Tiger Man

’Not our capital, perhaps, but as far as our services go, he had plenty to say.’

He paused, and something in his expression communicated itself to Storm.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she asked slowly. ‘Something you haven’t told me.’

David had his back to her. At thirty-two he had already developed a vaguely defensive stoop, his fair hair falling untidily over his eyes, the suit he had worn for his journey to London, hanging a little loosely on his narrow frame.

‘The only way the I.B.A. would agree to continue our licence was if Jago came in with us in an advisory capacity.’

For a moment Storm was too taken aback to speak, and then she rallied, exclaiming bitterly:

‘And how is he supposed to do that? The last thing I heard was that he was off on a lecture tour of the States—I read it in the paper only the other week. But I suppose he’s so egotistical that he thinks he can advise us, give his lecture tour and run his own station all at the same time. After all, a small venture like ours shouldn’t take up more than half an hour or so of his time every other week. Is that it? I suppose we ought to be grateful,’ she added before David could speak. ‘At least he’ll be out of our hair, but it makes me so mad. When we eventually do make a success of the station—and we will, I know we will, he’ll collect all the congratulations and we’ll have done all the work.’

‘It’s not going to be quite like that, Storm,’ David told her. ‘Jago isn’t going to the States. He’s cancelled his tour, and he says the London station is running perfectly now. He’s pretty confident of the management he’s got down there. He’s got interests in television too, of course, but right now what he’s looking for, so he told me, is a new challenge, a chance to get back to the roots of local radio and see how it’s changed in the last decade. He’s coming down here, Storm, to run the station himself.’

Storm had grown steadily paler as David delivered this speech. Now she stared at him in disbelief.

‘He can’t be!’ she objected. ‘Oh, David, surely you didn’t agree to that!’

‘I didn’t have much chance,’ he told her defensively. ‘The I.B.A. were all for it. As far as they’re concerned he can’t do any wrong. He had plenty of pull with them, I could tell that right away. How could I make them listen to me? They’ve given us another three months to try and turn the corner and…’

‘They?’ Storm asked dangerously, her eyes flashing. ‘Or Jago Marsh? What does he hope to prove by doing this?’

‘It’s the challenge that attracts him.’ David replied a little bitterly. ‘He hasn’t changed since we were at the B.B.C. together, unless it’s to become even more ruthless.’

‘I suppose he think’s he’s going to trample all over us, acting the big “I am”,’ Storm complained. How well she remembered the cool mockery with which he had outlined his objections to women in the media, somehow subtly conveying the opinion that women had only one role in his life. Well, if he thought he was going to treat her as a sex object he had another thing coming!

‘Why did you let the Authority foist him off on you?’ she asked David unhappily. ‘If they have to put someone in to monitor our progress, why not someone else?’

‘If it had been left up to them I think they would have revoked our licence altogether,’ David admitted, not willing to admit that the Authority, far from giving him the opportunity to state his reluctance to have Jago join them, had seemed to expect him to be overwhelmed with gratitude for his intervention.

‘Your own job should be safe enough,’ David told her. ‘You’re very highly qualified, Storm, and your references from Frampton’s were excellent.’

‘But I haven’t exactly achieved great success since I’ve been here, have I?’ Storm said bitterly.

She had come to the job from her previous position as an accounts assistant with a large advertising agency in Oxford, full of enthusiasm and ideas, a plan of campaign carefully mapped out from judicious observation of the way in which other successful radio stations handled their advertising. But the last twelve months had not proved as promising as she had hoped.

‘Time we weren’t here, Storm,’ David announced, glancing at his watch. ‘Meet you downstairs in ten minutes?’

Storm nodded. David often gave her a lift home and it was these shared journeys which had initially given rise to their romance.

‘When are you going to tell the others?’ Storm asked from the door.

‘They already know,’ David told her tiredly. ‘Pete was waiting for me when I got back, and there didn’t seem any point in keeping it a secret.’

Pete Calder was one of their two D.J.s, something of a live wire, who made no bones about the fact that he found Storm attractive. An easy friendship had developed between them, and Storm sensed that Pete would have liked to take it a stage farther had she been agreeable.

It was five to six when she walked into the cluttered, boxy room that doubled as an office-cum-staff room-cum-canteen, to collect her coat and bag. Four people were lounging round a table drinking mugs of coffee and munching broken biscuits; the two technicians who worked on the evening shift—Radio Wyechester operated twenty-four hours a day—the disc jockey for that evening, who was Pete, and one of the typists, a small fair-haired girl named Sue Barker.

The buzz of gossip faded a little when Storm walked in. Pete beckoned her over, brandishing his cup.

‘Got time for one before you go, my lovely?’ he asked Storm. ‘Or is the great man waiting?’

Storm’s eyes sparkled a little at this sarcastic reference to David, but wisely she let it go. It wasn’t possible to keep their personal relationship private in such a compact group and sometimes Storm bitterly resented Pete’s contention that because David was quiet and introverted, he must also be weak and spineless. She loved David’s gentleness, she often told herself, and if at times he seemed to bow down to others, it was because he was innately too considerate to argue. Personally she could not think of anything worse than the type of man who dominated with his personality.

‘I’ve got a few minutes yet,’ she told Pete, guessing from his excited air what had been the topic of conversation before she walked in.

‘What do you think about Jago Marsh joining us?’ Pete asked confirming her thoughts.

He had deep blue eyes and wildly curling fair hair. Under his air of casual bonhomie lurked a keen brain and an acid sense of humour, but Storm refused to let him get under her guard, and a certain sense of mutual respect had grown up between them. Pete was the more popular of their two D.J.s, and at twenty-three a year older than Storm.

She was too angry for caution and answered furiously, ‘That the I.B.A. have a nerve off loading him on us!’

‘Come on, Storm,’ Pete objected. ‘We ought to be down on our knees thanking God that we’ve got him. Face it, David might be a nice guy, but there was no way he was going to make this station work. With Jago Marsh in charge…’

‘In charge! He’s coming in in an advisory capacity, that’s all,’ Storm reminded him. ‘David’s still in charge.’

For a moment there was silence from the others, and then Pete’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

‘That’s our Storm! Faithful to old David until the last. Jago’s going to have to watch himself with you around, honey!’

General laughter greeted this sally, and Pete slipped a friendly arm round Storm’s shoulders, pulling her against him.

‘Don’t go into a sulk on me,’ he teased. ‘Even you can’t deny that our David isn’t exactly the dynamic type. He’s a nice guy, Storm—no one denies that—but you’ve only got to look at our ratings—at the way he refuses to stand up to Sam Townley and tell him outright that we won’t get anywhere until we get some decent equipment, to see that he just isn’t cut out for this game. You need to be tough!’

‘Like Jago Marsh, I suppose you mean?’ Storm interrupted bitterly.

‘Be fair!’ Pete objected. ‘You’ve only got to look at our ratings to see how badly we’re doing. No one knows that better than you.’ Pete was ambitious and his eyes were hard as he looked at her mutinous face. ‘Come on, Storm, you can’t have forgotten what happened when you went to see old man Harmer already.’

Storm had not! John Harmer’s comments had rankled and she was still smarting from her interview with him. Harmer Brothers were the largest local employers. They owned two woollen mills, turning out fine cloth in a small and exclusive range of tweeds, using Cotswold wool. Storm had spent weeks preparing an advertising campaign to put before Mr Harmer, but she had got scant response. Despite the rates she had offered—pared down to the bone—and the fact that she had pointed out their widespread audience and limitless possibilities, John Harmer’s reception had been the opposite of enthusiastic.

‘Waste money advertising on a two-bit outfit that only appeals to kids and housewives?’ he had scoffed. ‘I’m a businessman, my dear, not a philanthropist.’

His words had stung and continued to do so, because his comments held an element of truth. Many, many times Storm had tried to persuade David to adopt a more forward-thinking attitude; to develop their range so that they could include more topical subjects; to promote a weekly disco as the other, more successful stations did, but all her suggestions had been met with a gentle but definite rebuff. However, she chose not to remember her past disappointments now, concentrating fiercely instead on her loyalty to David, ignoring the small voice inside her asking if their ‘adviser’ had been anyone but Jago Marsh she would have reacted more favourably.

She despised the man, she told herself angrily, taking no part in the excited conversation going on around her as the others discussed the changes likely to be made.

‘I can tell you one thing,’ Pete announced confidently. ‘He won’t put up with Sam Townley’s tricks for very long. I mean, just look at this place for a start…’

Their studios were shabby and ill-equipped, Storm was forced to admit.

Initially it had been David’s intention to house the venture in purpose-built offices just outside Wyechester, but Sam Townley had soon put a stop to such ambitious thoughts. As the main investor he claimed that he should have the greatest say in how their capital was spent, and David found himself forced to take up a tenancy of some cramped offices over one of Sam’s supermarkets.

‘What do you think Jago Marsh is going to do?’ Storm asked Pete angrily, infuriated by his contemptuous dismissal of all that David had tried to do. ‘Wave a magic wand and produce a modern, fully equipped radio station?’

‘Well, whatever he does it can’t be worse than David’s efforts.’ Pete fought back. ‘For God’s sake, Storm! You might be in love with the guy, but when are you going to see him how he really is? You feel sorry for him because he’s always the under-dog, but whose fault is that? I don’t know what you see in him…’

They had had this argument before, and as always it put Storm on the defensive. She could not explain to Pete, with all his frank appreciation of the modern approach towards sex, that with David she did not feel threatened, forced to give more of herself than she wished, either emotionally or physically, and that she loved him for his gentle acceptance of this.