Falling Off Air Read Online Free PDF Page B

with the words. Then her face brightened.
    “Have you thought of a move sideways?”
    “Sideways?”
    “Well sideways and upwards actually. I mean into a more managerial role?”
    I would have laughed if a heavy hand hadn't grabbed at my heart.
    “The reason I ask,” she pressed on, “is that we've just advertised for an EGIE.”
    “For a what?”
    “An ethical guidelines implementation editor,” she spelled out for me, as though I were a particularly thick child. “It's
     a new post.”
    I still didn't know what she meant.
    “Someone who checks that programs are being made ethically,” she explained wearily. “You know, Robin, that we're doing all
     the things we should be doing, and not doing the things we shouldn't. That we—and the independents we commission—are all sticking
     to the Corporation guidelines, broadcasting with integrity. You'd be perfect for it.”
    I put my head on one side.
    “Why the sudden concern?” I asked.
    “Robin, where have you been? Read the papers. The world moves on. The media are constantly under fire for infringing some
     journalistic principle or other, and we've got to be seen to respond.”
    The accusation that I was out of touch was unfair. I spent my days with the radio for company, and my evenings with the newspapers.
     Radio and print reported on the goings-on in television as if it were an unruly younger sister: a scene staged here, an actor
     hired for reality TV there. Radio and newspaper journalism aren't immune, of course. One person and his mouth are enough to
     give birth to a lie. You don't need technology, but somehow with more technology and the multiplication of media, there's
     simply more to play with, and while playing is not usually good journalism, it often makes for a good story. The Corporation
     had so far escaped scandal, but its own managers were paranoid that they, or someone they employed, would be caught out. Journalism
     operates on trust. The reader trusts the journalist, and the employer trusts the journalist. However, managers aren't naturally
     disposed to trust. Which of us is? They know every contract gets broken. Sometimes they even encourage it.
    “Cover our back, you mean.”
    Maeve pinched her lips together and refused to rise to the bait.
    “You've heard about Paula Carmichael's death, I suppose?” she said, making a leap I couldn't follow. “Or has that managed
     to pass you by too in your domestic idyll? Look, I've got a meeting and I'm already late. Go away and enlighten yourself,
     so that at the very least you know what I'm talking about. Then come back to me next week and let me know if you want it,
     and I'll see if I can swing it for you.”
    Maeve stood up and whisked a briefcase from beside her desk, dropped a floppy disk into it, snapped it shut, and made for
     the door. I got to my feet, wondering how I'd ended up in this particular mess.
    “But for God's sake, Robin, get a haircut. There's a limit to what I can swing.” She paused again, remembered what she was
     supposed to say, then added sweetly, “Did you bring any photos of the little ones?”
    I shook my head. I'd never been this far from them before, never needed to consult a photograph.

    I headed straight for the bathroom and spent long minutes looking in the mirror. There were days I didn't look in the mirror
     from the time I got up in the morning to when I dropped into bed at night. I mean of course I washed when I had the time,
     but the finer points of grooming had sunk to the bottom of my list of priorities and it showed. I had never plastered myself
     in makeup but even I had to agree that I needed something to counteract the deathlike pallor of my skin, something to disguise
     the bags under my green eyes, something to give my lips a little life. And then there was the hair. It made my scalp prickle
     just to look at it. I combed some water in with my fingers and tried to push it into shape, any shape. I splashed cold water
     on my face and