The Men and the Girls Read Online Free PDF Page B

is?’
    â€˜We’ve got him. He’s agreed. He signed tonight.’
    Hugh sat down in the cream calico armchair beside the telephone.
    â€˜Kevin McKinley.’
    â€˜Yes. It’s wonderful. As I’ve said to you often, having a man like Kevin as our Managing Director can only raise our image.’
    Hugh said, ‘He’s made one series, one series, Maurice, that’s been a huge success, that’s all—’
    â€˜He’s the right age, he’s got the right contacts, he’s worked in America—’
    â€˜And I expect he sees Midland as a stepping stone to the BBC, to being Director General. What sort of a deal has he got?’
    Maurice said, ‘You only get monkeys if you pay peanuts.’
    Hugh said nothing.
    Maurice went on. ‘We’ll all benefit, Hugh. We’ve got the franchise renewed, and now we’ve got Kevin.’
    Hugh took a huge breath and closed his eyes. His long acquaintanceship with Maurice was his strongest card at Midland Television and Maurice would – he hardly dared think about it – be retiring in two years, two years before Hugh, had he been an accountant or a solicitor, would have been retiring too. He must, for his own sake, betray nothing.
    â€˜Jolly good,’ Hugh said, filled with fear. ‘So pleased. Great news.’
    â€˜Knew you’d be pleased. That’s why I wanted to tell you myself.’
    Lies, lies, the whole conversation lies.
    â€˜He wants to meet all the key people next week. Can you make Tuesday?’
    â€˜Of course—’
    â€˜Excellent,’ Maurice said. The relief that the call was almost over lent warmth to his voice. ‘See you Tuesday. Have a good weekend.’ He suddenly remembered. ‘Boys well?’
    â€˜Blooming.’
    â€˜Good. Well done. Jolly good.’
    Hugh put the telephone down and went into the kitchen. He opened the drawer and found his cigarettes, and then he retrieved his glass from the dishwasher and filled it again. He sat down with both on the bar stool. He could picture it all, Kevin McKinley naming his own salary, huge holidays, a chauffeur-driven car, Kevin McKinley saying, ‘And you’ll pay my full pension.’ The Kevin McKinleys of this world, Hugh thought, were not disposed to look kindly upon presenters of over sixty, even presenters who looked well under sixty (and unconsciously took two or three years off their ages when asked to state it) and whom the public liked. ‘They do like me,’ Hugh said, staring down into his wineglass. ‘They do. They write and tell me so.’
    Car tyres crunched softly over the gravel outside the window. Julia. Hugh was not sure he was ready to face Julia, he felt – he felt – what did he feel? Distressed, that’s what he felt, unhappy and afraid and shaken. He didn’t like Julia to see him like that, even though inevitably, in seven years, she sometimes had. With a life as precarious as his, how could it be otherwise? It couldn’t, but that didn’t stop him disliking it. He sat on his bar stool and ground out his cigarette and waited for her quick light step from the garage.
    â€˜Oh Hugh,’ said Julia coming in, bright-eyed. ‘How forlorn you look.’
    He held his arms out to her. ‘No good at evenings on my own—’
    She clicked her tongue but she allowed him to hold her for a moment. He said, ‘Did it go well?’
    She nodded. ‘I went out with a fire engine. It was fascinating.’ She turned her head away and said modestly, ‘They said I was fine.’
    â€˜You mean they said you were bloody marvellous.’
    She removed herself from his embrace. ‘I’ll have to get contact lenses. I can’t go on wearing these goggles.’
    â€˜I love your goggles.’
    â€˜You’re not a television camera. How are the boys?’
    â€˜Dead to the world.’
    She took the kettle over to the sink to