All to Play For by Heather Peace Read Free Book Online Page B

really nice of you.”
    “Don’t mensh. Bye.”
    Maggie felt absurdly pleased, but realised she didn’t sound very cool. She must try and act like a professional – so first she must find out how a professional acts in the BBC. Sally would provide clues.
    At one o’clock she knocked on the door labelled SALLY FARQUAR-BINNS, SCRIPT EDITOR. She heard Sally on the phone, saying: ‘Anyway must go, awfully sorry – got to do some biz over lunch. Call you soon. Kiss kiss.’ The phone went down and Sally called, “Hi! Come in Maggie!”
    Sally was about Maggie’s age, slim and elegant with thick glossy hair and expensive jewellery. “Nice to meet you. How’s it going?”
    Maggie decided she’d rather be honest than cool. “Actually it’s a bit strange. You’re the first person I’ve talked to yet.”
    “Really? You poor thing. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”
    “You’ve got a lovely office,” said Maggie, admiring the view over the car park. “You can see who’s coming and going.”
    “Not bad is it? Gives me something to do!”
    Maggie chuckled. There were scripts and books on every shelf and surface, and videos piled on a trolley bearing a television monitor and VCR. Sally clearly had plenty to do.
    The self-service canteen, which Maggie had looked for unsuccessfully up to now, was large and spacious and occupied three floors of a purpose-built extension to the main building. To reach it they walked across a closed-in bridge which was lined with poster-sized photos of a grinning Terry Wogan with many of his famous guests: his live early-evening chat show was the bedrock of the BBC1 schedule. Once in the canteen, there seemed to be an endless range of hot and cold food, and the atmosphere was cheerful and busy. Maggie looked around, hoping to see a familiar newscaster or at least a table of actors amusingly dressed in Dr Who costumes, but saw only ordinary people like herself. To a theatre freelance used to having lunch in a greasy spoon café the canteen was rather grand, but those used to eating in restaurants considered it third-rate. Maggie had a large plateful of casserole with chips and peas, pleased to find it was subsidised. It tasted pretty good too, she thought. Sally picked at an avocado salad and seemed more interested in who else was in the room. She asked Maggie about her theatre experience and was intrigued by her Huddersfield grammar school, although she seemed to think Huddersfield was somewhere in the Black Country. When Maggie put her right she shrugged. “Oh well, it’s all ‘t’ north, isn’t it?” When asked, she said she came from Kingston.
    “Cornwall?” inquired Maggie with a grin.
    “No, Surrey” corrected Sally, without one.
    Maggie learned that Sally also worked for Fenella, and that she had some very interesting projects in development. She had joined from a major publishing house and was evidently well connected with their list of writers. Sally thanked God Almighty that she didn’t have to slog through the slush pile anymore reading amateur crap. Maggie felt shocked when she realised that she herself had inherited the ‘slush pile’, as she was giving very sympathetic consideration to each writer and had made detailed notes on every idea, good and bad. Apparently Fenella expected all of them to be rejected.
    “The thing is,” explained Sally kindly, “there are only so many slots aren’t there? And we’ve already got tons of projects commissioned from writers we know are really good. So the chances of finding anything decent in the slush pile are remote to say the least. Trouble is we have to read everything that’s sent in because of the public service remit. Don’t worry, when you’ve served your time some other bugger’ll get lumbered with it.”
    “But how else do new writers break in?”
    “They always get through eventually if they’re good enough. It’s the pyramid system. They all start equal at the base, and the best ones