time and again, it means they might begin the search with the ambition of finding a man and a woman to speak on a certain topic. And that starting point can make a powerful difference – the search becomes wider, with new expert voices often discovered in the process.
We live in an age of much greater consciousness about the importance of representation, but I still find myself in settings that are overwhelmingly male. All-male panels – or ‘manels’ – remain commonplace at some conferences, and even where high-profile events such as the World Economic Forum in Davos have strived to achieve a better gender balance, it’s still apparent when you go there that many of the women present are journalists or conference staff. One year, during an off-the-record media session with the Iranian president, I realised I was one of around ten women in a gathering of well over a hundred people. As the president’s speech ended and the questions began, I mulled over what I might ask. And then it struck me that given the tiny number of women in the room, there was a strong chance the session might end without a woman’s voice being heard at all. Suddenly, the principle of participation seemed far more important than the actual question. I stuck up my hand and spoke.
Uncomfortable truths can emerge even when women are in prominent positions. Why was Claire Foy, who took the lead role of Queen Elizabeth in the hit television series The Crown, paid less for her work than Matt Smith, in the supporting role of Prince Philip? In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, the actor Emma Thompson was one of the first to say that the shocking details emerging were part of a deeper malaise. ‘In our systems there are not nearly enough women, particularly in Hollywood, in positions of power. There aren’t enough women at the top of the tree – in the studios – who could perhaps balance everything out. There aren’t enough women on set. This is part of our difficulty,’ she said. ‘This is a gender dysfunction.’6
Today when I hear people say everything’s going in the right direction, that their daughters won’t experience the same barriers, and even that women hold all the cards – I am not convinced. Of course it’s true that my generation has had opportunities that most of our mothers did not, but we’ve also come up against obstacles that many of us expected would be gone by now. Work and childcare remains a difficult balancing act for too many women and the bulk of home responsibilities are also mostly ours. Gender pay gaps illustrate the paucity of women in higher-paid roles while equal pay claims raise questions about how they are perceived and valued in comparison with male colleagues.
Perhaps part of the answer lies deep in our subconscious. I know that when I close my eyes and conjure up an image of someone at the top of my own chosen profession – a main presenter or a prominent interviewer – I see a man. I see a white man, as it happens. It reflects the reality of the world that surrounds me, but the permutations of that subconscious image can be far-reaching. They might seep into judgements I make about people performing that role – do they fit the picture I have in my head? If not, perhaps I will perceive them as having less of a right to be there. And what about an internal effect – how might that image affect the way I view my own potential and chances of progression?
Just as I was writing this book, the emergence of #MeToo and #TimesUp made me look back on my own experiences and think anew about their impact in shaping my sense of self. I’ve been flashed at and groped in public places and know how vulnerable it can make a girl or an adult woman feel. At work, there were times early in my career when I felt my suggestions weren’t taken as seriously as a man’s might have been (‘Stick to what you’re good at’ was one comment from a manager). At Today, there have been occasions when I had the distinct impression that a prominent contributor walking into the studio was looking across at my co-presenter and wishing he was doing the interview with them rather than me.
None of this has held me back, but I do wonder whether men set off on their careers with an expectation of advancement, while women can feel under pressure to prove themselves. I’m also struck by the tricky transitions in and out of the workplace that are par for the course in most women’s lives – and the worries that come with them: will their maternity cover be better than them? Will the juggling of career and family work out?
Bearing the weight of childcare responsibilities can also reduce women’s ability to take advantage of job offers that might boost their salary, because they’re more tied to their commute, working hours and keeping their routine unchanged. And when they take up part-time and flexible working options the result can be a disproportionate wage penalty, a promotion penalty or simply a perception that priorities now lie elsewhere. Ellen Kullman, who was one of the most powerful women in American business when she was running the corporate giant DuPont, has said that during her time there women were being promoted every 30–36 months, while men were moving on every 18–24 months. The perception seemed to be that the women needed longer to show their capability.7
Phase one of my own working life began when I got into broadcasting in the mid-1990s. I felt an immense thrill at getting a foot in the door of the industry, although this period also included working overnight shifts, when it was hard to feel optimistic or energised about anything. Not long afterwards, however, I got a break into live presenting, which came while I was working in the BBC’s business and economics unit. Producers would sometimes have the chance to give a brief on-camera summary of the day on the financial markets, and after doing this a few times I was offered some reporting shifts. One week, there was a gap in the business presenters’ rota and I was asked to fill in, my knees shaking as I did so. But one thing led to another – I never went back to being a producer and later moved from business coverage to the international channel BBC World News.
That is how what I now think of as the middle phase of my career began, coinciding with an intense period in my personal life – twenty months after the birth of my first son, I had twin boys. Returning to work after my second maternity leave proved a fine balancing act, in which the overriding concern was to keep life as simple and manageable as possible, rather than trying anything new. Gradually, though, the domestic rhythm became more settled and I started to wonder what the next stage of my career could potentially involve. As Radio 4 had been a companion to my life from the age of seventeen – when a wise person advised me that listening would be good preparation for university interviews – I knew I would love to work there. But I had no experience in radio production or reporting, let alone presenting. The only way I could gain some, and get my voice on air, would be to use my days off to do occasional shifts, filling in on news and other factual programmes in the hope that it might stand me in good stead for any future opportunities.
None appeared to be forthcoming. I was fortunate that the BBC was a large enough organisation to have a variety of internal possibilities to explore, which meant I could dip my toe into new waters and gain exposure while still having the security of my main role as a news presenter. But it was an odd and often disheartening time, as I made ad-hoc appearances on unfamiliar programmes, wondering if I was in danger of becoming a jack-of-all-trades. What motivated me was the strong sense that I had but one life to see how far I might be able to progress – I didn’t want to look back later on and wish I had tried a bit harder.
I realised, however, that there was a downside to how opportunities had come my way thick and fast a few years before, when I started presenting. I had been asked to do one interesting thing after another, been based in Singapore and Washington, and reported frequently from other parts of the world too. I had rarely had to push for a particular opportunity or project, with the result that by this stage I was missing an essential skill: being able to make a pitch for myself. I went to see one BBC editor or executive after another, asking if they might try me out, but found I was lacking a compelling answer to the inevitable question: ‘What is it that you want to do?’
Over time, there were some valuable lessons: I learned to be straightforward and clear about what I was asking for; to be ready to turn my energies towards a new avenue if the first one didn’t work out; to keep an open mind and explore multiple options, even though that sometimes felt overwhelming; to do my best to express my hopes and ambitions without apology or diffidence – even if it felt excruciating at some moments and pushy at others.
From there I started to think about a set of skills