Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

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СКАЧАТЬ then winter’s a thrilling time. And although the hours are pretty dreadful, I enjoy myself once I’m at work. So this morning, despite my worries, and my headache, I felt the usual frisson as we drove through the gates.

      It takes about twenty minutes to get to AM-UK! which is based in a converted warehouse in Ealing. It’s not a beautiful building, but I rather like it there. The production office on the third floor is open plan, which has its drawbacks, of course, not least seeing the ashen faces of my colleagues every morning when I arrive. They sit there in the green glow of their computer screens like extras from The Night of the Living Dead, but that’s what comes of spending half the year in almost perpetual dark. I usually get in at four, have a quick espresso from the machine, and then get straight down to work. First I read the faxed briefing from International Weather Productions, which forms the basis of my reports. Then I log on to my computer – with its ‘rainbow’ screensaver – and study the satellite charts. For although I never trained as a meteorologist I do actually know my stuff, because when AM-UK! took me on, they sent me on a six-week forecasting course. So I’m not just spouting someone else’s script, I get to write my own. I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a glamorous type of weather girl. Nicole Kidman in To Die For? Well, that’s just not me. Blonde and gorgeous? No. In fact I’m a bit mousey to look at, which is why I got the job.

      ‘What we like about you,’ said our wimpish editor Darryl when he interviewed me, ‘is that you’re so nice and ordinary – you won’t threaten the housewives too much. They’ll be sitting there and thinking to themselves, “Well, I could do better than that!”’

      To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that remark, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And I can see what he means: he wanted someone who’d look business-like but pleasant, and I do. I’m not the kind of forecaster to hog the limelight, or try to ‘twinkle’ too much. I just go to work and do my job in a competent, friendly way. I’m very happy standing by the charts, with my clicker, talking about cold snaps and sunny spells, and I don’t regard weather presenting as a stepping stone to greater things. I’ve got just the job I want, thank you very much – unlike our showbiz reporter, Tatiana.

      ‘Hello Tatiana,’ I said pleasantly as I passed her desk. Usually she’s reasonably friendly, because she knows that I’m no threat. Today, however, she was preoccupied and didn’t hear me; this was because she was busy mutilating a publicity shot of Sophie, our new presenter.

      ‘Morning Tatty,’ I tried again, and was rewarded with a thin smile. Then she put down her Stanley knife, threw the pieces into the bin and went over to talk to Terry. I try to steer clear of office politics, but those two are clearly in cahoots. They’ve united recently in a common cause: to make Sophie’s life complete hell. Tatiana wanted that job. She’s wanted it for years. And when our old presenter, Gaby, went off to present Blankety Blank Tatty assumed it would be hers. Terry was desperate for her to have it too, because he knew she wouldn’t show him up. He’s of the old school, you see. He doesn’t regard himself as the programme’s ‘co-presenter’, but as Presenter One. And it is the job of Presenter One – middle aged and male – to do all the serious stuff while Presenter Two – young and blonde – sits there gazing at him admiringly before introducing some item on knitting. That’s what it was like with Terry and Gaby, but Sophie’s a different case.

      ‘Morning everyone!’ Sophie called out cheerfully as I studied my isobars. ‘I say, did you see Jeremy Paxman lay into the Russian defence secretary last night?’ she said as she took off her coat. ‘I thought what he said about Chechnya was absolutely spot on. He said he thinks the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe should be much more involved in the negotiations, and I must say I totally agree.’

      ‘Oh, do you really?’ said Terry.

      ‘As for the sneaky way the Russians are flogging their nuclear expertise to Iraq,’ she added as she switched on her computer, ‘well, it’s an international scandal, don’t you think?’

      ‘Ra-ther.’

      Terry is thirty-nine – or so he claims – and has a third from Wolverhampton poly. He is not adjusting well to having a twenty-four-year-old Oxford graduate with a starred first in Politics, Philosophy and Economics sitting beside him on the studio sofa. Sophie’s appointment came as a bit of a shock. As Terry never tires of saying, she didn’t know an autocue from a bus queue when she arrived. This was true. She’d come from radio, she was an editor at London FM, and Darryl had been invited to take part in a phone-in there about the future of digital TV. So impressed was he with Sophie’s brilliance that he invited her to audition for AM-UK! The next thing we knew, she’d got the job.

      But it’s obvious that Sophie’s much too bright for a programme like ours. I mean – don’t think me disloyal – but most days AM-UK! is more of a dog’s dinner than a successful breakfast show. The mix of items is bizarre. Take today’s running order, for example: celebrity disfigurement – failed face-lifts; heroic hamsters and the lives they’ve saved; psychic granny predicts the future; Tatiana’s profile of Brad Pitt; coping with ovarian cysts; ten new ways with chrysanthemums; and, somewhere in the middle of all that, an interview with Michael Portillo.

      ‘I’m doing the Portillo interview,’ said Terry as he leaned back in his swivel chair.

      ‘But I’m down to do that one,’ said Sophie as she tucked her short blonde hair behind one ear.

      ‘So I see,’ said Terry indolently, ‘but it’s clearly a mistake. I think you’ll find that that one falls to me. I’ve more experience than you,’ he added.

      ‘With respect, Terry,’ replied Sophie carefully, ‘I’ve interviewed Michael Portillo twice before.’

      ‘Sophie,’ said Terry wearily, ‘on this show we all pull together. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no room for big egos, so I’ll be doing the Portillo interview – OK?’ And that was that. Terry has quite a lot of clout, actually, and he knows it, because he’s the housewives’ choice. Moreover, he has a cast-iron two-year contract, so Darryl can’t push Sophie’s cause too far. The atmosphere gets pretty stormy sometimes, but Sophie handles it well. I mean, on breakfast TV the hours are so awful that most disputes tend to be settled with machetes. Things that wouldn’t bother you at three in the afternoon induce homicidal rage at five a.m. But so far Sophie has coped with Terry and Tatty’s provocations with a sang froid that would chill champagne. She simply pretends she has no idea that they’ve anything against her. She’s so polite to them, despite their dirty tricks. For example, Tatiana’s recently taken to sidling up to her three seconds before she goes on air and saying, ‘Not sure that colour suits you,’ or, ‘Oh no! Your mascara’s run,’ or, ‘Did you know your hair’s sticking up?’ But Sophie just smiles at her and says, ‘Oh, thanks so much for telling me, Tatiana. You look lovely by the way.’ It’s impressive, but as I say Sophie’s brilliant at politics and I think she’s playing a clever game. She’s very business-like about her work, and she’s also very discreet. None of us has the slightest clue about her private life. I mean, she never makes personal phone calls, but I think she’s got a chap. Because after the Christmas party last month, I went back up to the office to get my bag and I heard Sophie talking to someone called Alex in an obviously lovey-dovey way. I coughed to let her know I was there and she suddenly looked up and froze. So I just grabbed my bag and walked straight out, because I didn’t want her to think I’d heard. But I had. And that’s the downside of working in an open-plan office – there’s not much you don’t get to know. But my approach is an old-fashioned one: hear no evil; see no evil; and above all, speak no evil.

      So I sat there this morning, engrossed in the weather charts, preparing the bulletins that I do every half-hour during the show. My first one’s at СКАЧАТЬ