News Where You Are

45

Julia was off for the week. She’d said she was going away on holiday, but she told Frank in confidence that she just needed a week to sort her head out and work out what she wanted to do with her career and her life. Her disillusionment with the programme had reached breaking point recently. Sitting next to her on the little couch as the cameras rolled, Frank would feel something bubbling under the surface. Some days he thought it might dramatically break through and Julia might resign live on air with a blistering speech. He had an image of her as a bedraggled Peter Finch shouting at the camera: ‘I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.’ But he had to concede that was fanciful, perhaps even wishful, thinking on his part. It wasn’t really Julia’s style.

In Julia’s absence Frank was presenting with Suzy for the week. She breezed in each day in her immaculate knitwear, hair like a helmet with tales of marvellous engagements at the golf club or the local chamber of commerce. She had no interest at all in getting to the bottom of the stories or in discussing with reporters exactly what it was they were trying to say. She was a presenter and her job as she saw it was to be a reassuring presence to viewers. She might pick up on a grammatical error on the autocue, but she would never question the internal logic of a report or the worthiness of it. Frank had to admit that for that week, after Julia’s recent thunderous moods, she was a delight. Whilst he and Julia held more or less similar points of view about the programme, about the standards they should aspire to and about what made a decent story, he found keeping up with her constant level of outrage to be exhausting.

On their last day working together Frank asked Suzy if she fancied getting a drink after the programme.

‘No thanks, Frank. I need to get off.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. I just wanted to say that it’s been nice working together this week.’

Suzy smiled to herself and shook her head.

Frank picked up on something. ‘What?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, what is it?’

She looked at him. ‘You think I’m a bit of a joke, don’t you?’

Frank was taken aback. ‘No. Certainly not.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You could at least be honest about it.’ Frank didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m seen as “old school”, aren’t I?’

Frank shrugged. ‘Well, that’s not an insult.’

Suzy laughed. ‘I think it is, Frank. I think we both know that.’ She carried on bustling with her handbag and coat and then stopped to look again at Frank. ‘Can I ask you, Frank, how old you are?’

‘I’m forty-three.’

‘Well, I’m fifty. Not a huge difference, is there? And yet there you are on the main evening show and I’m tidily tucked away in the broom cupboard of the morning bulletins, where hopefully not too many people will notice me.’

‘Nobody tucked you away. You chose to move to the morning slots.’

‘Oh yes. I chose, but I was given a lot of helpful advice and guidance in making the decision when I was coming up to forty.’

‘By who?’

‘The powers that be. The same people who are giving me helpful advice now about perhaps retiring. You know, I’ve put in the years apparently, so why not take it easy and retire? Put my feet up? Take a well-earned break?’

‘Why do they want you to retire?’

‘Oh, come on, Frank. I’m fifty. I’m a woman. It’s fine for a man of that age to be presenting. It’s fine for a man of that age even to move to national television, to embark on a new phase of his career in front of a wider audience, to marry a woman half his age. But women? No, we’re supposed to fade away decorously sometime in our early forties. We may reappear in adverts for Saga holidays, or financial services aimed at the elderly, we may do the occasional voice-over on radio, but to be the face of the news? Who wants to see that?’

Frank realized that he was shocked not by what she was saying, but that she was saying it at all. He realized with some shame that he’d always assumed Suzy was somehow unaware of her own sidelining.

‘I’m sure Julia thinks that they replaced me with her because of her journalistic integrity, her rigour. Well, you might want to tell her one day that such things make no difference at all. There have been many female presenters before her on our programme and others — and they’ve run the gamut from brilliant journalists, to straightforward, professional presenters, but none of them makes it past fifty.’ She looked quite closely at Frank. ‘You see, Frank, your wrinkles lend you gravitas, mine make me unemployable.’ With that she left the newsroom.

A reporter named Clive had been standing nearby and had evidently been eavesdropping. He looked over at Frank now and pointing at his temple made the universal ‘nutter’ gesture. ‘Menopause — sends ’em mental.’

Frank looked away and felt complicit in the whole shitty nature of things.

He was still thinking about Suzy when the phone in his pocket started to ring and made him jump. He answered without looking who was calling.

‘Aye, aye.’

‘Hello, Cyril.’

‘Nice show this evening, sir, nicely done.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Frank couldn’t remember a thing about it.

‘Just thought I’d see what’s coming up tomorrow. I can get my thinking cap on tonight and come back to you fresh in the morning with some crackers.’

‘Okay … give me a second, Cyril. I’ll just have a look … Hmmm, I don’t know, it’s all quite serious stuff to be honest — job losses, arson court case, a cowboy builder who’s swindled thousands from pensioners, a parish refusing to accept a female vicar …’

‘Hold up, Frank. There could be something with the lady vicars. Always good for a giggle that. Did you hear about the female vicar who wanted to say “awomen” not “amen” at the end of the prayers, eh? She insisted the parishioners sang “hers” not “hymns”.’

‘Cyril, those were old jokes when I was a boy …’

‘Yes, I know, I know — I’m just saying there are plenty of possibilities — what you might call juice to be squeezed. And if there’s a drop of juice there Cyril’s the man to wring it out. Don’t fret, Frank, I’m onto it. I’ll have a think tonight and give you a choice of three tomorrow.’

Frank didn’t worry too much; he was fairly sure the story would be dropped before the following evening’s show.

‘All right, Cyril, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘Yes. Tomorrow.’ Cyril hesitated. ‘I was wondering … did you have a chance to think any more about what I said?’

Frank’s mind was blank. ‘Which bit of what you said?’

‘Remember, the other day when I met your lovely daughter and fiery wife. You’re a lucky man, Frank — she’s just the kind of woman I like. She reminded me of a tiger, a blazing tiger.’

Frank had to try and shake the image of a big cat on fire from his mind. ‘Oh yes?’

‘I said about us meeting up again, just the two of us. Just wanted to have a chat with you about a couple of things.’

Now Frank remembered. The new business opportunity. He wondered if it was possible to say he was busy before Cyril had even suggested a date. ‘Right. Yes.’

‘How about next Monday after the show? I’ll come down and meet you at the studio.’

Frank tried to think of an excuse. He had a suspicion that there was no new business opportunity, and whilst that was cause for relief it would mean the only reason Cyril wanted to meet up was to get maudlin about the old days and Big Johnny Jason.

The silence prompted Cyril to add: ‘Or any day, really. I’m free any time.’

Frank had a brief glimpse of Cyril’s solitary life. He thought of Michael Church. He realized that giving up one evening to spend with someone who clearly wanted a bit of company was hardly the greatest sacrifice.

‘Monday’s fine, Cyril. I’ll see you then.’

‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’