I, on the other hand, am in a constant push-pull battle with him to reflect cultural choices that our readers might, perish the thought, have actually heard of. Basically, that’s anathema to someone like Marc, who considers a movie seen by more than a dozen people to be an over-hyped, commercialised Hollywood sell-out. But then Marc is someone who regularly claims that Paul McCartney’s Maxwell’s Silver Hammer is the greatest offence ever perpetrated on mankind, in the history of the planet. Even worse than Cromwell.
‘Too bad Marc,’ I tell him firmly, while at the same time tapping out an editorial about the health service on the computer screen in front of me. ‘It’s coming up to the Easter holidays, parents with kids need to know what family movies are opening and the Disney Pixar one will be a blockbuster. Sorry, but you’ll have to swallow your art-house pride and just get commercial once in a while.’
‘Eloise, please don’t take this personally, but what in the name of God would you know about culture? You never go out anywhere.’
I look up at him in dull surprise; it’s not often anyone makes comments about my private life and even though it’s true, I don’t particularly like hearing it. Mind you Marc and I go back a long way – we were at college together – so in his defence, he knows he has the liberty to use that kind of shorthand with me.
What he doesn’t know though, is that the board of directors is seriously concerned at the overheads his department are running and that when the axe falls, which it inevitably will, mark my words the Culture section is certain to be in line for a good pruning. And Marc, who’s been here as long as I have and who’s being paid what management consider a highly inflated salary, could well be first for the chop.
Marc’s a good writer, I’ve pleaded with them in the past, with a large and ever-growing cult following. Readers buy our Saturday edition just to read his columns and reviews. Which, frankly, is the main reason he’s lasted as long as he has in the job. But the hard, cold reality is that unless he wises up and stops being such a cultural snob, he could well be in trouble.
And so the only reason I’m being as hard on him as I am, is because I just don’t want him to lose his gig. Not on my watch.
‘Oh, I support the arts alright,’ I smile quickly back at him. ‘I’ll write the cheques, I just haven’t time to see anything. And just on a point of order, you try sneaking off to a movie at the weekends in my job and then see how fast you’re propelled to the back of a dole queue. Disney gets the cover, Marc, and that’s final.’
Then out of the blue, my internal phone rings, sending an ice-cold chill right up my spinal cord. Never, ever a good sign. I tell Marc I have to take it, and he skulks off, knowing he’s been beaten. This time.
Okay, the internal phone ringing usually only means one thing.
Oh Christ alive, no. Please don’t let this be happening … Not today.
But no two ways about it, the nightmare is real. The chairman’s assistant is on the phone, summoning me upstairs to a meeting of the board of directors – the T. Rexes – right this minute. This rarely happens on the spur of the moment like this and it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out why they’ve convened this meeting at such short notice.
The online issue of the Post. Can’t possibly be anything else. I know it’s a matter of huge concern for the board and the last time I bumped into Sir Gavin Hume, our esteemed chairman since the year dot, he as good as told me it was a matter requiring their immediate attention. That it’s costing too much and is effectively losing readers. And here’s me in a severely weakened position, because it was my brainchild and I’ve effectively staked my reputation on it. So I whip out a bulging file of notes I’ve been working on about the online edition and mentally steel myself for the grilling that lies ahead.
Anyway, I’m just clickety-clacking out of my office to get the lift to the boardroom on the top floor, when Rachel, my assistant, stops me in my tracks.
‘Eloise?’ she says standing up behind her desk and looking petrified. ‘Thank God I caught you. There’s a phone call for you. And it’s urgent.’
Odd, it strikes me: Rachel looking so terrified about whoever’s on the phone. Mainly because every single phone call that comes for me is urgent; there’s always some emergency. Frankly, the day that someone leaves a message for me saying, ‘Oh tell her it’s not that important, no rush at all in getting back to me’ is the day hell will freeze over.
Plus, Rachel is normally the epitome of glacial blonde coolness under pressure, which is not only why I hired her, but it’s the main reason why she’s survived so many staff cullings round here. She’s around my own age and the human equivalent of half a Xanax tablet; always chilled, always in control, never loses her head; in short, the perfect assistant for someone like me.
But right now, she’s thrusting a phone at me, looking ghostly pale, ashen-faced and like she needs to be treated for deep shock.
‘Trust me, you need to take this call.’
‘I’m on my way to the boardroom!’ I almost hiss at her impatiently, not meaning to be rude, but come on … surely Rachel of all people knows that when the board of directors calls, you drop everything and go running?
It’s non-negotiable.
‘I’m sorry Rachel, but you’ll just have to tell whoever’s on the phone that they’ll have to wait till I call them back.’
‘Eloise, you have to listen to me. Please try to stay calm, but … it’s about your little girl.’
Chapter Two
And the day from hell rolls relentlessly on.
I’m now sitting in a poky little waiting room outside the principal’s office at the Embassy PreSchool, where Lily has been a pupil for about three weeks now. The emergency call came through from the principal, one Miss Pettifer, to say I needed to get here urgently – but as soon she’d reassured me that Lily was neither sick nor had been in an accident but was safely at home with her nanny, I calmly told her that I was on my way to a board meeting and it was a bad time for me to talk. Elka, I told her in no uncertain terms, would call her ASAP and troubleshoot whatever storm in a teacup was going on. So I’d just get her to do what she was being paid to do, while I obeyed the royal command to haul my arse up to the T. Rexes in the boardroom above, right away.
But Miss Pettifer was having none of it.
‘I’m terribly sorry if there’s any inconvenience Miss Elliot,’ she told me in no uncertain terms, ‘but I’m afraid this is a matter for the parent and the parent alone, which I can’t simply delegate out to a childminder. I realise that you’re a busy woman but I can assure you, I am too. Now, we close for the day in just under an hour’s time and as this matter is of some significance, I strongly suggest that you come in here immediately. Surely you agree that the welfare of your child is more important than any board meeting?’
No more information forthcoming about what in the name of God could be so pressing anyway, or why the antics of a little girl now had her principal acting like the child had tried to set fire to the place or else gone into her preschool brandishing a shotgun. And if Lily’s okay and not sick or anything, then what in the name of God could it possibly be?
‘Ah, Miss Elliot, please come in; so sorry to have kept you waiting.’
I look up from where I’m impatiently perched in the waiting room and there she is, the famous Miss Pettifer. We’ve never actually met before; a few months ago, when I stuck my head in the door to vet the place and see if I could enrol Lily as a pupil, I was dealing with her assistant and of course, ever since then, Elka brings her to and from preschool. So apart from writing humongously inflated cheques for their services, to my shame I’ve next to nothing to do with the place. Or with Miss Pettifer, who’s now holding out an outstretched hand and beckoning me into her tiny little