but also in his heart. I wondered how long it would be
before he tired of being let down and gave up on me. I’ve come to know, since Mummy died, that each moment happens only once – there are no second chances. My evening with Max was lost.
I couldn’t afford to lose another one. After all, he didn’t have the same imperative to see me. He had a wife.
I only had him.
Now there’s Mona I’ll be able to see him without interruption, and the thought lifts my spirits. I’m walking along the river path now. The tide’s low,
but the river is dark today, turbulent. As I hurry towards Greenwich a crazed voice rises from the shore: ‘For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall
be exalted.’
I stop for a moment. On the high, weed-strewn wall across the inlet a thick rope has caught on a steel mooring ring, and has been twisted by the tide in such a way as to mimic a crucifix; the
Christ figure’s head is swinging to one side, his arms akimbo, his feet, the soggy ends of the rope, dangling in the encroaching tide. The owner of the voice stands beside this accidental
rope effigy, preaching his sermon to the waves.
Another of the local lost souls, I think, and hurry on.
By eight I’m on the Clipper from Greenwich Pier. Winter is coming. The cityscape, as the boat lifts and drops on the swell, is all blue and grey: pale October sky, glinting tower blocks,
slate-grey riverwater chopped up by the wash from the boat.
I wonder how Daddy and Mona will get on. I mustn’t worry. Mustn’t think. There was no other choice.
It’s a relief to walk into the normality of the offices, to wave at Ben on reception.
‘Morning, Theodora!’
‘You’re looking lovely as ever,’ calls Beatie, one of the admin staff.
The voices come at me as I move through the building; people look up from their desks, smile and wave.
I’m a big name. Theodora Gentleman – turning southeast England’s worries around. I nearly kicked up a fuss when I got shifted to radio from TV. I could have taken them to a
tribunal. Whatever their arguments for shifting you, the fact is you’re no longer twenty-something, but a mature woman who doesn’t, in the view of the powers-that-be, pull in the
viewers the way younger ones do. I wonder when it is one slips from being a presentable face to one that no longer cuts it. I come to the conclusion that it’s arbitrary. How can one wrinkle
tip the scales from acceptable to unacceptable? But some divinity decrees that one day, you have crossed an imperceptible line, and if you kick up a fuss you’re out anyway.
If you’re a woman.
However, there are things about radio I’ve come to prefer. People are open in a way they aren’t on TV – I can probe deeper, get stories out of them. It’s the psychology
of the confessional or the therapist’s couch: if they can’t see the face of the person they’re talking to, they’ll reveal more. It’s challenging, and I’m good at
it. I’m on the way up. My goal is to have a show during prime time and Rachel, my boss, has been working at it. She’s asked me to go and see her today. So I grab a coffee from Hayley
our intern and go to her office.
‘How are you, Dora?’ I feel as if Rachel examines me as she speaks. ‘You’re looking better, I must say.’
‘Better than what?’
‘Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate. Ever since your mother died, really. Caring for your father.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’ve got a live-in carer for Daddy now, ’ I tell her.
I have to emphasise this. The day I told Rachel that Daddy had moved into my granny flat, she’d frowned at me.
‘You’ve taken on the sole care of your father on top of having your son at home? You’re a bloody saint, Dora.’
Her expression belied the fact she was wondering whether I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I knew what she was thinking, that my looking after Daddy was going to impinge on my
professionalism, the way
before he tired of being let down and gave up on me. I’ve come to know, since Mummy died, that each moment happens only once – there are no second chances. My evening with Max was lost.
I couldn’t afford to lose another one. After all, he didn’t have the same imperative to see me. He had a wife.
I only had him.
Now there’s Mona I’ll be able to see him without interruption, and the thought lifts my spirits. I’m walking along the river path now. The tide’s low,
but the river is dark today, turbulent. As I hurry towards Greenwich a crazed voice rises from the shore: ‘For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall
be exalted.’
I stop for a moment. On the high, weed-strewn wall across the inlet a thick rope has caught on a steel mooring ring, and has been twisted by the tide in such a way as to mimic a crucifix; the
Christ figure’s head is swinging to one side, his arms akimbo, his feet, the soggy ends of the rope, dangling in the encroaching tide. The owner of the voice stands beside this accidental
rope effigy, preaching his sermon to the waves.
Another of the local lost souls, I think, and hurry on.
By eight I’m on the Clipper from Greenwich Pier. Winter is coming. The cityscape, as the boat lifts and drops on the swell, is all blue and grey: pale October sky, glinting tower blocks,
slate-grey riverwater chopped up by the wash from the boat.
I wonder how Daddy and Mona will get on. I mustn’t worry. Mustn’t think. There was no other choice.
It’s a relief to walk into the normality of the offices, to wave at Ben on reception.
‘Morning, Theodora!’
‘You’re looking lovely as ever,’ calls Beatie, one of the admin staff.
The voices come at me as I move through the building; people look up from their desks, smile and wave.
I’m a big name. Theodora Gentleman – turning southeast England’s worries around. I nearly kicked up a fuss when I got shifted to radio from TV. I could have taken them to a
tribunal. Whatever their arguments for shifting you, the fact is you’re no longer twenty-something, but a mature woman who doesn’t, in the view of the powers-that-be, pull in the
viewers the way younger ones do. I wonder when it is one slips from being a presentable face to one that no longer cuts it. I come to the conclusion that it’s arbitrary. How can one wrinkle
tip the scales from acceptable to unacceptable? But some divinity decrees that one day, you have crossed an imperceptible line, and if you kick up a fuss you’re out anyway.
If you’re a woman.
However, there are things about radio I’ve come to prefer. People are open in a way they aren’t on TV – I can probe deeper, get stories out of them. It’s the psychology
of the confessional or the therapist’s couch: if they can’t see the face of the person they’re talking to, they’ll reveal more. It’s challenging, and I’m good at
it. I’m on the way up. My goal is to have a show during prime time and Rachel, my boss, has been working at it. She’s asked me to go and see her today. So I grab a coffee from Hayley
our intern and go to her office.
‘How are you, Dora?’ I feel as if Rachel examines me as she speaks. ‘You’re looking better, I must say.’
‘Better than what?’
‘Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate. Ever since your mother died, really. Caring for your father.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’ve got a live-in carer for Daddy now, ’ I tell her.
I have to emphasise this. The day I told Rachel that Daddy had moved into my granny flat, she’d frowned at me.
‘You’ve taken on the sole care of your father on top of having your son at home? You’re a bloody saint, Dora.’
Her expression belied the fact she was wondering whether I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I knew what she was thinking, that my looking after Daddy was going to impinge on my
professionalism, the way
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