Today she was interviewing Molly Prendergast, the Secretary of State for Social Security. They were meeting at a central hotel. They wouldn’t be talking about anything concerning the Department of Social Security, or Molly Prendergast’s position there, or even her standing in her own political party. It was much more personal, which was why they were meeting in a hotel rather than at the Department’s offices.
It was Eleanor’s idea. She reckoned she’d get more out of Molly Prendergast on neutral ground. She didn’t want to hear a politician talking; she wanted to hear a mother...
She went through her notes again, her list of questions, press clippings, video footage. She spoke with her researchers and assistant by phone. This was an initial interview, not intended for broadcast. Eleanor would take a tape recording, but just for her own use. There wouldn’t be any cameras or technicians there, just two women having a chat and a drink. Then, if Prendergast looked useful to the project, there’d be a request for a proper on-screen interview, asking the same or similar questions again. Eleanor knew that the Molly Prendergast she got today would not be the one she’d get at a later date. On screen, the politician would be much more cautious, more guarded. But Eleanor would use her anyway: Prendergast was a name, and this story needed a name to get it some publicity. Or so Joe kept telling her.
The batteries for her tape recorder had been charging up overnight. She checked them, taping her voice then winding it back to listen. The recorder, though small, had a stereo microphone built into it and a tiny but powerful external speaker. She would take three C90 tapes with her, though it was expected to be an hour-long interview. Well, it might overrun, or a tape might snap. What was she thinking of? It wouldn’t overrun. Two C90s would do it. But she’d best take a lot of batteries.
She rewound the video compilation and studied it again, then went to her computer and tweaked some of her questions, deleting one and adding two new ones. She printed off this new sheet and read it over one more time. Then she faxed it to her producer, who phoned back with the okay.
‘You’re sure?’ Eleanor asked.
‘I’m sure. Look, don’t worry about this, Lainie.’ She hated him calling her ‘Lainie’. One day, she’d tell him to his face... No, that wasn’t true, was it? It was a small price to pay for Joe Draper’s backing. Joe was an excellent producer, if, like so many of his television colleagues, a bit of a prima donna. He’d earned his money doing a cop drama series and a couple of sitcoms (one of them with Freddy playing the errant next-door neighbour), then had set up his own production company, which specialized in documentaries and docu-dramas. These were good days for independent producers, so long as you knew your market and had a few contacts in the TV broadcasting companies. Joe had plenty of friends: his weekend coke parties at his home in Wiltshire were very popular. He’d invited her along a couple of times, but had neglected to invite Freddy.
‘You forget, Joe, I’m new to this, I can’t be laid back like you.’ Okay, so she was fishing for a compliment, and of course, Joe knew it.
‘Lainie, you’re the best. Just do what you’re best at. Talk to her, open her up, then sit back and look interested. That’s it. You know, like you were a...’ Here it came, another of Joe’s tortured similes. ‘A lion tamer. You go in there, crack your whip, and when she starts to do the trick, you can relax and take the applause.’
‘You really think it’s that simple, Joe?’
‘No, it’s hard work. But the secret is, don’t make it look like hard work. It should be smooth like the baize on a snooker table, so smooth she doesn’t know she’s been potted till she’s falling into the pocket.’ He laughed then, and she laughed with him, amazed at herself. ‘Look, Lainie, this is going to be good TV, I can feel it. You’ve got a great idea, and you’re going about it the right way: human interest. It’s been a winning formula since TV had nappies on. Now go to it!’
She smiled tiredly. ‘All right, Joe, I will.’ Then she put down the phone.
Satisfied, Eleanor phoned for a bike messenger. She wrote a covering note, put it with a copy of the questions into a large manila envelope, and wrote Prendergast’s name and her home address on the front of it. When the bike arrived she hesitated before letting him take the envelope. Then she closed the door and exhaled. She thought she might throw up, but didn’t. That was it. Those were the questions she’d be running with. There was little else to do until five o‘clock but panic and take a few pills and try on clothes. Maybe she’d go out for a little while to calm herself down, walk to Regent’s Park and along the perimeter of the Zoo. The fresh air and the grass and trees, the children playing and running or staring through the fence at the animals, these things usually calmed her. Even the jets overhead could have an effect. But it was fifty-fifty. Half the time, after they calmed her she had to sit on a park bench and cry. She’d bawl and hide her face in her coat, and couldn’t explain to anyone why she was doing it.
She couldn’t explain, but she knew all the same. She was doing it because she was scared.
In the end she stayed home. She was soaking in the bath when the phone rang. Mrs Elfman had already gone home, having once more informed Eleanor that she would not touch Archie’s room until he’d sorted the worst of it out for himself. Freddy had left for his sou‘wester cereal slot, not even saying goodbye or wishing her luck. She knew he wouldn’t be home again. He’d stop in one of his many pubs to talk to other embittered men. It would be seven or eight before he came back here. As for Archie, well, she hadn’t seen him in days anyway.
She’d let the phone ring for a while — what could be so important? — but then realized it might be Molly Prendergast querying or nixing one of the new questions. Eleanor reached up and unhooked the receiver from the extension-set on the wall above the bath. It had seemed mad at the time, a phone in the bathroom, but it came in useful more often than they’d thought.
‘Hello?’
‘Eleanor?’
‘Geoffrey, is that you?’
‘Who else?’
‘You always seem to catch me in the bath.’
‘Lucky me. Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘I think you know.’
Geoffrey Johns was Eleanor’s solicitor, and had been for fifteen years. Occasionally, her journalism had landed her with an injunction, a libel suit or a court appearance. She knew Geoffrey very well indeed. She could imagine him seated in his grandfather’s chair in his grandfather’s office (also at one time his father’s office). The office was stuffy and gloomy, the chair uncomfortable, but Geoffrey wouldn’t make any changes. He even used a bakelite telephone, with a little drawer in the base for a notepad. The phone was a reproduction and had cost him a small fortune.
‘Humour me,’ she said, lying back further in the water. A telephone engineer had told her she couldn’t electrocute herself, even if the receiver fell in the water. Not enough volts or something. All she’d feel was a tingle. He’d leered as he’d said it. Just a tingle.
‘I think you know,’ Geoffrey Johns repeated, drawling the words out beyond their natural limits. Eleanor had a feeling he spoke so slowly because he charged by the hour. When she didn’t say anything he sighed loudly. ‘Are you doing anything today?’
‘Nothing much. I’ve an interview this afternoon.’
‘I thought we might meet.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’