Having It All

  FOREWORD

  Twenty years ago I wrote Having It All, the story of Liz Ward trying to balance a high-flying career in television with bringing up two small children and facing some difficult obstacles along the way. My novel caused an enormous stir not just in the UK, but around the world. Everyone seemed ready to yell at each other across TV studios, on radio stations and in countless newspaper headlines about whether you can or cannot Have It All.

  It will be fascinating to see if things have changed for this generation of readers, or whether it’s still assumed that – in spite of their careers – women are responsible for every dentist’s appointment, nativity costume and day off for chicken pox.

  I tried to make Having It All funny, realistic and moving and I do hope the current generation enjoy – and argue over it – as much as the last.

  Maeve Haran

  London, 2014

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  The Time of Their Lives

  CHAPTER 1

  Author biography

  Also by Maeve Haran

  Praise for Having It All

  CHAPTER 1

  Liz Ward, high-flying executive and creative powerhouse of Metro Television, woke to the unexpected sensation of a hand slipping inside the top of her silk pyjamas and caressing her left breast.

  For ten seconds she kept her eyes closed, abandoning herself to the pleasurable feelings of arousal. As the other hand stole into her pyjama bottoms she arched her back in response, turned her head to one side and caught sight of the clock-radio.

  ‘My God! It’s ten past eight!’ she yelped, pushing David’s hands unceremoniously away, and jumping out of bed. ‘I’ve got a nine-fifteen meeting with Conrad!’

  She flung her pyjamas on the floor and bolted for the bathroom. On the landing she stopped dead and listened. Silence. Always a bad sign. What the hell were Jamie and Daisy up to?

  Panicking mildly she pushed open the door of Daisy’s bedroom. Jamie was sitting in Daisy’s cot next to her, wearing his new Batman outfit, back to front, attempting to tie his Batcape around his protesting baby sister. Scattered on the floor were every pair of tights from Daisy’s sock drawer.

  Jamie looked up guiltily. ‘We needed them. She’s got to have tights if she’s going to be Robin. Don’t you, Daisy?’

  ‘Me Robin,’ agreed Daisy.

  Liz repressed the desire to shout at him that it was eight-fifteen and he was going to be late for school, remembering it was her fault for getting up to no good with David. Instead she kissed him guiltily and sprinted back into the bedroom, grabbing her suit from the wardrobe and praying it wasn’t covered in Weetabix from Daisy’s sticky fingers. Women at Metro TV, from the vampish Head of Entertainment down to the lady who cleaned the loos, looked like refugees from the cover of Vogue and Liz was finding it tough going keeping up.

  David had retreated under the duvet, his pride wounded. Mercilessly she stripped it off and handed him Jamie’s school tracksuit. ‘Come on, Daddy, you do Jamie. I’ll change Daisy in the bathroom.’

  She glanced at her watch again. Eight-twenty-five. Oh my God. The joys of working motherhood.

  By the time she got downstairs, Daisy under one arm and the report she was supposed to have read in bed last night under the other, David was already immersed in the newspapers. As usual he let the chaos of the breakfast table lap around him, getting his own toast but never offering to get anyone else’s. How could Donne ever have said no man is an island? At breakfast all men are islands, separate and oblivious in a sea of female activity.

  Still sulking at her rebuff, he was even quieter than usual this morning, his nose deep in the Financial Times. Suddenly he steered the paper through the obstacle race of mashed banana, Coco Pops, and upended trainer cups towards her.

  ‘Look at this. There’s a piece about Metro. Conrad says he’s about to appoint a Programme Controller at last.’ Raising his voice to drown out the chaos of Daisy’s shouts, Jamie’s insistent demands to look at him as he climbed precariously up on his chair, and the nanny’s radio tuned to New Kids on the Block, David shouted across to her, ‘Why don’t you pitch for the job?’

  ‘Me?’ Liz wished her reply sounded less like a yelp of panic. She’d only joined Metro Television as Head of Features a few weeks ago when they’d been awarded one of the commercial television franchises for London and she was looking forward to the three months before they actually went on air to settle quietly in and get her ideas ready for the launch.

  ‘Yes. You. Elizabeth Ward. Talented producer. Deviser of a whole new style of programme making. Mother of two.’ David warmed to his theme. ‘A woman controller would be a brilliant publicity coup for Metro. None of the other TV companies has a woman in charge.’ Fired with enthusiasm he jumped up and came towards her. ‘The nineties is the decade of women, for Christ’s sake! And you’re the classic nineties woman. A glittering career and kids! You’d be perfect!’

  No wonder he made such a good newspaper editor, Liz thought affectionately. Talking people into doing things they didn’t want to was his great strength. But he didn’t know Conrad Marks, Metro’s tough American MD. Conrad thought women were only good for one thing. He had honed his chauvinism to a fine art back home where men were men and women went shopping. He would never hand over power to a woman.

  ‘You don’t know Conrad like I know Conrad.’

  She winced, remembering the opening ceremony of Metro’s stylish new offices the day before yesterday. Somehow or other Conrad had persuaded the Duchess of York to do the honours. Fergie had turned up in one of her fashion disasters, a low-cut peasant number which should have stayed on the upper reaches of Mont Blanc where it belonged. Conrad had spent most of the ceremony peering down her cleavage and she was barely out of earshot when he’d whispered loudly to his deputy: ‘Did you see the tits on the Duchess? Lucky royal brats!’

  Conrad would never appoint a woman to run Metro.

  ‘But I’m an ideas person, not a tough exec.’ Liz tried to gulp her coffee and stop Jamie wiping his nose on his school uniform. ‘I don’t have the killer instinct.’

  ‘You don’t push hard enough, that’s all.’ Liz could hear the exasperation in his voice. He was so different from her. So sure of himself. Thirty-five and already editor of the Daily News, Logan Greene’s blue-eyed boy, heir apparent to the whole Greene empire. Occasionally, judging David by his boyish good looks, people underestimated him. Invariably they regretted it.

  But then David had always known what he wanted. To get on. To get out of Yorkshire and away from his parents’ council house. To succeed. And he had. Even beyond his wildest dreams. And he couldn’t understand her reluctance to do the same.

  Looking at his watch he stood up. ‘It’s the caring sharing nineties remember. Killer instincts are out. We’re all supposed to respe
ct the feminine now. Intuition. Sensitivity.’

  ‘Bullshit. Try telling Conrad that.’

  He leaned over and kissed her teasingly. ‘No. You try telling him.’

  Liz wiped the cereal out of Daisy’s hair and, fending off the sticky hands that lunged for her suit, kissed the tender nape of her neck. Reluctantly she handed her over to Susie, the nanny, and tried to persuade Jamie to let go of her leg so that she could check her briefcase. As usual he wailed and clung like a limpet.

  On the way out she glanced at herself briefly in the hall mirror. She wasn’t too bad for thirty-six. She could do with losing a bit of weight, but at least it meant she didn’t have any lines. Thank God she’d had a decent haircut last week which dragged her if not exactly into the nineties, then at least out of the seventies. And the smoky jade eyeshadow the hairdresser had persuaded her to try gave her eyes a sensual oriental look she was quite taken with. People said brunettes kept their looks longer. Well, brunettes said brunettes kept their looks longer anyway.

  Looking at her watch, Liz felt a brief but familiar blast of panic: she was going to be late for the meeting with Conrad, the Hoover needed servicing and she’d just remembered that Susie wanted the car today. What had David called her? The classic nineties woman? Ha bloody ha.

  There were, as usual, only two women at the weekly ideas meeting: Lizand Claudia Jones, Metro’s Head of Entertainment. Having raced across London and run up three flights of stairs when she found the lift was full, Liz arrived out of breath and tense. Fortunately Andrew Stone, Metro’s Head of News, was late as well so she managed to slip in and sit down without looking too obvious.

  It meant doing without the coffee she would have killed for, but at least Claudia couldn’t cast one of her usual withering glances at the clock. Chic, single and childless, Claudia turned Putting the Job First into a religion.

  Glancing across the vast boardroom table at Claudia, Liz couldn’t decide what she disliked about her most: the way she always looked as though she’d stepped out of Harvey Nichols’s window, her blatant use of being female to get what she wanted or her complete lack of talent.

  Claudia was the kind of person who kidnapped other people’s ideas and took the credit for them. She loved being a woman in a man’s world and wanted as few others as possible to be allowed to join the club. And Liz had a shrewd idea that included her.

  There was also a rumour going round Metro that Claudia had the ear of Conrad Marks. And from time to time, so the gossips said, the rest of his body too.

  ‘Nice suit,’ Claudia congratulated her. Liz looked at her in surprise. Friendliness wasn’t Claudia’s style. ‘Armani, isn’t it?’

  Every eye in the room looked Liz up and down with interest.

  Claudia smiled unexpectedly. ‘Pity about the back.’

  Liz looked down horrified. Over the back of one shoulder, like some lurid post-punk jewellery, was half the contents of Daisy’s breakfast.

  In the Ladies there was nothing to wipe it off with. Toilet paper would disintegrate and cover the black suit with bits of tissue, and the roller towel was too short to reach. With a sudden inspiration she delved into her wallet and retrieved her American Express Card. That would do nicely.

  By the time Liz got back into the boardroom Conrad had arrived. She slipped into her seat hoping he wouldn’t notice. Some hope.

  ‘I was just saying, Liz’– he didn’t even bother to look in her direction – ‘that no doubt you’re all wondering who’s on my shortlist for Programme Controller. There are two candidates, both internal. I assume you’d like to know who they are?’ He looked round the room savouring the anxiety on their faces. ‘The first is Andrew Stone.’ There was a buzz of muted approval at the mention of the popular though disorganized Head of News. ‘And the other is’ – he grinned wolfishly, playing with them, enjoying the tension in the room – ‘Metro’s Head of Entertainment, Claudia Jones.’

  Liz felt like a bucket of freezing water had been thrown over her, but it left her mind cool and sharp as a razor. If Claudia got the job that would be the end of Liz. She couldn’t let it happen. She’d have to make a rival bid.

  And yet, how could she? Programme Controller was a body-and-soul job, you had to give it everything you had. She had two small children and she saw little enough of them as it was, God knows. If she was running Metro she wouldn’t see them at all.

  Maybe Claudia wouldn’t get the job, maybe Conrad would give it to Andrew. She glanced over at Andrew, bumbling and bluff, grinning ridiculously as he gathered up his papers. When he leaned forward she saw that his shirt was only ironed down the front where it showed and remembered that his wife had run off with an ex-colleague and Andrew was having to learn domesticity the hard way.

  She saw that Claudia was looking directly at her now, smiling. Of course, she must have known Liz had been passed over. That’s why she’d gone out of her way to humiliate her in front of the whole meeting.

  And watching that confident, catlike smile she knew with absolute blazing certainty that Conrad would not give the job to Andrew. He would give it to Claudia.

  A month ago, when she’d thrown up her promising job at the BBC to join Metro, it had been to help make it the most exciting network in British television. Challenging. New. Exciting. Different. And what would it be like under Claudia? Cheap. Derivative. Tacky. Predictable.

  Liz sat motionless, gripped with panic. The drama over, everyone began to pack up their papers and leave, congratulating Claudia and Andrew as they stood up. The moment was slipping away.

  Suddenly Liz heard her own voice, surprisingly calm and controlled, cut through the murmurs of excitement. ‘Since you clearly think a woman Controller would be a good thing, Conrad, I’d like to pitch for the job too.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Can I have the circulation figures for the last two weeks, Julie?’

  David tried to make his tone carefully neutral. As yet no one but he had noticed the small trickle of readers away from the News to its rival the Daily World. But he had, and he didn’t like the look of it. Trickles, in newspapers, had a nasty habit of turning into floods unless you caught them early, and he wanted to see exactly when and how it had started, before he found Logan sitting on his desk bellowing at him about what the hell was going on.

  Fortunately, studying sales figures bordered on obsession in these days of circulation wars and Julie probably wouldn’t think anything of it.

  David picked up a copy of the Daily World and rolled his eyes heavenwards. He wouldn’t have minded so much if they were losing readers to the Sun – no, that wasn’t true, he would, of course he would, but at least it was a fucking newspaper. But the World! The World was a rag, half porn, half fantasy, with any semblance of journalism thrown out of the window.

  Look at that splash, for Christ’s sake: I WAS KIDNAPPED BY ALIEN SPACECRAFT. It was typical of the stuff the World churned out. Ludicrous stories they never checked because they knew they were crap. True Confessions. Telephoto pictures of Joan Collins or Princess Di sunbathing. And wall-to-wall gossip. Though their gossip writer, Steffi Wilson, was about the only good thing about the rag. A bitch, of course, but at least she was good at her job.

  David stood up and chucked the World in the bin with such force it fell over. It was time for the first editorial conference of the day and they’d be discussing real stories, thank Christ. But for how long? If he didn’t manage to turn the tide he knew what would happen. Logan would want the News to fight back. Using the same weapons as the World.

  ‘Yuk, Mum! You look just like Mrs Thatcher!’

  Jamie, stark naked, stood in the doorway surveying Liz among the heap of discarded clothes she had tried on in her attempt to look the part of the Thrusting Career Woman for the biggest interview of her life.

  For nearly half an hour she had rummaged through her wardrobe wishing it wasn’t so full of disasters: hideous sale purchases, elasticated jodhpurs that made her bum look like a sumo wrestler’s, purple track
suit tops. If only she’d bought Neutrals, like the magazines advised. Then at least her mistakes would go together.

  A taupe cotton suit had looked promising till she noticed the small greasy handprints along the hem, and she’d had high hopes of a black linen sheath, but it was too low cut. She could hardly answer questions on scheduling while peering down her own cleavage.

  Her last chance had been a beige linen pinstripe, two years old with power shoulders and a knee-length skirt. Below the knee and even she would have had to reject it as too old-fashioned. No, it looked OK. Zipping it up she tried not to think about what Claudia would be wearing.

  For two hours last night she’d sat staring at a blank piece of paper thinking What the hell am I going to say tomorrow?

  And then it had come to her. Independent Television’s problem was its audience. The commercial TV viewer was old and downmarket – the Alf Garnett of the viewing public. The BBC had cleverly snaffled the younger, richer viewers – the Martini drinkers and the BMW drivers – yet they were exactly the audience the advertisers wanted. Somehow she had to think of a way of wooing them back.

  When David came in at two a.m. to see if she was coming to bed, she’d been so absorbed in programme plans that she’d looked up in amazement. I want this job! she’d realized with a sudden rush of excitement. I really want it!

  Now in the cold light of day her nerve was deserting her. Would the presentation be just to Conrad or the whole Board? When the taxi driver rang the doorbell ten minutes later it was almost a relief. She glanced across at David, deciding not to wake him as he seemed so exhausted at the moment, and tiptoed towards the door.

  ‘Hey,’ a muffled voice from under the covers protested, ‘isn’t today the big day?’ David’s sleepy head appeared from under the covers, grinning. ‘You can’t leave without a good-luck kiss. I bet Claudia’s getting one.’ He leered suggestively.

  Liz sat on the bed and ruffled his hair. She’d been worried about him last night. He’d seemed silent and preoccupied. ‘Are you OK, love?’ She lifted his hand and kissed it.