The Cutting Room

By Stewart Dudley

Jeff Whittaker has been a trusted communications advisor at the highest levels of government and industry. Now, no one seems to want his advice. Unemployed at fifty-five, Whittaker volunteers at the Jamieson International Documentary Film Festival, where greater value is placed on his clean driving record than his strategic public relations experti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stewart Dudley
• Release date: Jul 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9780993664717

Book preview

Chapter one | Wednesday

ON A LATE-WINTER AFTERNOON in his fifty-sixth year, Jeff Whittaker was spooked by a moment of disorientation—a hazard for one so often withdrawn. He knew the date. He knew who he was. He knew where he was. But he was for a few uncomfortable seconds at a loss as to what he was doing and why. It happened occasionally. Some minuscule blockage deep in the brain, a dike cleaving the connections between person, place and purpose. The previous memory void had opened two years earlier during a restaurant dinner with his former girlfriend; one of their final dates, as it turned out. In the middle of the first course he had been filled with the sudden, absurd fear of having to introduce her and forgetting her name. But then, what was her name? He could not remember. He poured her more wine, tried to partition his brain to leave his hearing tuned to what she was saying while he dragged the muddy lagoon of his memory. He was certain he knew her name—he’d been dating the woman for months—but the recognition ended with her presence, her shape, the texture of her skin, qualities and characteristics that, at the moment, stirred desire in him if not the appropriate recognition. Was it possible he’d squeaked through this far by addressing her only as you, love, darling, honey, kitten, sugar-cookie? Unlikely. You’d think it would be simple. Three words—four at the most. Starting from A, he scoured the alphabet, striking vowels against consonants to ignite the spark of identification. Within seconds he found the last (a B-name, thankfully), but even with it secured, the first demanded the same treatment, as if his mind found it amusing, like a dog satisfied only after one last toss of the ball.

Mustn’t panic.

He inhaled the surroundings. He was standing near the foot of the arrivals escalator at Ottawa’s MacDonald-Cartier International Airport. A few news cameras poked above a crowd of autograph seekers, lenses to the ceiling like rifles at ready. He looked to himself, dressed in a pinstripe navy-blue suit, black shoes, a light trench coat; holding an eleven-by-fourteen foam board cleanly printed with a woman’s name and the logo of the Jamieson International Documentary Film Festival. Click. Ah.

Three others stood with him. Fellow drivers with their own boards, each featuring the name of a festival guest. Whittaker had seen two of the men earlier when he picked up his volunteer kit at festival headquarters. Vince, the harried young volunteer coordinator, had been deep in a phone call, his mobile wedged between ear and shoulder. He shuffled manila envelopes, seemingly unsure how to distribute them among the volunteer drivers. A name was printed large and neat in black marker on each envelope. Whittaker looked for his own name but realized, when Vince finally shoved the one marked ‘Alice Glashen’ his way, that the envelopes were labeled by festival participant rather than volunteer.

One of the other drivers scored Ruben Galloway, the Scottish star of documentary film. Galloway was scheduled to premiere Cora’s Treadmill later that night—by all accounts the festival’s big draw, documenting the over-the-top final tour of folk-rock icons Cora’s Windmill.

Whittaker had never heard of Alice Glashen. But Alice, the old name fallen from grace, triggered his history, a hazy memory from youth—a great aunt, a kitchen-bound woman with huge, jelly-like upper arms that smothered him each visit. Alice and her sister Ruby, two elderly spinsters who awaited their expiry dates together in rural west Quebec. A sagging farmhouse, peeling wallpaper, linoleum nailed to shifting floors, speckled fly strips hanging from simple light fixtures. His father made the pilgrimage late each summer in the 1960s and early seventies to help cut and stack firewood off the summer kitchen. There was electricity, but not enough for heat. Wood was the fuel they knew and trusted.

The memory threaded itself to another, of wood and kerosene, fuels for the pyre that consumed his mother’s uncle Abe, his reliable old Perfection heater the suspect that had reduced his tiny house to cinders. Alone in the middle of winter, ten days dead before anyone knew and by then the charred remains of the old man’s house were lost and ill-defined beneath three feet of snow. A neighbour paid a visit, urged his team of horses into the clearing and was momentarily lost until he realized it was the absence of the house that confused him.

Whittaker was secretly proud of his simple, parochial roots. He marveled that he could reach back in his own lifetime to relatives living what now seemed primitive lives. His own grandfather had grown up on trap lines, barely set foot in school, worked the railroad at thirteen, survived the sweeping death of the 1918 Spanish flu epidemic holed up in a logging camp just west of Sudbury. He was a man who’d witnessed change and dodged bullets, figuratively speaking. Too late to enlist for WWI by the time he’d recovered from the flu; too old by the time WWII rolled around, although a stint in the reserves gave him some sense of doing his part and left the family with a handful of photos of a man in uniform.

How can memory be such a trickle one moment and a torrent the next? Something screwy in the plumbing.

The escalator began to fill with arriving passengers. Alice Glashen’s plane was in. Whittaker took a breath and held up the sign. A woman jostled him from behind, part of a crush moving to meet those descending into the arrival lounge. He wondered why people felt they must walk on escalators and forego the tiny joy of rising and falling without actually taking a step.

Whittaker tugged at his tie, the first he’d worn in months. The top of his button-down shirt had been hard to close that morning. The last time he’d worn it, October fourth—and a Monday, the bastards. They made me get up Monday morning, put on a damn suit and make it to the desk before eight. Ushered to the front door before nine. You’d think they’d at least have the decency to call on Sunday and say, hey, sleep in tomorrow morning. See you at the office for about eleven—and don’t bother shaving.

Galloway was with full entourage, including two members of Cora’s Windmill, neon in denim, leather and every conceivable kind of scarf, bandana, strap and piercing. Whittaker didn’t know their names, but his kids would have. One of the drivers stepped forward and accepted a shoulder bag from the wiry Scot, who glanced over his shoulder. Whittaker followed his gaze. The crowd was making more fuss over a woman already swarmed before she left the escalator. She was vaguely familiar, camouflaged in a full-length down-filled coat. Long, light brown hair spilled out beneath a scarf, a pair of Gina Lollobrigida sunglasses covered half her face. She looked a parody of incognito, which only drew more attention, as if the crowd delighted in the attempted anonymity.

Someone called out, Margaret! then a Maggie! as fans struggled to get closer.

Jesus, thought Whittaker, it’s Margaret Torrance. Her film Red Carpet was entered in the festival, but she hadn’t been expected to attend.

The foot of the escalator was jammed as Torrance stepped off, tall enough to cast glances above the throng. Someone shoved a Sharpie into her hand and she began signing autographs. She kept looking up. Whittaker backed out of the crowd, holding his sign higher. And then he caught her eye. She nodded and beckoned. To him? Whittaker looked to both sides. He was the only driver left. She looked up again, and he held the sign high and pointed to the name. She nodded forcefully, pointed to herself and began to make her way toward him, offering apologies to people in the crowd. Before he knew it, she took his arm and pulled the sign down.

It’s me, she said between practiced scratchings. Sorry, I use it as an alias. Sometimes it works. Not today. She signed another autograph.

You’ll never hide in a coat like that, said Whittaker. It only makes you look bigger.

Thanks for the wardrobe tip.

Let me take your bag, he said.

She released her grip and never missed a beat with the pen.

What’s your name, love? she asked, the Manhattan accent thick and delicious.

Sylvia, said the woman.

Whittaker struggled to stay close, to afford some kind of protection. She was showered with attention, the crowd dense with women. Finally she begged off, told them she hoped they’d be able to catch her film. Then she grabbed his arm and he felt himself tugged. They told me I didn’t need security here, so you’re it. Which way out?

No more bags?

Just the carry-on, she said. Everything I fly with seems to get lost, so I travel light.

She checked her watch. I’m supposed to do a radio interview. They want me at the studio for five-fifteen.

CBC? he asked.

Yeah, what’s that—your version of NPR?

More like our version of the BBC, he said. We’ve got lots of time, unless you want to check in at the hotel first.

She waved it off. If it’s radio, they’ll have to take me as I am.

Maybe they won’t recognize you, he said.

Part driver, part smartass, she said. Lucky me.

At the car, he opened the rear passenger door for her, a gesture he could barely remember ever having done before. He hoisted her small suitcase into the trunk, pushing his hockey bag out of the way to make room. Damn gear. He’d meant to leave it at home.

She was lighting up when he slid into his seat. Uh—

Her shoulders fell. Don’t tell me I can’t smoke in the car.

No one smoked in his car. He wasn’t sure if the damn thing had an ashtray. She had the lighter ready to go.

You’re not a professional driver, are you? she asked.

I’m a volunteer. We’re all volunteers.

What, the whole damn country?

The festival uses volunteer drivers, he said.

So this is your car.

Yes.

Torrance glanced around the interior. The car was clean, but not new. Japanese. Roomy enough, not that any of this really mattered. She’d broken her new rule already, hadn’t been paying attention, had forgotten that the actor’s power of observation was to remain dialed to its highest setting.

You got kids? she asked.

Two. What did this have to do with it?

She snapped the lighter shut and made to put away the cigarette.

They’re both grown and moved out, he said. Look, it’s okay, just open a window.

He broke eye contact in the rear-view mirror and turned. You’ve been traveling, he said. Please. Go ahead.

She lit the cigarette and sat back. He handed her the manila envelope. Your kit.

He fastened his seat belt and guided the car into traffic. They were no more than fifteen minutes from downtown. The airport parkway would take them straight into the city, against the flow of homeward-bound commuters.

She emptied the envelope. A brochure, schedule, welcoming letter, hotel information, a list of contacts, some tickets and restaurant vouchers.

I’m sorry, she sighed, I didn’t ask your name.

That’s okay. Jeff Whittaker.

He watched her take a deep breath, tapping the cigarette against the window frame.

What’s it like in Ottawa, Whittaker?

If you like a big city, he said, it’s no more than a quaint place to visit. Small. Less than a million people. Canada’s capital, which probably accounts for whatever sophistication you encounter. Sits on the provincial border with Quebec, about two hours to Montreal by car.

She knew Montreal and shared a story about holidaying there as a child. Her mother’s family lived in the west island. They’d go to the Laurentians in the summer—a cottage near Ste. Agathe. He pointed out a few sites, she probed politely and learned Ottawa was his hometown. He’d grown up in the west end.

What do you do? she asked, flicking the cigarette out the window.

Good question. No one had asked him that recently. I’m a freelance communications consultant.

I hope that doesn’t mean you’re a writer with a script I simply must read.

Would that be such a bad thing? he asked.

Touché, she thought. She hadn’t had the chance to read many in recent years.

I have nothing for you at this time, Ms. Torrance, he said with mock formality.

Freelance, huh? Is that why you’ve got the time to volunteer at the film festival?

He nodded. Something like that.

Have we got time to take the scenic route? she asked. I need a few minutes to unwind.

Nothing’s far from anything in Ottawa, he said. I could take you along the Rideau Canal.

She leaned forward. I’ve heard of that. People skate there.

Longest outdoor skating rink in the world. More than seven kilometres. About four miles. A UNESCO world heritage site, he went on, slipping into the unfamiliar role of tourist guide. How does a stranger see the only city you’ve ever really known?

He pulled off Bronson Avenue onto the Driveway, which snaked along the south side of the canal then north as it reached for the Ottawa River.

The skateway is rarely open this late in the season, but it’s been cold.

There was still light, and by the time they reached the Bank Street bridge, she could clearly make out people on the ice. Not many at five o’clock on a Wednesday—a few couples, singles and groups of young people moving in both directions. As the canal swung north, the ice surface widened toward Fifth Avenue.

A lot of people skate to work and back, he said.

She put her forehead against the cool glass of the window. That’s very civilized.

WHITTAKER HAD NOT BEEN in the CBC facility since its grand opening in 2004. Formerly a Woolworth’s department store, the renovated tower now installed the network’s French and English radio and television services, and the parliamentary bureau, under one roof and just a few blocks from Parliament Hill. After seven years, the place had the lived-in look and feel of a frat house, a fate not uncommon in media studios where décor was inevitably dialed to comfort the inhabitants rather than impress the visitors—a concession wisely accepted by managers in a business defined by the corrosive stress of deadlines.

We outgrew the place before our first broadcast here, confirmed Kelly, the production assistant, who Whittaker calculated to have been about fourteen on or around the move-in date. Kelly offered tea or coffee, which Margaret declined, and then left them in the green room. Margaret was clearly tense.

Have you done many interviews yet? he asked.

"To promote Red Carpet, none. Can I smoke here?"

I doubt it.

Just as well, she mumbled. Is this a local show?

He nodded. The four to six slot.

The drive, she said.

Right.

Does anyone listen? she asked.

Last I heard, their rating numbers were higher than all other stations combined.

You’re kidding.

It’s a government town, and a capital, he went on. The demographic is different.

More boring?

He shrugged.

I’m kidding, she said.

Good, he said. That means you’re loosening up.

Is it that obvious?

I’m pretty sure the station is a festival sponsor, he said, so don’t worry about getting a rough ride.

It’s not that, she said. I just don’t feel ready to talk about it. A knock signaled the appearance of a short, grey-haired woman who peered around the door and broke into an impish grin at the sight of Whittaker.

Well sing choirs of angels, she said, I thought I recognized Jeff Whittaker being ushered through the maze.

Laura Firney, said Whittaker, making introductions.

I thought I was the draw, said Margaret.

Oh, I’m sorry, you are, you are, said Laura, and all the more for the company you keep. The horse whisperer, she said, letting her eyes take him in. Jeff has a lot of friends in the corp.

We worked together in the federal government, said Whittaker. What grand title have they given you here?

Executive producer of local programming. I’m here to stay. And what about you? I’d say Margaret couldn’t have hired better.

Actually, I’m just volunteering with the documentary festival, he said. Margaret’s counting on my driving skills for the next few days.

Volunteering, good, said Laura. Well, listen, why don’t I escort you to the studio.

Laura led the way and introduced them to the producer and technician.

Mr. Whittaker, maybe you’d like to wait in the green room, said Kelly.

It’s okay, said Laura. Jeff can hang here. He knows the etiquette.

Margaret let her gaze wander over the audio console, through the glass into a spacious studio separated from the street only by twelve-foot high glass windows, giving pedestrians a clear view into the workings of each broadcast. No one seemed to care much. A steady stream of people scurried toward their buses.

We weren’t always invisible, said the producer, following Margaret’s gaze. The first couple of months we were on air, people were plastered to the windows for a peek inside radio. Now we’re all used to it.

Margaret returned the host’s spirited wave. What’s his name? she asked.

Stephen, said the technician. Not Steve, Stephen.

The producer laughed. We’re in news and weather right now, she said. Kelly will take you into the studio and get you set up.

Stephen not Steve, said Whittaker, a not-so-subtle reminder as the door closed behind them. He moved to a position relatively out of the way behind the technician. Margaret was seated directly across from the host at a large, circular table. Kelly handed her headphones, adjusted her microphone and placed a glass of water to the side. The weatherman swept through the control room and exchanged a few words with the producer on his way in to the studio.

Laura made her exit, promising to book a lunch soon. Whittaker wanted to believe her, but he suffered the stigma of the unemployed, the plague of self-doubt and eroding self-esteem, one of the main reasons he had begun to call himself a freelancer—hardly a misnomer given the contracts that had helped sustain him in the past six months, but still one long step removed from the salaried comfort he preferred.

The host was introducing Margaret by way of the festival. She adjusted the headphones, caught Whittaker’s eye and stuck out her tongue.

It’s a delight to welcome to the studio one of Hollywood’s most acclaimed stars, Margaret Torrance. Ms. Torrance, thank you for dropping by.

Please, call me Margaret. And do you mind if I call you Steve?

Oh Jesus, said the technician amid snickers in the control room.

One of my best friends is a Stephen, said Margaret, but he prefers Steve, and I just know I’m going to call you Steve by mistake, so I figure I may as well just apologize in advance.

Not at all, said Stephen, doing a good job of disguising mild disdain. "I’m flattered to be compared to one of your friends. So, Margaret, you’ve moved behind the camera with Red Carpet, why is that?"

Good first question, thought Whittaker.

It’s the usual migration for spoiled actors, isn’t it? she asked. People stop hiring us so we have to make our own films.

You consider yourself spoiled? asked Stephen.

Not really.

But that’s what you just said.

I suppose I did, said Margaret. Mea culpa.

"And surely Red Carpet is more than a make-work project."

What do you mean?

You just said you have to make your own films because people aren’t hiring you.

You’re very literal, aren’t you Steve?

He laughed uncomfortably—for all of us, thought Whittaker.

"But you have been hired, right? I can think of two recent films that stand out: Sambala, the French-Turkish co-production that was nominated for best foreign language film in 2008—"

"—and The Widow’s Peak in 2009, right."

The Spanish picture. It was adorable.

Thank you. Yes, I’ve been lucky to land a few good roles off-shore because there haven’t been any in North America.

Whittaker touched the producer’s shoulder. Can we ask Stephen to focus on the film?

She keyed the talkback channel. "Stephen, I want to know about Red Carpet."

Let’s talk about your film, said the host. We haven’t seen it of course—

No one has.

—the opening is tomorrow night. I understand this is a world premiere.

That’s right, said Margaret.

How do you think it’s going to be received?

I wish I knew, said Margaret. I wouldn’t be half as nervous.

After all your years in the business, I’m surprised to hear that you get nervous.

Clammy hands and all.

So, said Stephen, What should our listeners expect to see tomorrow night?

You can expect to see a lot of familiar faces saying unfamiliar things.

About what? asked Stephen.

About the historical marginalization of women in the film industry.

I can tell it’s something you feel very strongly about.

People don’t make films if they’re un-opinionated, said Margaret.

Whittaker shifted uncomfortably. "I think you can wrap this up anytime.

She’s doing a pretty good job on her own, said the producer.

He could only shake his head.

MARGARET SLUMPED AGAINST THE back seat,