleep a solid eight hours without waking every night. The sleep of a man with a clear conscience, I suppose. No surprise then that it always takes me ages to drop off, and once I do I always seem to wake up forty minutes later busting for a pee.

I try to read for a while, but I just keep getting to the end of the page and realising that I have no idea what just happened, because I’m not really reading, I’m running over the events of the day in my mind. Dad, Mum, the argument with Dom … I turn off the bedside lamp, roll onto my side and lie there in the dark, watching him sleep. I love him so much, the thought of anything happening to him, just the thought of him being sad or hurt, makes me feel physically ill, and yet I still don’t feel that I love him like I ought to. Can you just make a decision to love someone the right way? Is it just a force of will? If I could just let go of everything else, I could be happy. Happy enough, anyway. Contented. Isn’t contentment enough to be getting on with?

A little after midnight I give up. Sleep isn’t coming. I creep downstairs and pour myself a Scotch. I sit in the kitchen with the lights off, sipping my drink. I finish it and pour a second. I listen to the two answer-phone messages from Aidan; the one from before Christmas and the one from yesterday. I notice that there isn’t much whisky left in the bottle, so I decide that I may as well finish it off. I click on Aidan’s message again, I go to ‘options’. Return call? I click yes. I let the phone ring twice, end the call and switch off the phone. Why didn’t I hide my caller ID? Idiot that I am.

I pour the rest of the Scotch down the sink and go back to bed.

At two-fifteen, sleepless and desperate, I get up again. I take my laptop downstairs and read through my emails from that afternoon. Spam, mostly, plus a message from Play TV, the production company behind Betrayal. It was from the head of factual and features, the subject line read Sex it up!

Hi Nicole, hope you’ve had a pleasant festive season. Just wanted to say, that I’ve seen the preliminary notes and interview footage on Betrayal and, while I think you’re heading in the right direction, it needs sexing up. This Annie woman is a great case study – but we need the sister in the programme too – what does she look like? Hopefully a bit less mousy. We need to get the husband involved, stoke things up a bit. Which one was better in bed? At the moment it’s just a bit too worthy, it needs spicing up. We’re not making Dispatches here, this is for Channel 5.

Other than that, great. I’ll talk to you in the New Year.

Best wishes,

Paul.

I hit reply.

Dear Paul,

I had a very pleasant Christmas, thanks very much.

Regarding Betrayal, I find your suggestion that we try to play the sisters off against each other and goad the husband into revealing the sordid details of their sex lives repellent. You can take your stinking programme and shove it up your arse.

Best wishes,

Nicole.

I move the cursor to the ‘send’ button, let it hover there a moment. Then I move it on to ‘discard message’ and click. If only. If only I had the courage. I’m pretty sure I used to. The old Nicole wouldn’t have hesitated to tell that idiot where to go.

The old Nicole wouldn’t even have considered getting involved with this kind of project. The old Nicole had principles, and stuck by them, even when she risked losing everything. The old Nicole once told her boss to go f*ck himself. She’d said it loudly and clearly, in front of the entire office.

This was in the summer of 2002. I was still working for Breakthrough, the company that had given me my first big break, via Simon Carver, the man I met on the boat on that awful night in Paris. We were working late, just me and my fellow assistant producer and all-round dogsbody, Joanne. The two of us were in charge of organising a trip to Gujarat in India – the company was producing a film about Muslim-Hindu violence in the province. It was up to us to book the air tickets, organise cars, drivers, translators, handlers – that kind of thing. As was always the case, we’d been assigned this task at the very last minute and were racing against time.

We were just considering whether we’d earned the right to order ourselves a pizza on expenses when an inebriated Simon came thundering into the office, his face ruddy with drink. He’d been in the pub for a good few hours, watching England play Sweden in the World Cup.

‘Absolutely f*cking useless,’ he’d bellowed as he came through the door. ‘Every single bloody last one of them.’

Jo and I exchanged amused glances.

‘Not a great match then?’ she asked him.

‘Bore draw. Bunch of overpaid, overrated wankers … Bring me a drink, will you Jo? There’s a bottle of Chenin blanc in the fridge in the kitchen.’

There was always wine in the fridge in the kitchen, and Scotch in the cupboard, a bottle of vodka in the freezer … Simon functioned best when lubricated. Or so he said. From my desk under the bank of TV screens in the centre of the open plan section of the office, I watched Jo, a diminutive blonde with a perfect hourglass shape, carry a glass of wine into Simon’s office. He was sitting at his desk, slouched forward with his chin propped up in his hands, glowering at the screen of his PC, directly in my line of vision. I watched as Jo approached with the wine, which she placed on the desk next to his elbow, I watched as casually, lazily, he reached out his left hand and groped her on the arse. I saw her react, shocked and angry, pushing away his hand and then I watched as he got to his feet, shoved her hard against the desk, his face inches from hers. I couldn’t hear what he said to her. She wriggled away from him and ran out of his office and out of the room.

The next day, I went with Jo to make a formal complaint to Gerry Marsters, the company’s chief executive. He listened to us, nodding his head gravely, expressing shock and sympathy in all the right places; and then he told us that Simon had already spoken to him about it, and he had apologised, and he was prepared to apologise to Joanne, but that would be the end of it. There would be no further disciplinary action. Jo and I were so utterly gobsmacked, we didn’t even protest. We left the office and went to the pub for lunch.

‘Apparently they went to Harrow together, Simon and Gerry. And they shared a house at Cambridge,’ Jo told me. ‘I should’ve known I’d never get anywhere with him.’

‘Sodding old boys’ network,’ I muttered, gulping down my gin and tonic. ‘You’ll have to sue.’

Jo looked uneasy. ‘I’m not sure I can afford it, Nic. And even if I won, that kind of stuff … well, it doesn’t look great on the CV, does it?’

‘You could at least threaten to sue,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe then Gerry will actually do something about Simon.’

‘That might work,’ Jo said, but she looked doubtful.

She was right to be doubtful; it didn’t work. Gerry laughed at the suggestion of a lawsuit.

‘You go ahead, love, if you want to. Good luck with that. Just don’t expect to be hired to work in TV again. Little girlies who cry sexual harassment just because someone patted them on the arse aren’t particularly attractive to employers …’

‘It was not a pat on the arse,’ I protested, ‘there was a lot more to it than that.’

‘Says you, the other junior AP. That’s not the way Simon tells it.’

‘This is unbelievable,’ I said.

Gerry shrugged. ‘You girls are going to have to toughen up if you want to work in the media,’ he said. ‘This is not a knitting circle. This is the real world. Jobs are hard to come by.’

Jo trooped sadly out of Gerry’s office, I followed to the door, where I stopped, turned around and said, in a loud, clear voice: ‘I don’t care how hard jobs are to come by, actually. This is bullshit. You – and Simon – can go f*ck yourselves.’

Jo was ‘let go’ a few weeks later. She and I managed to talk our way into work at a rival production house where we made Boys’ Club, an hour-long documentary on sexism in the workplace which was shown in prime time on Channel 4. We got lucky, managing to get an interview with the best-known (only well-known) female hedge fund manager in the UK who laid into some pretty high-profile people in an extraordinarily candid interview. She’d just had her fourth child, she wasn’t planning on going back to work. and my god did she enjoy burning her bridges. The programme caused a huge fuss and ended up winning the award for best one-off documentary at the BAFTAs. It put me on the map. It put Jo on the map, too: she was pictured at the awards ceremony throwing a glass of champagne in Simon’s face, her pretty face was then plastered all over the newspapers, and a few weeks later she was offered a presenting job by some US station. Now she lives in Beverley Hills.

Smiling at the memory, I make myself a cup of tea and drink it standing at the kitchen window. It’s almost five o’clock, still pitch black outside. But I won’t be able to take the dogs out for a week after this, so what the hell. I creep back upstairs and fetch an old pair of jeans from the closet. Dom is still sleeping peacefully, in exactly the same position he was when he first dropped off. Unbelievable.

Back downstairs, Mick and Marianne don’t even get excited when they see me putting on my wellies. They just look at me, sleepy, disbelieving. Surely she can’t want us to go out at this hour? But with a bit of coaxing I get them up and out and the three of us walk down the lane in the freezing dark, our breath clouding the air.

We walk out onto the common. I stumble a couple of times, I can’t really see where I’m going, and I’m afraid, but there’s something exciting about the fear. I remember it now, how I used to enjoy that adrenalin surge, that twisting knot in the pit of my gut, blood roaring in my ears as my heart rate soared. Somewhere in the gloom to my left I hear a noise and I jump, stumble, turn back, start to run, the dogs racing ahead of me. Then I stop and look around. I can’t see anyone. Why would anyone be out on the common at five in the morning in December? But still, the fear’s not quite so intoxicating now, so I take the dogs back home.

There are still two hours to go before we have to leave for the airport and I can’t settle. I’ve finished the packing, there’s nothing else to do. I can’t bear just sitting around doing nothing, so I write a note for Dom, get into the car, drive to a service station on the A3 where I buy two coffees, then drive down to Cobham. It takes less than twenty minutes at that time of day. I park my car in the street outside Mum’s house and ring her mobile.

‘Nic, what’s wrong?’ she says when she picks up. Calls at that time of day are always bad news.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m outside in the car. Can you come out? I need to talk to you.’

‘Have you had a row with Dom?’

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘We don’t have to sit in the car. You come in.’

‘I don’t want to wake Charles.’

‘He had three-quarters of a bottle of red wine and a couple of super-strength painkillers before he went to bed last night. He wouldn’t wake up if the house fell down.’

We sit in the kitchen drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. Mum takes a couple of sips and pulls a face.

‘This is revolting. I’ll make us a proper pot.’ You’d have thought that thirty years of working in NHS hospitals would have immunised my mother to crap coffee, but no. She still demands the good stuff.

‘You look great, Mum,’ I say, and I mean it. She’s tanned and slim, glowing with health.

‘You look tired,’ she replies.

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry, but you do. And since you’re turning up on my doorstep just before six in the morning I’m assuming you’re having trouble sleeping again.’ I nod. ‘Anything particular you’re worrying about?’

I take a deep breath. ‘There is, actually Mum. It’s Dad.’

She sits back down and takes my hand, an expression of concern furrowing her brow. ‘He’s been in touch, has he? Was he unkind?’

‘No, it’s not that. Nothing like that. He’s ill, Mum. It’s cancer.’

Mum doesn’t say anything, she gets to her feet, goes over to the kitchen counter, pours us each a cup of coffee. It smells rich and comforting, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by how relieved I am to be in my mother’s kitchen again, and by the time she places the mug of coffee down in front of me, I’ve started to cry. She sits beside me with her arms around me, stroking my hair, saying, ‘I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ I sniff. ‘I shouldn’t be this upset. I hardly know the man any more, I’ve barely seen him since he left us.’

‘He’s your dad,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re upset. And he didn’t leave us, you know. I threw him out. He didn’t have any say in the matter. And I’m not sure he ever got over the shame.’

I blow my nose noisily. ‘Well, he wants to see you. I went to see him and he asked me if … he asked me if I would talk to you. I think he wants to … I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’ll apologise. He might just want to have a go at you again …’

Mum sips her coffee thoughtfully.

‘What do you think I should do?’ she asks me. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘No! I mean … I don’t want you to go because you think I want you to. I don’t want you to go unless you want to.’

‘Maybe we could go and see him together? After you get back?’

‘I think he’s worried he might not make it through the operation.’

‘What kind of cancer is it?’

‘Prostate. Apparently it’s not particularly advanced, but they need to operate …’

‘That’s a simple op, Nic, believe me. They have very high success rates. Anyway, you know what your dad’s like – he’s not exactly Mr Glass Half Full, is he?’

‘That’s true.’

‘I’m perfectly happy to go to see him, but I’d be a lot happier if we did it together.’

‘That’s brilliant, Mum, thanks.’

We drink some more coffee, she asks me about the New York trip.

‘You looking forward to seeing Karl?’

‘Can’t wait.’

‘How long’s it been since you saw him last?’

‘God … it’s been ages. Our wedding, I suppose. I haven’t seen him since our wedding.’

‘And how is Dominic?’ There’s a slight edge to her voice when she asks this. Not so long ago, she’d always ask, ‘How’s my lovely son-in-law?’ or at least ‘How’s gorgeous Dom?’ Now it’s ‘How’s Dominic?’ and I can always tell she isn’t really all that interested in how he is, she’s just doing it out of courtesy. My mother is a lovely, forgiving person but when it comes to me, to my feelings getting hurt, man can she hold a grudge.

The sky is just starting to turn from black to grey. It’s three minutes to seven. Time to go. I kiss Mum goodbye at the front door.

‘Have a lovely trip, darling,’ she says. And then, ‘Oh, by the way, should you speak to Charles, please don’t mention anything about your dad. About me going to visit, I mean. He wouldn’t understand. There are some things I think it’s best I just don’t tell him.’

Like mother, like daughter.

* * *

I break the speed limit all the way home, arriving back at twenty past seven. Dom is pacing anxiously in the kitchen

‘Jesus Christ, Nicole,’ he says as I walk in the door. ‘Cutting it a bit fine aren’t you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, kissing him as I hurry past. ‘I had to see Mum. I couldn’t leave without seeing her.’

‘Okay then, but hurry. We need to leave in five minutes.’

I shower, dress, kiss the dogs goodbye. Twenty minutes later, with Dom working himself into a frenzy, we’re ready to go. We argue over who’s going to drive.

‘You’ll drive too fast,’ Dom says. ‘You drive like a maniac when you’re in a hurry.’

‘You won’t drive fast enough, Dominic. You drive like an old lady even when there’s an emergency.’

I drive. Dom clutches at his seat belt, ghost braking all the way from Wimbledon to Heathrow.

After check-in and security, Dom goes off to WHSmith to stock up on reading material. I sit in Costa Coffee and scribble down a new set of New Year’s resolutions on a paper napkin.

1. Organise fortnightly dinners with Dad



2. Lose half a stone



3. Ask Dom to wait (at least) one year before trying for a baby



4. Read everything on all Booker shortlists. And War and Peace



5. Stop making awful television programmes



Next, I make two phone calls. The first is to my father.

‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ I ask when he answers.

‘About a hundred and three,’ he replies. He sounds exhausted.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you.’

‘No, no. I’ve been up for hours. Pain in my gut. Indigestion I think.’

‘Well, I just wanted to say bye. I’m at the airport now. And I also wanted to tell you that I spoke to Mum, and that she said she would come and visit you … after New Year. When I get back.’

‘All right.’ He sounds disappointed.

‘Is that okay? She’s just … she’s got a lot on over the next few days.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sure it’ll go fine, Dad. Try not to worry too much.’

‘Okay, love. Have a good trip.’

‘Thanks.’

‘All right then. Thanks for speaking to your mum.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘I love you, Nicole.’

The words sound so strange coming from him, I can’t remember the last time I heard him tell me he loved me. I realise in that instant how frightened he must be, and for a moment I can’t say anything because I don’t want to start crying again.

‘Nicole?’

‘I love you too, Dad. It’s going to be fine. I’ll see you next week.’

The second call is to Annie Gardner. I get through to her voicemail and leave a message: ‘Annie, it’s Nicole Blake here. This is going to sound a bit odd, but I’m phoning to advise you not to take part in the Betrayal series. I know that I’m the one who’s been trying to convince you to do it, but I’m starting to get the feeling that the programme is not going to be helpful to you, it is not going to portray you in the best light. I’m concerned, in fact, that it could make your situation worse, and I’d hate for that to happen. If you do decide to go ahead, you should know that I am no longer going to be involved. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m going away for a few days but I have my mobile with me and I’ll be checking emails. All the best. Happy New Year. Bye.’

As I hang up I’m flooded with a sense of relief, as though some oppressive weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. I’ll be in breach of contract and they’ll be entitled to ask for my salary back. They could even sue me, though I doubt they’ll bother. Of course, my name will be mud and I won’t be offered any more work by that production house and possibly many others. I don’t care. For the first time in ages I feel like I’m doing the right thing in my professional life.

Dom approaches carrying two plastic bags stuffed full of newspapers and magazines for the flight.

‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ I ask him. I haven’t brought mine. ‘I need to send an email.’

‘Sure. To anyone in particular?’

I hesitate.

‘Nicole …’

I take a deep breath. Please god, don’t let this be the start of another argument. ‘I don’t want to do the programme,’ I tell him. ‘The Betrayal one. I’m going to email Paul Ronson to tell him I’m pulling out.’

‘Good,’ Dom says, unfolding the Financial Times on his lap. ‘That kind of shit’s beneath you.’

‘You don’t mind?’ I’m impossibly relieved.

‘Course I don’t. We don’t need the money, it’s not like you have to work. We’re fine on my salary at the moment.’

He’s missed the point.

‘You know that I want to work, right? I’m not quitting because I don’t want to work, I just don’t want to do that kind of work.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ he smiles at me and reaches out his hand to massage the back of my neck. He reads for a while, and then an idea occurs to him, and he looks up at me, an expression of concern on his face. ‘This isn’t about the offer from Aidan Symonds is it? You’re not quitting because of that? You’re not taking him up on his offer?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not taking him up on his offer.’

We board the plane and are ridiculously delighted to discover we’ve been allocated the emergency exit seats. We stretch out our legs, kick off our shoes and wriggle our toes, to the irritation of the man across the aisle one row forward, who is at least six foot four. At five five, I should offer to swap places with him, but Dom is ordering champagne and holding my hand, so sod him. This is our holiday, the trip I’ve been looking forward to for weeks and weeks. I feel giddy, honeymoonish. I’ve sorted things out with Dad, and with Annie Gardner, I’ve made a decision about Aidan, and about the baby – all my ducks are in a row. Bring on New York!