by Mel Stein
WHITE LINES
Mel Stein
© Mel Stein 1997
Mel Stein has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1997 by Headline Book Publishing.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
To the Queen, from her loyal consort.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
EPILOGUE
About the author
PROLOGUE
September 1992
‘I want those rights,’ said the man at the head of the boardroom table, and, as if to leave no chance of any misunderstanding of his intentions, he hit the polished wood with his clenched fist.
The three men to his right said nothing, but merely nodded. Although they were all directors of Jet Productions, they knew their opinions, collective or individual, counted for little or nothing once their chairman, Nathan Carr, had set his mind on a particular project. Of the three to his left, the only one to speak was the sole woman in the room.
‘I want, Nathan, I want … You must have been a horrible child.’
Nobody else present would have dared to test his mood and humour in this way, but then none of the others had slept with him. Alissa Bland had been his mistress for some five years, back in the mid-eighties, and although the affair was long over, although she was on the board as Project Development Director on her merits, she still demanded some licence in their relationship as the price he had to pay. Alissa was nearly forty now, yet as stunning as she had been a decade earlier. Nobody before or since Nathan Carr had ever terminated an affair with her until she had been good and ready to bring it to an end.
There were times when Carr was alone with her when he had the odd pang of regret. The blonde hair that he knew to be natural, as soft to touch as spun-silk, hanging loosely down to her shoulders, the high regal forehead, the skin so clear and smooth that it was impossible to believe she had ever suffered a blemish as a teenager, the perfectly arched eyebrows that needed no attention above eyes that could be described as nothing else but gentle blue. Gentle! Carr knew she could be gentle, but not many people who had dealt with Alissa in business, as she clawed her way up the profession, would have described her as anything else but diamond hard.
Yet, however tough and ambitious she might be, she was nothing compared to Carr himself. Sometimes, it was difficult to believe he was only in his early forties. He looked older. His hair, once so jet-black, was almost entirely grey, he wore steel-rimmed spectacles all the time, and there were tightening lines around his mouth. He was still a good-looking man for all that. He probably always would be, and in the occasional weaker moments, perhaps those same moments when Carr was wondering why he’d brought it to an end, Alissa would wonder whether she could bring it all back to life.
But then he’d left her for another woman and, worse, he’d actually married her. Alissa knew the exact date. Carr had met his wife-to-be at a film premiere on May 27 1986. By June 10 he’d abandoned Alissa. On September 4 Nathan Carr married Miss Susie White and now it was September 1992 and they’d been together for six years and it looked as if it were going to last. The only thing that kept Alissa going was the fact that there were no children. Maybe the bitch couldn’t have them. She knew that she, herself, could. After all, there had been that abortion a year into the affair. She’d never told Nathan about it. She was scared at the time that he might think she’d got herself pregnant deliberately, that she was trying to entrap him into marriage. It was another hand dealt to her that she could see with hindsight she’d played desperately wrong.
‘It may be five years down the line, but when it happens I want to be part of it,’ Carr continued. There was a set determination about his mouth that Alissa knew could be converted into a winning smile at will. Oh yes, she knew that smile, the flash of perfect teeth, the controlled crinkling above the grey-green eyes that showed no real sign of humour. Any minute now he would run his hand through his thick hair. There, he did it, that gesture of reassurance that everything was still in place although the colour might be different, that he was seemingly impervious to age, that mid-life might be beckoning him, but he was ignoring the signal.
‘Tell us again, Nathan, exactly what it is you want,’ Alissa said. ‘After all, we girlies find it a bit hard to follow you men when it comes down to sport. Or at least the sort of sport you play on the field rather than behind the bushes.’
Carr shot her a look that said he knew she was winding him up, that the explanation would be for the other board members present; for Colin Turnbull, for Murray Cameron, for Philip King, all of whom had a slightly glassy look about them. It was the same at every meeting, as Carr hit them with bound volumes of figures, eschewing all chances of discussion. At an early stage he had ostentatiously produced a book with the daunting title, How to Run a Board Meeting in Half the Time, and now, a few years later, he’d probably got it down to a quarter.
Jet TV was a real success story. It was just about seven years ago that, with a wing and a prayer plus a little bit of capital supplied by his business partner, Mohammed Halid, Carr had set up Jet Productions. They’d persuaded Andy Davison, a professional Glaswegian, to film a series of celebrity interviews for a small fee and a share of profits. Davison had used his contacts, and the interviews had been nothing short of sensational, particularly when he’d done an hour exclusive with the singer Rory Devlin just before he’d topped himself. Jet had sold the interview to the networks for a huge premium and Jet Productions had well and truly arrived.
Carr and Halid had then been astute enough to anticipate the impact of satellite and cable television and knew that the best was yet to come in that field. Jet Productions had spawned Jet TV, producing programmes for its own channel, seeking out bargains and opportunities, spotting the emerging talent before it emerged, now with Andy Davison as Head of Production.
Even as he spoke, Nathan Carr knew he was on to a winner and the explanation was a mere sop, a humouring of the rest of the board. Halid was travelling abroad, extricating the last of his assets from his troubled homeland, Iran. When Halid was away, Carr ran the company and the board meetings, with ruthless efficiency. He was certain that by 1998 the majority of homes would have access to extra-terrestrial broadcasts. Dishes a
nd cables would bring the immediacy of politics, of news, of shopping into the home, a constant choice which would bring a new generation of compulsive couch-bound channel-surfers. Carr had seen the future and not only wanted to be a part of it, but also wanted to own it.
Jet already had the rights to one or two of the smaller football tournaments and Carr had been amazed by the viewing figures. Nathan Carr was not a man who was easily surprised and he realised that if people were prepared to watch a competition that involved teams knocked out in the third round of the FA Cup (a sort of footballing Wimbledon Plate) then how many millions more would tune in for what he now had in mind?
‘The ESL, the European Super League, is right now an idea on paper in an office in Zurich; but come 1998 my sources tell me it’ll be a reality. There’s no point in waiting until the day before it starts to begin negotiating for the television rights. Just think about it. Whoever wins the Premier League in England goes out there and plays against the likes of AC Milan, Bayern Munich, Barcelona, Ajax, not just in the European Champions Cup, but in a proper league, the real Premier League of Europe that will put our own Championship in the shade. Forget mid-week jaunts by Manchester United, or whoever, to the likes of Coventry or Southampton. They hop on a plane and they’re walking the streets of Spain, not stopping off in a motorway café for fish and chips. And they’re being watched by millions. I want those millions to be watching us. Now, do I have your authority to do whatever is necessary to acquire those rights?’
He looked from face to face, receiving the nods of approval as a formality.
‘Minute that, will you?’ he said to Alan Sykes, the company secretary, then satisfied that he, at least, had got what he wanted from the meeting, rose to go.
‘There’s no other business, is there?’ he asked rhetorically as he pushed his chair neatly back in place. That was how he liked things, neat endings, everything in its place. Instinctively, rather than as a calculated act of deference, the other male directors got to their feet, as the secretary furiously scribbled and Alissa merely smiled. Carr towered over his fellow board members as he passed them, the physical advantage underlining the other differences between them. Only Alissa seemed unaffected by the royal exit. She remained seated, a small smile playing around her mouth. As Project Development Director she knew this was going to be her baby. Her baby. Again, the memory of the loss, although the smile she showed to the outside world did not fade. She was adept at keeping her feelings to herself. Do whatever was necessary to acquire the rights, Carr had said. Left alone in the room she let her mind wander, let her imagination run riot, to try and discover exactly what it was that might indeed be necessary.
CHAPTER 1
July 1997
Mark Rossetti had learned to relax on air, and, once he’d achieved that, he really began to enjoy broadcasting. The first programme had been a nightmare. He’d sat opposite Bob Miller, the anchorman of the show, looking so frozen that he might well have just suffered a major stroke. His face was carved into a wooden expression that still managed to convey the look of a man who had seen something too horrible to describe. All the warnings not to er and um had been forgotten along with every anecdote, every joke, every expression that he had rehearsed for days in front of his bathroom mirror. All he was left with was a stammering hesitation and a barrowful of clichés that stamped him indelibly as a former professional footballer. After that it could only get better.
Much to his surprise he was given a second chance, and indeed it did improve. Bob Miller had been around for twenty years or more. He’d seen five World Cups, managers come and go, players shoot into the firmament, then crash back to earth like dying fireworks. Producers, directors, they all might change, but Bob Miller was indestructible. He’d moved stations, from BBC to Ball Park TV, but he seemed to have carried his viewing public with him. He had become a cult hero, getting fatter and fatter as his career developed; but then his size had grown into a trademark itself, a subject for discussion with whoever was the panellist at the time.
When Mark had first been invited to appear on Ball Park’s Saturday lunchtime football programme he’d declined. His girlfriend, Patti Delaney, had other ideas.
‘As a journalist you never turn down opportunities. If you don’t try them, then you’ll never know whether or not you like it, or whether you’re any good.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to conduct experiments like that in front of a few million strangers.’
‘Cock it up, Mark, and they won’t stay strange for long.’
She’d laughed and he’d kissed her and then they’d gone to bed in her flat. Despite the money she now had at her disposal from the unexpected inheritance she and Mark had received from their old friend Leopold Schneider, she had refused to move from her basement home that they affectionately called ‘the Burrow’.
That had only been a few months before, just after she had fully recovered from the injuries she had received during their Russian adventure. He’d thought then of marriage, of eternity with her, but things had a habit of never standing still, of changing for the worse just when he felt he could live with them always being the same. He’d joked about it with Patti, wondering when she’d be bitten by the Boredom Bunny, but now the joke was on him, and the woman he had seen virtually every day of the week now limited his ration to the odd evening. It wasn’t that they were so busy that they had no time for each other, it was rather a case of her pushing him away, distancing herself.
He’d phoned her this evening, just before he came to the studios. The answerphone was on. Whereas in the past she’d often snatch the phone off the hook once she heard his voice, interrupting her own message that said she was not at home, now he had to listen to the whole recital, the apology, the mobile number that would not be switched on, finally the request to leave a message. Leave a message. What was the point when there was every chance she was sitting there listening to what he had to say? He didn’t think there was anybody else sitting with her, but he could not be sure. That was the thing with Patti, he realised, he could not be sure and perhaps he never would be sure.
He tried to clear his mind of her and concentrate on the programme ahead. The station might be covering just another nothing pre-season tournament, but it had to be made to seem important to the viewers. If the public didn’t care about the result then they switched off, always assuming they had bothered to switch on in the first place.
Bob Miller settled his face into the features that were so popular with the public, his public. The resigned look that said whatever might happen on the show was out of his control, the slightly raised left eyebrow that gave the message to the viewers that he was on their side in expecting the unexpected. If anything went wrong he could transform the disaster into a matter of public interest in seconds. That was the true hallmark of the professional, to deal with the unscripted with consummate ease.
‘OK Mark, let’s get our show on the road,’ Bob said, as the producer counted down the last thirty seconds in his ear before the programme went on the air. ‘It may be crap, but let’s make it palatable crap.’
Even as he spoke, Bob was preparing to swivel his chair to face the camera. He liked that introductory swivel and knew from talking to viewers that they liked it too. Bob Miller was never one to complain about being recognised in public, although he feigned a gentle false modesty that anybody could be interested in asking for his autograph. Yet he also liked them to go away with the feeling that he was accessible, a genuine human being and all-round nice guy, and for the most part he succeeded. Yes, that swivel was a gesture of anticipation that something was coming that promised an afternoon full of entertainment.
‘Hi, and welcome to Ball Park’s exclusive presentation of the Anglo-European Cup, the friendly tournament where friendship flies out of the window.’ Mark could almost see Bob wink and immediately relaxed. There were just the two of them, chatting together in a room about their favourite subject, a subject upon which they were both experts. It d
idn’t matter that there were millions out there hanging on every work as if it were gospel.
‘Looking forward to this afternoon, Mark?’ Bob asked and Mark suddenly realised that indeed he was. The summer was nearly over in the kingdom of football, that ever-shrinking summer, and he was back in his real world.
‘Yes,’ Mark replied. ‘You realise that the season’s about to start when we get matches like this. I think we’re going to learn a lot about Hertsmere’s championship prospects. I’m not sure there’s anybody in the Premier League as good as Barcelona or Munich so it’s going to be a real test.’
‘I can’t see any of the foreign visitors taking their foot off the pedal against the European Cup Winners Champions. Let’s bring in our studio guest for his views. Today, I’m sure we’re all delighted to see Kenny Cunningham, the England Manager. Interesting game ahead?’
‘Without a doubt,’ Cunningham said. He was a television natural and he knew it. England’s most capped player since the war, he’d been the favourite for the national team job from the day he retired from the game as a player. He’d cut his teeth on taking Walsend out of the First Division in his first season as manager, then revitalised the sleeping giants at Stretford United to bring them back as a real force in the game. He’d been in charge of the England team for some six months and had begun to learn it was a different ball game from club soccer management. One win (the first game), three draws and a defeat meant the honeymoon was over and at least one tabloid was already sniffing blood, if not exactly baying for it. In a month’s time he had another friendly against Colombia, the last match before the World Cup qualifiers reached boiling point, and he knew he had to get it right.
‘So Kenny, can you give us any clues as to which Hertsmere players might be catching your eye this afternoon?’
‘Well, there’s this youngster called Rossetti,’ Cunningham said with the slow theatrical smile that he’d developed by rehearsing for hours in front of his bathroom mirror.
