by Sue Watson
“Stella, we miss you,” he said suddenly. “I’m bored spending every evening and weekend on my own. Grace needs you and I’m tired of living like a single parent.”
I dreamt of spending time alone with Grace and I often wished I were in his shoes, especially after I had been demoted to gardening hell. But this was the most he’d said in weeks, so I resisted whinging about my feelings for once.
“Well, I bet you love being a single parent outside the school gate with all those Yummy Mummies!” I half-joked (Tom meeting another mum outside the school gate and falling madly in love was number three on my ‘Things That Could Possibly Go Wrong,’ list).
“Stella. You don’t take anything seriously,” he started. This was sounding like a gear change so I leapt in for damage limitation, scared of losing the warm wave of telephone intimacy.
“I know it’s tough for you,” I soothed, “but Tom, I’ve just had a wonderful idea. Why don’t you and Grace come and visit me in Rochdale next Saturday? We could have a proper family day, just the three of us.”
“Oh Stella. You’re working and it’s a long way for Grace to travel and…”
“Yes, I know all that but as it’s the first show today the pressure will be off. It’s going to be a small series, tucked away on a Sunday afternoon, so by next Saturday I’ll have everything in place and I can work on final script changes when you go back on Saturday night. I know it’s a couple of hours’ drive but you’re both off and Grace will sleep in the car, she always does.”
“Mmm, I don’t know. It’s not like she’s a two-year old anymore who will nap all day you know.”
That hurt, of course I knew that. I realised she was eight, it’s not like I hadn’t seen her for six years. Recently I’d only been able to see her every couple of weeks and I knew I’d missed a lot, but it wasn’t by choice – he didn’t need to rub it in. I bit my tongue.
After a little more persuasion and me promising faithfully to take the whole day off and not do any work – or even answer my mobile – Tom agreed. He put Grace on the phone and when I told her she’d be coming to see me she screeched with delight: “Yay, we’re going to see Mummy!” I thought my heart would burst. Then Tom came back on the line.
“I hope it goes well today. We’ll be watching the programme, so good luck.” I hung up the phone, feeling positive and happy – and then I noticed that I had an answer phone message. It was from Peter Willis, the head of Gardening and executive producer of the show.
His message was all tight vowels and deep voice.
“Stella, I’m on my way to the location. I have some concerns we need to discuss urgently– I shall be with you at noon.”
Whatever the problem was, it was clearly bad enough for him to travel up for an urgent meeting on the day of the first live show, which indicated that it must be quite serious. Peter may have been absent for most of the programme preparation, but as the executive in charge I’d hoped I could rely on him for support on today of all days.
When MJ first sent me to Gardening I’d reported to Peter Willis and, still feeling very bruised, did little to hide my incredulity at the latest programme idea; “Religion and gardening? This is a joke, isn’t it Peter? No-one is really expecting this programme to work. Are they?” He was uncomfortable, but could always come up with a soundbite or stock phrase to cover himself and the fact he hadn’t a clue.
“It’s all about funding and a need to please the God-Squadders, Stel my love,” he said, with no eye contact but a louche smile at a passing young shoot.
“And you come highly recommended from Ms Mary-Jane Robinson, no less.”
“Mmm, so I gather…”
“Stella my love, the programme’s fine editorial content will be to question and embrace the meaning of God, life, death, humanity. Not forgetting to remind our viewers about late frost in spring and early frost in autumn.”
I was about to launch into a tirade about MJ and my concerns about this project, but he knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it. I took a wild guess and thought to myself when this all falls flat on its face, over-budget with garden manure hitting fans in every religious establishment in the country, there’ll be a scapegoat and there’ll be a Judas. No prizes for guessing which one I’ll be. MJ had left no stone unturned. I had to hand it to her – she’d surpassed herself.
Back in Bernard’s (and God’s) Garden, I was in deep panic. Peter turning up at short notice with something serious to declare had me worried. This led to the copious consumption of hot, thickly-buttered toast, two Star Bars and several mugs of hot chocolate before 8am. So much for the Lighter Lift diet – this morning’s oh-so-delicious ‘Amazing Apple’ was a distant (and rather revolting) memory.
Al appeared and was, as always, very excited. He didn’t take any of it seriously and every now and then said unhelpful things like, “Stel, it must be really serious if he’s coming all this way,” and in an annoying, mock-American accent “Oh girlfriend. I hate to say this – but you is in trouble!”
I ignored him and as I waited for Peter’s arrival I tried to cast my mind back to the last time I’d spoken with him. It was long before Rochdale and he’d given me some advice, in fact the only advice he’d ever given me; “Be careful with Islam.” He’d whispered this, placing a conspiratorial arm around my shoulder.
I think there was a message here, albeit in code. I think he was saying that it would be nice if the gardening programme didn’t cause an international incident resulting in street riots and my effigy on fire. I would second that.
“Its bibles and bulbs then,” I’d shouted after him, smiling bravely and trying not to sound ever-so-slightly murderous or suicidal. The head gardener had smiled back as he walked through the door and stopped for a second.
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea for the programme title,” he’d said, and left.
I was in the vicarage with Denise when he arrived. It was about 12.30 and we were in the kitchen enjoying a herbal. Well, she was enjoying it, along with her usual topic of conversation while I tried to work. When she heard the car pull up outside, Denise leapt up and lifted the chintz curtains (apparently the vicarage had come ready-furnished so there wasn’t much of Denise’s unique style).
“Ooh, he means business,” said Denise, peering over her bifocals and giving Peter the once-over through chintz and old netting.
“Is he your boss Stel? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that – the power’s quite a turn on, isn’t it?” she looked over her glasses and winked at me. I smiled nervously. I had to keep her away from him. Her nocturnal goings on atop the Church organ could be the reason for his visit and I may need to play her proclivities down. “You should see his face, Stella,” said Denise, twitching the curtains. “He’s not happy. I think yer in fer a bollockin’ love. Good luck!”
As the door bell chimed I laughed weakly, reassuring her there were no problems at all, then almost knocked her over dashing to answer the door before she could.
“Hi there, welcome!” I shouted in the Head Gardener’s face, trying to sound enthusiastic but actually having the demeanour of someone on drugs. I noticed him stepping back stiffly, unsmiling. I knew then it was bad. I saw Belinda walk past out of the corner of my eye and I’m ashamed to say that for an instant I considered throwing a young researcher under this carnal bus to save myself. Peter had always had a weakness for the ladies and missed the ‘big promotion’ long ago after being caught in an edit suite with a bottle of Gordon’s and a redhead from Graphics. At the time, he claimed he was showing her ‘the flexibility of digital editing’, but she told The News of the World a different story. It wasn’t long before ‘TV Boss in Gin-Soaked Sex Tape’ was on everyone’s lips and he found himself on top of the dung heap in TV-gardening.
“My dear,” he began ominously. “This is a matter of extreme urgency. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Denise had rushed off to polish the altar (a euphemism I guessed, but didn’t pursue) so I offered Peter tea in the vi
carage kitchen.
“Come in. Hope you had a good journey. Isn’t it cloudy today?”
“Stella. A matter has been brought to my attention and as executive of this programme I am-well, frankly, I’m horrified,” said Peter theatrically as I filled the kettle with pounding water from a leaky tap and placed it neatly on the hob. I found some chipped mugs in the cupboard and arranged them too carefully near the tea caddy, aware that Peter was glowering at me from the other side of the kitchen. Everything was in slow motion on the outside, yet inside I was screaming and tearing around. I had a programme to prepare, including a running order, script, phone calls, safety checks and rehearsals. Everyone was relying on me and waiting for my signature/go-ahead/decisions on everything. Even without his visit I was on borrowed time but having wasted the morning waiting for him I was now seriously behind. Pouring boiling water onto fragrant tea bags I felt as though I was trying to run at two hundred miles an hour but barely managing to keep up.
Is this what a breakdown feels like? I thought, grimacing and proffering tea and biscuits to Peter.
“HobNobs!” he announced with unbridled joy, forgetting solemnity for a second and cramming his mouth with golden crumbs.
“Everything’s going really well here,” I started while his mouth was full. “Great team…we’re so busy getting ready for the first show…”
His raised his hand to stop me talking and he sucked hard on hot Earl Grey. Eventually, he took a seat at the table and after an eternity of crumb-wiping and mug-moving like he was playing chess, he spoke.
“It would seem,” he started, “that Media World’s most stringent Health and Safety policies have not been adhered to and the public and crew have been exposed to a dangerous criminal.” He banged his mug onto the table dramatically and tea slopped over the rim.
My heart skipped a beat. What the hell was he talking about?
“A – a criminal?” I spluttered, my voice breaking slightly. This was going to be tough to get out of.
He nodded, slowly and deliberately.
“I had no idea, Peter. Who? I mean…”
The hand went up again and he raised his voice, “Your garden designer, Gerard Wilkins, is an ex-con. You realise that this contravenes all our health, safety and social regulations. It is NOT our policy to employ serious offenders,” he said, in full Shakespearean mode now.
“For God’s sake, Stella, there are some very young, vulnerable women on this production team. They could be taken in by this…this potential serial killer.”
The thought of all those young, vulnerable girls had stopped him mid-sentence and he was clearly conjuring an image for his own use later. It gave me a few seconds to collect myself. I was genuinely shocked about Gerard – despite his musical interludes he’d seemed such a kind, gentle man. I wondered what he could possibly have done to be deemed a serious offender.
“I’m so sorry Peter, I knew nothing about this. What do you want me to do?”
Peter gazed into his tea; “Stella, unfortunately this matter has gone further than I would have liked. I was advised by a trusted colleague to take the matter higher – I mean, I need to be crystal-clear and think of my career. I can’t be held responsible for this. Now the big boss is threatening all kinds of…”
“Oh, you went that much higher?” I said. Obviously the fact that I had compromised the whole production was now not only public knowledge back at Media World, but Frank Moores had also been told.
“Peter, please. We’ll pull the shoot immediately.” I said, my chin trembling slightly.
“Pull the shoot? I don’t think so! I’ve bought a whole new wardrobe for this show,” screamed Denise as she burst into the kitchen, followed by a very sheepish Al. Sporting her ‘workout’ gear, which consisted of a very tiny top and fluorescent cycling shorts, Denise had obviously dressed up (or rather, down) for Peter. As he turned to speak to her I swore I saw a light flicker in his eyes.
“Well hello,” he said, Latin Love God taking over, kissing her hand rather vigorously. “I’m Peter. I’m the Executive Producer.”
“And I’m Denise. We haven’t met but I’ve heard all about you!”
He went from angry manager to lustful lothario in a millisecond. “And I’m sure you will be on everyone’s lips too before long,” he oiled. It was actually quite impressive.
“Ooh, thank you kindly Peter,” Denise said, coquettishly pulling a seat up right next to him.
“Now what’s all this about?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence and tight top.
“Denise, Denise, Denise,” he smiled, playing with her name on his tongue in a rather inappropriate way. “We have a teeny-tiny staffing problem. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Well Peter,” she paused, making full eye contact, her tongue pushing hard through chewing gum in a very provocative manner. “Al was filming me doing me push-ups in the hall and we couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Now who’s been saying that lovely Gerard’s a criminal? That’s slander isn’t it? I happen to know he did spend time in Strangeways a few years back but he’s hardly Jack-the-bloody-Ripper.”
“Really Denise, do tell,” Peter leaned forward, his eyes at cleavage level.
“Well, years ago, Gerard had a panties stall on Sheffield Market. Fabulous stuff Peter, lacy thongs and teeny-tiny little brassieres,” Denise said, waggling her breasts for emphasis. “The problem was, he was buying it cheap and selling it cheap. He says he didn’t know they were hot – stolen – but fifty pence for a pair of frillies? He sold ‘em for a pound a pair and made a bloody fortune!”
Peter was staring at Denise, mesmerised.
“He got twelve months,” she went on, “the judge was making an example of him. Did him a favour really, ‘cos that’s when he got the gardening bug. He learned all about garden-design in prison.”
My head was spinning. If this was true, then I might be off the hook but would it be enough to save the shoot? I looked over at Peter and to my relief he was looking more relaxed.
“Are you sure about this, Denise?” he said, without taking his eyes off her fluorescent top.
“Ooh yes Peter,” she replied. “He’s really quite proud of how he’s turned his life around after prison. It’s quite inspiring,” she added, with an exaggerated arm stretch.
“Well. It’s still less than ideal but perhaps not quite the disaster I feared. You still should have checked this Stella, it’s very unprofessional – but maybe, in light of this, we can carry on for the time being. I’ll see if I can sort this with the office, “he said, still staring at Denise. They were gazing at each other intensely, as though Al and I weren’t there. I felt like a gooseberry and could see Al was about to open his mouth, so before he told them to get a room I grabbed him and we went to find Gerard. We needed him to confirm he wasn’t a mad, spade-wielding sex-murderer, just an ex-market-stall holder who couldn’t resist bargain lingerie. Career crisis had been averted – for now.
“This whole Gerard thing could have caused me a massive problem Al,” I said angrily, as we walked back to the garden together.
“I know Stel, and I feel terrible about it,” he said shaking his head.
“I’ve told you before, you can’t just find people for the screen off the Internet. It’s not safe and they can tell you anything about themselves. As it happens Gerard isn’t dangerous, but he might have been.”
“Stel, I told you earlier, I didn’t find Gerard on the Internet. He was a personal recommendation.”
“Where the hell from? Some ex-convict convention?”
“From MJ.”
I stopped in my tracks and pulled him round to look at me.
“I’m sorry Al, what did you just say?”
“MJ told me just before we came here that she knew a really brilliant garden-designer who would make our programme special. And, well, I knew she wasn’t your greatest fan but I never thought…” started Al, looking as if he wanted the ground to swallow him up.
“That sc
rawny, manipulative witch!” I yelled. “She put Gerard our way, and then when he was settled and the programme was about to be filmed she told Peter that he’d been to prison.”
Al bit his lip. “I feel awful. And stupid.”
I put my arm around him, still shaking with anger. “Fortunately for us, Denise knew the truth and is a shameless flirt. It’s lucky she’s so nosy, or we’d both be packing.”
“I know,” said Al. “I’m so sorry Stel. I promise never to listen to MJ again.”
“Let’s get back to work” I said, taking a deep breath to calm myself and turning towards the melée, “we’ve got a show to run.”
And with only hours to go until the first live broadcast, we needed every spare second.
6 - Showtime!
By teatime I was in a cold sweat. I drank ten cups of coffee and went through the final script. Bernard was the main man and yet he’d barely ever seen a TV-camera before. We were asking a lot of him but I was just hoping he’d recruited some heavenly help – after all, it was Sunday. Just before the final run-through, my phone beeped. It was a text from Lizzie.
TXT: Good Luck darling. Remember, Jesus loves you.
I smiled, and put the phone in my pocket.
I met up with the presenter, a brunette news anchor called Debbie who I worked with as a humble researcher on Good Morning Britain many years ago. She’d been an absolute bitch to me then and had treated me with the utmost contempt.
Debbie was a competent presenter but she didn’t have that elusive star quality and as we had a rather elusive budget we were stuck with her. She’d never made it to prime time and that had always made her bitter and tough to work with. She hated anyone under 35 and had a charming way of asking researchers for refreshment, which was: “Coffee. Now!”
Funnily enough when she’d turned up a few days earlier in full make-up, Barbour jacket and pink wellies, it was she who brought coffee to me. How things change. “Darling its ages since we worked together,” she exclaimed, too enthusiastically. She was over-the-top delightful and hugged me like we were old mates. I felt sick.
