On The Line

Tom and Daisy

The production floor of the UK’s most popular news magazine program, On the Line, hums with excitement.

Tom French, producer and presenter, strides to his office in spite of his hang over.

Freddy, a junior researcher, greets him, ‘Morning, Tom.’

Tom nods. He thinks, too cheery.

Andreas, the business producer, greets him, ‘Hi, Mr. French, How are you this morning?’

Tom grunts. He thinks, too sycophantic. And it’s certainly too early for that.

Fiona, the entertainment producer, smiles, ‘Hey Tom, lovely to see you today.’

He tries to force a smile, but can’t quite manage it. At least not before another espresso. He opens the door to his office and finds refuge.

His assistant, Jackie, appears like a blast of fresh air. A clean fresh version of street grunge. Her violent red lipstick clashes with her yellow and pink paisley top. A chain hangs from her leather skirt and loops around, clipped to her fat spiked leather belt. Only about two inches of her pink stockings show between her skirt and knee high black leather biker boots. She carries stack of papers and a cup of tea. 

The walls are covered with photos and clippings of Tom. In some pictures he is wearing army fatigues and others are from slick magazines where he carries off a sort of scruffy elegance. One clipping from the Guardian reads, ’Tom French wins Pulitzer.’ 

‘Morning, Tom,’ she says.

He grunts.

‘Long weekend, eh? I had a hell of a weekend too, right. I was at a party with my boyfriend, right, and I was drinking shots of vodka. Well, the son-of-a-bitch ran off with my best friend Claire. Well, I thought she was my best friend until I caught them snogging in the corner. When I finished with them they weren’t going to be doing much more than snogging, you know what I mean? Anyway, he was getting old. You know what I mean? Past his sell by date.’

Tom looked down at Jackie’s boots. If she were wearing those shit kickers, the guy would probably not be able to walk for a week.

‘Got a head ache, huhn?’ She hands him a cup of tea. 

He takes it and looks down into the milky cup wishing it were a quadruple espresso.

‘This’ll help,’ she says. She reaches into a pouch attached to her belt and pulls out two pills. ‘Here. Take one of these now and another at lunch time. Cure anything, they will.’

‘What are they?’ he asks.

‘Aspirin, silly. My mum got me hooked.’

‘I was hoping for something a little stronger,’ he says.

‘This’ll perk you up.’ She shakes the stack of papers. ‘We’ve got seventy five percent viewing on the seven to eight times slot. We’re making fucking history!’

He holds his head, pops an aspirin into his mouth and gulps it down with tea.

She hands him the papers. He takes a look, pops the second tablet into his mouth, downs it with the rest of the tea, and puts the cup on the desk.

‘The ‘Most Eligible Bachelor Murders’ are doing for us what the gulf war did for CNN,’ says Jackie.

‘By the way, why are you here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was another one last night. Third one in eight weeks,’ she says.

‘Was there?’

‘Real gory. In Mayfair, no less. This guy’s head exploded.’

‘Where’s Simon?’

‘He’s there with a crew already. Thought you knew.’

‘Good man.’

He picks up the cup and swirls the last spoonful of tea, pretending it’s strong coffee. He drinks it down.

‘I’m off. Tell Stephanie to be ready. Where the hell is she, anyway?’

‘Make up. Where else.’

‘We’ll want this on tonight’s program. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

He dashes out of the office.

Daisy Waltham’s study is a large open expanse of brown hard wood floors. The walls are adorned with a mixture of Oriental tapestries and African artefacts. The interesting thing about them is that Daisy didn’t buy them in some antique shop in Kensington. She found, bought, or traded for them on location in her many travels. 

A psychoanalysts’s couch, chair and wooden desk stand at the far end of the room like pieces on chess pieces on an otherwise empty board. A bookshelf lines the back wall. They range from Jungian Dream Analysis, Eric Fromm’s, ‘The Art of Loving,’ to Renaissance Are, the work of David Hockney and military strategy.

Several copies of three books stand out, ‘Psychology in the Workplace, ‘The Myth of Man,’ and ‘Breaking the Chains: A woman’s guide to psychological freedom,’ all written by Daisy Waltham.

On one shelf is a Diploma from Oxford University and next to it a Doctoral Diploma in psychology from Harvard University.

Daisy hunches over her keyboard and dresses in a silk kimono. She types furiously, then glances at her watch 7.15.

‘Shit, he’ll be late,’ she says to herself.

She sips her coffee, presses ‘save,’ and walks to the hall.

‘Stephen! Stephen!’ She calls. ‘Are you ready? You’ll be late.’

There is no response so she takes another sip of coffee and walks upstairs. She knocks on Stephen’s door.

‘Yeah?’ Says Stephen in a tired early teen voice.

She opens the door.

‘Come on. You’ll be late.’

‘You know, I don’t learn anything at school that I can’t learn from right here, on the internet.’

‘Sure there is,’ she says.

‘Like what?’ He slips on his tie like an expert.

‘The importance of being on time.’

‘Is that important?’ He puts his arms through his school jacket.

She smiles. ‘Out with you.’ She follows him down the stairs. He turns, kisses her on the cheek and walks out the door.