Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  “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 exactl
y,” Des said. “We’d all be behind you, supporting you all the way.”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  “Yes, but why do I get the sense that this would be from another building?”

  “Come on, Sophie,” Des said. “Since when have you been scared of confrontation?”

  “Since I met Shirley Tucker Dill. The woman’s a tyrant.” I looked at Des. “Why can’t you be our spokesperson? After all, you’re our NUJ rep and you’ve been rabble-rousing for years.”

  “Usually I would seize the opportunity with both hands, but in this instance I see my role more as coordinating action from the shop floor.”

  “Meaning she scares the pants off you, too.”

  “Not at all. I just think that as editor you will have her ear more than the rest of us. Plus I can be pretty aggressive when I want to be, and I think I might rub her up the wrong way.”

  “Des, you are so full of crap. Just admit you’re scared.”

  “OK, hands up. I’m terrified.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Nancy said. “The woman’s as common as muck. She doesn’t scare me one iota.”

  “So you be our spokesperson,” I said.

  “Believe me, I’d be more than happy to oblige, but I suspect that my days on Coffee Break are numbered. Now that STD is planning to tabloid the program, she’s going to want some ditzy airhead presenter who eats M&M’s in alphabetical order.”

  Des agreed that was a possibility. “But you’ll get a damn good payoff.”

  “I don’t want a payoff. I want a job. And with all the media cutbacks, the likelihood is I’ll never work again. Have you any idea how many applicants there are for every presenting job? I may be damned good at what I do, but the truth is, I’ll never see twenty-five again.”

  “Come on, Nancy,” I said. “We’re all in this together. Let’s just take it one day at a time, eh?”

  She gave a shrug. “I guess I have no choice.”

  I turned to Des. “So what’s the possibility that I could be sacked if I become too much of a thorn in Shirley Tucker Dill’s side?”

  “She can’t sack you for disagreeing with her and trying to change her opinion. As editor you have a right to express your views. It’s probably a long shot, but she might just respond to some gentle persuasion. Come on, Sophie, what do you say?”

  Nancy had just admitted she didn’t have a choice and now I was aware that I didn’t have one, either. Yes, I was scared of taking on Shirley Tucker Dill. Despite Des’s reassurances, I was even more scared of losing my job, but people were relying on me. I couldn’t walk away.

  “OK,” I said. “If everybody’s happy, I’ll leave things as they are with Shirley and take the job.”

  Des, ever the shop steward, called for a show of hands. It was unanimous. I was the new editor and the “workers’” official spokesperson.

  Before we drifted out of the conference room, Des made a short, rallying, “Remember, everybody—as Marx said—we’ve got nothing to lose but our chains.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I muttered.

  Chapter 5

  Back in my office, I carried on listening to the interviews and features I’d commissioned over the last few weeks and which had been due to go out in the New Year. I wondered how on earth I was going to get them past STD. The piece on the Black Death was clearly for the scrap heap, but there were several items I was determined to fight for, particularly one on postpartum depression and another on parenting autistic children. The secret to placating her might be to balance them with some humorous offbeat items.

  By midafternoon my head was starting to ache. I guessed it wasn’t surprising, bearing in mind all that had happened in the last few hours. I took a couple of Tylenol, which had almost no effect, and struggled on until five o’clock. By then my desk was pretty much clear, so I decided to call it a day.

  An hour later—after a journey that couldn’t have been more different from the one I’d had that morning—I was heading out of Putney Station. I walked home slowly, hoping the air would ease my headache. I mulled as I walked. Was I really up to taking on Shirley Tucker Dill? What if the worst happened and she managed to fire me? How would the kids and I survive without my salary? I’d taken the editor’s job because I didn’t want to let down my colleagues, but if I lost it, I’d be letting down Amy and Ben—again. That was unthinkable.

  As I slid my front-door key in the lock I was aware that, despite the mulling and worrying, the tension in my head had eased. The walk and the air had done their job. I stepped into the hall and was met by shrieks and laughter coming from upstairs. I remembered that Amy and Ben each had a friend over for tea. They were all making such a racket that they didn’t hear me come in. I took off my coat and headed to the kitchen. Klaudia was at the stove, spatula in hand, frying sausages.

  “Everything OK?” I said by way of greeting.

  Klaudia turned around. “Fine.” It was then that I saw her red eyes and cheeks streaked with tears.

  “Sweetie,” I said, going over to her, “what on earth’s the matter?”

  “I am not knowing how to tell you.” She was starting to sob.

  I took the spatula from her, laid it on the counter and turned out the light under the frying pan. Taking her gently by the arm, I led her to the kitchen table. We both sat down.

  “Come on, what is it? Have you had a fight with Marek?”

  Marek was her boyfriend back in Warsaw. She shook her head.

  “What is it, then?”

  “I hef baby.”

  “You hef baby? Where? Here? You mean somebody’s asked you to look after it?”

  “No. I yam expecting baby.”

  “Omigod … You’re pregnant?”

  “Yes. It happen when I go home. Marek and me, we have relations with naked penis.”

  “Ah, that would explain it. Having relations with naked penis probably wasn’t the best idea. So I’m guessing you’re not very happy about this.”

  “No. We very happy. Even though we not plan baby.”

  “That’s brilliant. So why the tears?”

  “I hef to leave you and the children. Marek wants me to go home and for him and my mother to look after me. I yam so sorry I let you down.”

  I leaned forward and gave Klaudia a hug. I’d been dreading having to tell her that I couldn’t afford to keep her on and here she was letting me off the hook. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Oh, Klaudia, you aren’t letting us down. You’re having a baby—you have to focus on that now. You mustn’t worry about us.”

  “But I do worry. Amy and Ben are still much missing their father and I should be here to ease their pains.”

  “They’ll be fine. It’s been six months now. I honestly think they’re over the worst. And you have been so wonderful with them—particularly since Greg left. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

  “Eet has been my pleasure.”

  I got up, put my arms around her and gave her a hug.

  “You know, Klaudia, we’re really going to miss you, but we’ll manage … somehow.”

  “You sure? You really mean that?”

  “Absolutely. Now dry those tears.”

  • • •

  Once Klaudia had calmed down, I went upstairs to say hi to the kids. Amy and Georgia, her best friend (for this week at least), were practicing their lines for the school nativity play. Except it wasn’t called a nativity play anymore. There had been a letter from the school telling parents that this year (“in accordance with our approved diversity procedure”) the children would be performing a multicultural generic holiday play. Georgia was playing the Hindu god Vishnu and Amy was an Eskimo. Topping the bill was a boy in year four who would be doing an impersonation of Elvis singing “Winter Wonderland.”

  “Hey, Georgia. Hey, Amy. How was school?”

  “Good, thank you,” Georgia said in that singsong voice of hers. Everybody said what a sunny child she was. H
er mother put it down to having breast-fed her until she was five.

  “And how was your day, Amy?”

  “’K.”

  “What did you get up to?”

  “Dunno. Stuff. Look, Mum, please can you go away? We’re practicing.”

  Amy was reaching that age where her parents were becoming an embarrassment, but I supposed I should be grateful. At least she’d said please when she asked me to beat it.

  Next door, Ben and Arthur were sitting on the floor, surrounded by pillows and cushions. Propped up against these were the TV remote, the CD player remote, the long-defunct video player remote, the Apple TV remote and an old computer keyboard. “Hi, boys. You OK?”

  “Sshh … we’re trying to work out the code.”

  “The code?”

  “For our time machine,” Arthur said. “We need the right code so that we can get to Bef-lehem to see the baby Jesus.”

  Clearly the school’s efforts to suppress their pupils’ interest in the nativity story hadn’t worked.

  “Mrs. O’Reilly,” Arthur went on, “brought a model of the nativity scene into school.”

  “That must have gone down well,” I muttered.

  Mrs. O’Reilly was Arthur’s teacher. She’d been at the school for over thirty years. She was one of those devoted, strict-but-kind teachers who managed to bring out the best in even her dullest pupils. The children loved her. Ditto the parents, who would far rather have had Mrs. O’Reilly running the school than the drippy—in accordance with our approved diversity procedure—Mrs. McKay.

  “She took the whole of year three into the hall,” Ben went on, “and said that this was a Christian country and Christmas was a Christian festival and that it was wrong that we weren’t being taught the story of baby Jesus.”

  “Mrs. O’Reilly said that?” Even as an agnostic Jew, I couldn’t help thinking good on her. But there could be no doubt that once the principal and the school governors got wind of her politically incorrect challenge, her days at Parkhall Primary School would be numbered. I could only assume that she’d done it because she wasn’t far off retirement and didn’t give a damn what the head and the governors thought.