Spencer couldn’t tell if Ed was humouring him, but he didn’t mind because he loved the novel, had read the novel at least three times.
“Well, I was excited to read the review and find out how the story was being staged.The Right Side of the Familyis set in the eighties, long before I was born, a fictional story about a highly respected Conservative MP in Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet whose son dies in a boating accident during his last year at Cambridge. While the MP pulls a few strings with the local police and eventually resorts to using a private investigator to find out more, he discovers that his son had been in a clandestine gayrelationship with a Pakistani national, a freshman in the same college. This happens during the era when AIDS really came to the fore in the UK. The discovery rocks the family and, at the funeral, where immediate family members have been ordered to bury the truth, the secret pretty much tears them apart. It’s a cutting insight into British middle-class attitudes of the time and the hypocrisy surrounding family, race, and sexuality.”
“Sounds like a laugh a minute.”
“Anyway, the reviewer in this other daily dove straight in and made a big deal about the performances of the actors—he didn’t seem to like them at all—but made no reference to the plot, the background, or the main characters from the original work. If I hadn’t read the book, I’d have been left wondering what the play was actually about. To be perfectly honest, reading the piece felt more like listening to the rants of a bad-tempered reviewer with an axe to grind, essentially warning potential theatregoers away from the performance rather than trying to enlighten them. And I don’t know about you, but when a reviewer tells me not to do something without a valid reason or justification, I’m likely to do exactly the opposite.”
Spencer explained that when he read something like that, he guessed the critic’s only consideration was self-interest, in getting readers to admire his or her writing. He was often left wondering if the person had been slighted at some point in time by one of the cast members or someone in the production team. Moreover, he questioned whether anyone critiqued the critic and his or her body of work to see if there was any method or rationale behind their reviewing, or if they regularly panned public works because in doing so they knew the uninitiated public would be more likely to read their articles.
As a writer himself, he wanted people to connect with what he wrote, know he had truly researched the topic and that they could trust his viewpoint and integrity as a writer. Maybe, hesaid, that might seem a little naïve because he understood that the newspaper’s main concern was selling news.
Ed sat listening the whole time, without comment, smiling at Spencer’s explanation. When Spencer finished speaking, Ed nodded once before speaking.
“If I were to take off me editor-in-chief hat for a mo’, I’d tell you honestly the arts and lit section don’t exactly float my boat. I’m more a current affairs and sports bloke. Not that I don’t appreciate what they do, but I leave all the artsy stuff to my executive editor. I’m a believer in playing to strengths and mine are national and international news, and sports.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Yeah, how about your folks? What papers do they read?”
“My parents?” asked Spencer, wondering what was behind the question.
“I only ask ‘cause in most surveys we find kids tend to continue to read the same papers as their parents into adulthood. Did your parents influence your reading habits?”
Spencer laughed at the question.
“Mum and Dad are at opposite poles of the political spectrum, and both love their newspapers. Our house is always filled with every daily imaginable. Dad spent his whole life in the police force and his affiliation has always been with the Conservative Party. Even today he speaks with reverence about Maggie Thatcher. You can probably guess which papers he reads. Mum, for most of her working life, worked for the NHS, and is a Labour party supporter through and through. She idolised Tony Benn, loved listening to him speaking, but I know she also admired Cherie Booth, Tony Blaire’s wife, when New Labour led the country. My parents have a healthy respect for each other’s political opinions, always listening to each other, even if they don’t always agree. I heard recently that my mother consented to joining the local Conservative Club in Bournemouth just to keepmy dad happy. Although, if I know her, she probably agreed to do so just to cause mayhem from within.”
Ed surprised Spencer by tilting back his head and guffawing into the air. Funny how those small revelations, idiosyncrasies about his parents he rarely explored with anyone, about just how well they worked together, made him love them even more. After a moment, Ed thumped the palms of both hands on his desk.
“Okay, look,” he said, once he’d settled back. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I like you and I like what I’ve read of yours. I’ve no idea why you’ve been wasting your time in the fluff market but it’s good you’ve kept your editing skills tuned. More importantly, you come highly recommended by some people I hold in high regard, and let me tell you, there ain’t many in the world. So I’m going to go out on a limb here and offer you a starting position as an assistant reporter. We have a vacancy open right now. You’d be helping our senior team to begin with but I’m sure you’ll soon step into your own. I don’t know what they’re paying you at Blackmore, but I’m sure we can better anything they’re offering. And you’ll get all the perks, too. Does any of that sound of interest?”
“Very much so.”
“Marion at reception will get you to fill out a form with your details and we’ll email the offer to you. What’s your notice period?”
“One month.”
“Brilliant. If we can get something out to you by the end of next week—our recruitment team is a little hard-pushed right now what with people being out—and as long as everything adds up, we can get you on board mid-January. That would work perfectly for us. One question, though. Are you okay to let Muriel Moresby know—only if you decide to accept the formal offer—or would you prefer me to phone her on your behalf? I’m happy todo that as a matter of professional courtesy, even though me and Moresby are not otherwise on polite speaking terms—”
“No!” said Spencer, a little vehemently, then more calmly. “No, I want to tell her myself. I definitely want that pleasure.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ed, smirking. “Not a fan either? I’m guessing you’re not one of those in her famous little clique of favourites?”
“If her clique is the sun, then think of me as Pluto.”
Once again Ed rolled his chair back and laughed at the ceiling.
“Right. Enough. Get out! I’ve got work to do. Marion will sort you out. Reckon you’re going to fit in perfectly around here, Spencer. Now go and have a great Christmas.”
“You too, Ed. And thanks for the opportunity. I reckon we’ve both made a good choice here today.”
After completing the personal details form, Spencer walked out of the office with a spring in his step. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t need a starship engineer to beam him anywhere.
Chapter Eighteen
Winter daylight had gone to bed by the time Spencer called Marshall from the road leading to his South Kensington apartment. Two minutes out of the Tube station and his ears had turned blue from the cold. As instructed, he had been home to pack a bag, given Tiger some pampering and plenty of food, then made his way to Marshall’s place. On the Tube he had tried calling Bev a couple of times, but on each occasion the call had gone straight to her voice message. For a change, Marshall was the one person in his life answering his calls.
“Hello, you,” came the warm voice in his ear, much needed on that sub-zero night.
