by John Boyne
‘You do?’ I asked surprised.
‘Absolutely I do,’ he replied firmly. ‘It’s something I had intended talking to you about in fact. Polly and I have been discussing it for quite some time, if you want to know the truth, and we’ve come up with what I think is a pretty good idea. A real way forward. I hope it makes sense to you,’ he added with the air of a man who was actually saying that he hoped I would understand how much sense it made.
He’s going to retire, I thought joyfully. He’s going to retire!
‘We need to move into prime time,’ he said eventually with a smile, holding his hands palm out and away from his face, as if he could suddenly see his name up in lights. ‘We put the show into prime time and make it an hour long. A panel of guests every week. A studio audience.’ He leaned forward as if he was about to put the cherry on top of the icing on the cake. ‘I could roam around with a microphone!’ he said joyfully. ‘Think of it. It’ll be huge.’
I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s certainly one idea.’
‘Matthieu,’ said Polly in a soft voice and for some reason I could tell that if I agreed to this absurd idea, she would be putting herself forward for the position of producer. I can recognise a job pitch when I see one. ‘The format we’ve been working with ... it’s had its day. Anyone can see that.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ I said. ‘There’s no question about that.’
‘But we still have a lot to offer. We still have an audience out there. We just need to modernise it, that’s all. The politicians are getting further and further away from anyone with any power, and the Outraged Liberal ... well, I mean to say, did you see who we had on last week?’ I shook my head; I never watched the television if I could avoid it, least of all my own station. ‘A children’s TV presenter,’ she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. ‘Some kid of seventeen with curly blond hair and dimples. He looked like he was auditioning for the part of Oliver. We asked him his views on the Euro and all he suggested was that we adopt it but drop the queen’s head in favour of Sporty Spice’s.’ (Again with the ‘we’). ‘I mean honestly, Matthieu. Martin should not be interviewing people like this. It’s beneath him.’
‘It is. I know it is,’ I said. I did agree with her too. In his heyday, Martin was excellent at his job. He gave great value entertainment with his insane points of view but he never shirked away from asking an appropriate question or looking to discover a hidden nugget of hypocrisy beneath a well-scripted, carefully prepared, Central Office-designed, Chief-Whipped-into-place answer. There was no question that what he was doing now was an insult to his past glories. But then he was getting older and he was not as sharp as he had once been; recently I had begun to wonder whether he actually believed the things he came out with, as opposed to saying them purely for shock value, and I suspected that he did. Age had embittered him. I discarded all my previous plans and decided to try a different, potentially more dangerous, tack.
‘Don’t you ever feel... old?’ I asked quietly, sitting back in my chair and pouring a little water from a bottle into my glass. A drop bounced upwards to my cheek which I wiped away slowly to avoid catching their immediate expressions.
‘Don’t I ever what?.’ asked Martin in surprise. ‘Don’t I ever -’
‘Sometimes’, I said, my voice rising above his as I looked off into the distance, ‘I feel terribly old and I just want to give everything up and move to, I don’t know, the South of France or somewhere. A beach. Monaco perhaps. I’ve never been to Monaco, you know,’ I added pensively, wondering why I never had. Plenty of time, of course.
‘Monaco,’ said Polly, looking at me as if I had gone mad.
‘Don’t you ever want to just take it easy?’ I asked then, locking my eyes on Martin’s. ‘Don’t you ever get the urge to sleep in in the mornings? To do whatever you want with your day? Not to have to check the ratings all the time. To wear an open-collared shirt all day long.’
‘No,’ said Martin, uncertainty creeping into his voice now. ‘Well, no, not really. I mean, I enjoy my ... Why do you ask?’
‘The show’s not working, Martin,’ I said clearly. ‘And it’s not the guests and it’s not the time-slot and it’s not the seventeen-year-olds with dimples and it’s not the format and it’s not even you. It’s just had its day, that’s all. Look at all the great TV shows over the past thirty years or so. Dallas, Cheers, The Buddy Rickles Show. Eventually the time came for all of them to end. It doesn’t take away from how great they were or how much entertainment they provided. Sometimes you just have to know when it’s over. When to say goodbye.’
There was silence for a moment as they both considered this. It was Polly who eventually spoke first.
‘Are you saying you’re cancelling the show?’ she asked and I said nothing for a moment, just raised an eyebrow slightly.
‘Well, now let’s not go overboard,’ said Martin, his face growing a little red, no doubt wishing he could go back about twenty minutes and prevent this conversation from ever having taken place at all. ‘All I said was that we could jazz it up a little, that’s all. I didn’t mean for you to think that -’
‘Martin,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘that’s why I brought you here today, I’m afraid. Both of you,’ I added generously, even though I had never intended being the person to speak to Polly on this matter. I’d figured he could do that himself. ‘I’m sorry to say that the show is over. We’re cancelling it. We’ve discussed it and we feel the time has come for a dignified exit.’
‘And what will I do instead?’ he asked, his whole body appearing to sink back into the chair, his shoulders sagging, his skin pale and blotchy, looking at me as if I was his father or his agent, someone responsible for his future celebrity in some way. ‘You’re not going to give me some bloody awful quiz show or something, are you? And I’ve no patience for documentaries. Anchorman, I suppose. I could do the news. Is that what you’re thinking?’ He was grasping at straws now and, for one horrible moment, I thought he was going to cry.
‘Nothing,’ said Polly, stating the obvious for me. ‘You’ll do nothing. You’ve just been fired. That’s it, isn’t it Matthieu?’
I breathed heavily through my nose and stared at the floor. I hated this kind of thing but I had done it before when it was necessary and, by God, I would do it again. ‘Yes,’ I said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘I’m afraid that’s the long and the short of it, Martin. We’re terminating your contract.’
Any self-respecting pig would refuse to live in my nephew Tommy’s apartment.
A couple of years ago, when he was enjoying some hit records alongside his acting career, he had the good sense to invest in a little property and bought a two-bedroom penthouse overlooking the Thames. It’s the only item of any value which he possesses and I find it extraordinary that in all this time he hasn’t sold it in order to finance his chemical needs, instead of constantly borrowing from me and incurring my disapproval. I suspect the property gives Tommy what little stability he requires in his life.
His apartment has high ceilings and the most splendid windows which look out over the river. They take up almost an entire wall, from floor to ceiling, and like a child I stood back and leaned forward, my hands resting on the glass in front of me as I looked down, waiting for the exciting feeling of dizziness to overcome me. The living room in which I stood was badly named, for I couldn’t help but wonder who or what species of amoeba could possibly live in it without feeling the need to shower every fifth minute. A decent couch was covered in newspapers and fashion magazines, the floor was strewn with bottles, overturned cans and glasses, the majority of which also contained the stubbed-out remains of cigarettes and/or joints. In the corner, behind a large overstuffed armchair, sitting on the ground for all to see, was a used condom and I stared at it in bewilderment, amazed by the filth which surrounded me. This, I thought in amazement, is a man’s home.
I opened the window – it slid across leading to a thin, rail-floored balcony – and stepped outside
. Below, a boat sailed down the Thames and couples and families walked by the river’s edge. In the distance, I could see Tower Bridge and the Houses of Parliament, a sight which always impresses me.
‘Uncle Matt.’ I spun round and saw Tommy emerging from the bedroom now, pulling a – for once – white T-shirt over his head and down over his shorts. He had trapped his shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail but a few strands were escaping and circling his face, which was so pale as to be ghostly. His eyes were red-rimmed and dark underneath, but nothing like his nose which twitched nervously, inflamed from its recent misuse. I shook my head and felt sorry for him; every time I think that we may be growing closer and he may yet survive, something happens, something like this, and I know that it is absolutely futile. He looked – and I do not use the phrase casually – like Death.
‘How can you ...?’ I began, looking around at the Vietnam which surrounded me, but he cut me off quickly before I could berate him any further.
‘Don’t start, please,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m feeling fragile enough as it is. Had a bit of a party last night. Very late getting to bed.’
‘Well, thank God it’s not like this all the time,’ I said. ‘You’d catch the Black Death or something in here. And I’ve seen what that can do to people and it’s not pretty.’
He cleared some spaces on the couch and armchair and I sat down nervously on the former as he took up the lotus position on the armchair, tugging his feet closely beneath himself for warmth. I considered offering to close the window but simply didn’t want to – I appreciated the oxygen – and, as I looked at him, my attention was once again drawn to the prophylactic, which sat miserably shrivelled up not far from him. He followed my eyes with his own before picking up a newspaper and throwing it on top of it, hiding it from view with a thin smile. I wondered how long it would remain there, breeding with the newsprint, creating who knew what bacterial worlds on his carpet.
‘We have a problem,’ I told him and he yawned heavily.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I got a letter too.’
‘From Hocknell?’
‘The very same.’
‘With the script?’
‘He sent it, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Too busy getting ready for the party and everything plus I’ve had, like, eighteen-hour days at work all week. But I read the treatment. It’s pretty clear what he’s saying in it.’
‘Well, I’ve read the script.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, it’s absolute rubbish,’ I said, laughing despite myself. ‘I mean there’s nothing to it at all. There’s absolutely no way that we could ever think about producing it. I mean the idea is all right, I suppose, but the way he handles it ...’ I shook my head. ‘Some of the dialogue ...’
The door to one of the bedrooms opened and a figure emerged, a young woman clad in a pair of man’s boxer shorts and a T-shirt. She didn’t come out of Tommy’s room and she was clearly not pregnant so I knew it couldn’t be Andrea. She was familiar to me though; a singer or actress or some such person. I knew her from the tabloids or celebrity magazines, her natural home. She took one look at us, seated deeply in conference, slumped her shoulders in misery and returned to her room with a groan, closing the door firmly behind her. Tommy watched her disappear before reaching for a packet of cigarettes and lighting up. His eyelashes fluttered slightly as the first of the day’s nicotine entered his lungs.
‘That’s Mercedes,’ he said, nodding towards the closed door.
‘Mercedes who?’ I asked.
‘Just Mercedes,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘She doesn’t use a surname. Like Cher or Madonna. You must know her. She’s had only the biggest selling dance record of the year. She’s in there with Carl and Tina from my show. They all hooked up last night. Lucky bastard.’
I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said after a suitable pause, unwilling to involve myself in the sexual theatrics of the young. ‘Getting back to Lee Hocknell then ...’
‘Fuck him,’ said Tommy casually with a flick of his hand. ‘Tell him his script is shit and there’s not a chance in the world that either you or I are going to touch it, that’s all. What’s he going to do, go to the police?’
‘Well, he might do,’ I said.
‘With what? He’s got no proof of anything. Remember, you didn’t kill his father. Neither did I. We just sorted a situation, that was all.’
‘Illegally though,’ I said. ‘Look, Tommy. I’m not all that concerned about what he might or might not do. I’ve met much tougher cookies than him in my time, believe me, and I’ve been in far worse situations than this one too. I simply don’t like being blackmailed, that’s all, and I want to get rid of him out of my life. I don’t like ... complications. I’ll sort this situation out myself, you neededn’t worry about that, but I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of what was going on.’
‘All right, thanks,’ he said and lapsed into silence for a moment. I stood up to leave.
‘How’s ... Andrea?’ I asked, realising that I had never inquired after her health before.
‘She’s great,’ he said, his eyes lighting up as he looked at me. ‘She’s almost six months now. Starting to show pretty well. She’ll be up soon if you want to hang around and meet her.’
‘No, no,’ I said, making a move for the door, hoping to part the red sea of rubbish that stood between me and it. ‘That’s all right. I’ll have you both over for dinner or something soon.’
‘That’d be good.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said, closing the door behind me and re-emerging into the relatively sterile atmosphere of the stairwell. I took a deep breath, banished Lee Hocknell from my mind for the rest of the afternoon, and jogged downstairs into the daylight and fresh air.
‘So how was it? Did he go gracefully or put up a fight?’
I sighed and looked up from the notes that I was making for a later meeting. It occurred to me that, although I generally left my door open, Caroline was the only employee at the station who didn’t even make the slightest illusion of a knock on it as she walked through. She simply pushed it out of her way, leaving manners and respect on the other side.
‘Martin was a good friend of mine,’ I said, reproaching her for her attitude and tripping over my tenses as I did so. 7s a good friend of mine. It’s not a question of grace or fights. It’s a man’s job that has been taken away from him. Some day that might happen to you and you won’t be so quick to crow about it.’
‘Oh, please,’ she said, collapsing in an armchair in front of me. ‘He was a washed up old has-been and we’re better off without him. Now we can get someone in with a little bit of talent instead. Put this place on the map. Now that kid, Denny Jones? The one who Martin interviewed last week on the show? With the dimples? He’d go down well with a young audience. We have to get him in here somehow.’ She looked at me and must have caught the fury in my eyes, my desire to pick her up by the ears and simply throw her out the window, because she relented immediately. ‘All right, all right, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being inconsiderate. He’s a friend of yours and you feel you owe him. Fine, whatever. How did he take it then, badly?’
‘Well, he wasn’t happy,’ I said truthfully. ‘But he didn’t say very much to be honest. It was Polly, his wife, who put up the most protest. She seemed much more aggrieved than he was.’
After I had told Martin that his services were no longer required, Polly had indeed been the one to show the most anger. As her husband had slumped back in his chair, one hand resting over his brow as he contemplated his future – or lack thereof – she had gone on the attack, accusing me of disloyalty and downright stupidity. She said that we owed her husband for all his years of service, which was, I felt, overstating his case somewhat, and that we were fools if we couldn’t see how much of an asset he was to the station. I could tell from her behaviour that what most concerned her was the idea of no further income from her husband and the prospect of his being excluded from showbus
iness parties, functions and awards shows as his star grew ever dimmer until an introduction was always followed by the phrase ‘Didn’t you used to be ...?’ She was a young woman and she was stuck with Martin now, day and night.
‘Fuck her,’ said Caroline. ‘She’s the least of our problems.’
‘She had ambitions towards producing,’ I pointed out, and she laughed out loud. ‘Why is that so funny?’ I asked her, baffled.
‘Well, tell me this,’ she replied. ‘Does she work in television?’
‘No.’
‘Has she ever worked in television?’
‘Not as far as I am aware.’
‘Has she ever, in fact, worked at all?’
‘Yes. She’s worked in the art world. And she’s always taken a great interest in Martin’s show,’ I said, wondering why I was explaining myself to Caroline.
‘In his bank account, more like,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘In where he could take her. Producing!’ she scoffed. ‘The very idea’s ridiculous.’
I stood up and came around to the front of my desk, sitting on its edge as I stared down at her angrily. ‘Have you forgotten our first conversation?’ I asked her. ‘Have you forgotten how you tried to convince me to give you the top job in this organisation even though you had absolutely no experience of it whatsoever?’
‘I had years of management experience in -’
‘Selling records, I know,’ I shouted, losing my temper with her now, a rare thing. ‘Well, this is a whole different world, baby. It may have escaped your attention as you sit out there tuning into television from around the world, but we don’t sell records. Or books or clothes or stereo systems or posters of twelve-year-old pop stars with perfect skin. We are a television station. We produce televisual entertainment for the masses. And you knew nothing of that when I took you on, did you?’
‘No, but I’ve -’
‘No but nothing. You asked me to give you a chance and I gave you one. Nice to see you won’t extend the same courtesy to someone else. Isn’t there a parable about that somewhere in the Bible?’
