Game Over

4

‘Josh, hi, it’s me. Guess what? Bale went for it! The infidelity with an ex show.’

‘And I’m supposed to think that’s a good thing.’

‘Oh, come on, Josh.’ It’s not like him to be down on me. ‘I’m back on top.’

‘Which is where you most like to be.’ Josh laughs, despite himself.

‘Both literally and metaphorically,’ I add cheekily.

‘Are you flirting with me, Cas?’ Josh asks, but not seriously.

‘I’d be flirting if it was anyone but you,’ I assure him.

‘Cold comfort.’

‘We’re going to call it Sex with an Ex. What do you think?’

‘I’m trying not to think about it.’

I sigh, disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Look, I’ve got to ring off – there’s so much to do. I just wanted to tell you my good news. After all, you more or less gave me the idea.’

‘Oh, horrible thought. Bye now.’

I put the phone down and do my best to push Josh’s reserved response to the back of my mind. Instead I focus on the fact that Bale is as grateful as I could hope. He has offered to pay me a bonus related to the ratings we secure. I’m likely to make a killing. My success has duly subdued Fi and I have decided to be magnanimous. I don’t trust her, but practically speaking she is my assistant and I need her to be closely involved in this project – there is so much to do.

We start with the advert.

Are you about to get married? Do you trust your affianced 100 per cent? Is there an ex in his or her past who could still affect your future? Please write in complete confidentiality to P.O. Box…

Such a simple call to action.

‘Will it work?’ asks Fi.

‘If I know anything about human nature, this will work.’

‘Where should we place the ad?’

‘Initially in the sad, loser magazines, Gas and Gos.’ I throw a couple of mags over to her. I respect Fi enough not to expect her to be familiar with them. She picks up the mags and begins to flick through them.

‘My God, these are obscene. Don’t these people have any self-respect?’

I don’t look up from my budget sheets. ‘No.’

She starts to read the contents page. ‘“I Had Sex with 100 Men in Three Years”, “I had a Threesome with my Mate and his Girlfriend”, “The Crotchless Knickers are by the Booby Drops – Working in a Sex Shop”, “We’re Sex-perts – Women Who Really Rate Themselves in Bed”!’

‘It’s ideal,’ I interrupt. ‘The readers are willing to bare their souls and their bodies for a measly fiver and a couple of column inches on the letters page. These people are looking for platforms. They’re a gift. However, Fi, I don’t want to be another Jerry Springer. I don’t simply want the oddballs of this world. We are going to have to think of an extremely clever incentive to attract normal people.’

Fi groans. ‘But it will be easier to get horrid people on the show. They have no self-awareness and also they’ve had fewer opportunities.’

I glare at her. Easy (unless relating to my sexual morals) is not a word I like in my vocabulary. I know that the success of the show will lie in whether I can make the average viewer feel uncomfortable. There are zillions of fly-on-the-wall and chat show programmes where the guests are modern-day ghouls. Normally the viewer sits back, cushy on their chintz. They comment that the characters on talk shows are priceless, pure escapism. Chat shows do a public service: people watch and thank God that their own lives are better than these are. I want Sex with an Ex to be a different sort of show. I want cosy couples to stiffen in each other’s company. I want them to struggle for conversation in the ad break. I want them to move apart a fraction and doubt each other. This show is their lives, whatever class, age, race or religion they are.

‘So who do you want to attract?’

‘Joe and Joanne public. The people we trust. Policemen, nurses, librarians, teachers, the guys at Carphone Warehouse.’ Fi eyes me sceptically.

Eventually we agree to place the advert on the TV6 web page and the internal electronic noticeboard, to send a researcher to gyms and clubs to do some on-the-spot recruiting, and to place a telephone line after our Don’t Try This Alone programme. It does quite well on the early evening slot.

Any reservations Fi had regarding the number of volunteers we’d find are soon swept away. Within days of placing the adverts we are inundated with responses; they arrive by the sackful. The world, it appears, is full of those who are about to pledge love until death do them part but actually fear a much more secular separation. It was as I’d expected. They are the most depressing reads ever.

My girlfriend, Chrissie, is the sweetest, kindest, most loving woman I have ever known. I’m honoured that she accepted my proposal and agreed to he my wife. We are due to marry in four weeks’ time. We are having a big do, no expense spared. After all, you only do it once. We plan to have a large family and one day live by the sea. I love her and she loves me. She says so all the time.

Do you think she’d ever be unfaithful?

I only ask because my best mate reckons he saw her in a pub with an ex-boyfriend of hers. I’m sure it was innocent but when I asked her about it, she said he must have made a mistake…

I get married in seven weeks’ time. I love my fiancé so much and I’m sure that he loves me, pretty sure. But not absolutely certain. There was a girl he went to college with. She ditched him for an American rower. My best friend got very drunk at a dinner party last night and said some really mean things. She said that I caught him on the rebound, that he’s out of my league. I wonder-if he had the choice, would he choose me?

… I found letters, you see. Why would she keep his letters?

… When you marry you give up your past. You have to. I’m ready for it. But is he? He’s always been a bit of a one for the ladies. Nothing serious. He’s just a flirt. He can’t help himself. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It doesn’t bother me. Too much. It’s just that my mum says that men like him never change. It’s not that there is an individual ex that I’m threatened by. To be frank there are dozens…

There are a number of psychotics. People who said they’d rather see their partner dead than unfaithful. I believe them and pass their letters on to the police.

We employ a team to trawl through the responses, but Fi and I can’t resist an occasional morbid dip into them. Although the letters are in many ways individual there is a commonality. There is a mustard ripeness of those desperate to confirm their own supremacy in their partner’s affections.

‘Do you think they’ll all look hideous?’

‘Why do you suppose that, Fi?’

‘Well, to be so desperate, so insecure?’

I throw over to her a picture of one of the letter writers. The woman in question is thirty-two, slim, blonde, elegant. She has enclosed a CV detailing that she has a first from Cambridge and a Ph.D. from Harvard. Fi looks amazed. To shake her further, I pass a photo of the fiancé. He is smart and mediocre. Fi looks bewildered.

‘He is so ordinary.’

‘Yup, to you. But to her he is a god.’

‘I don’t get it.’ She shakes her head wearily.

‘Nor do I, babe. Maybe it’s a London thing.’ I don’t believe this, but I think it might be a comfort. ‘Anyway, get her on the show.’

The team is gathering around the mountain of letters, which appear to have a magnetic force. I take advantage of their presence, ‘OK, status. Have you seen the lawyers, Jaki?’

‘Yes. We have to be extremely careful, but the terms aren’t impossible. For those who know they are being filmed and are part of the set-up we can use any footage we like, as long as the punter is informed that the tape is running. “Informing” them can be as simple as posting a notice saying cameras are in operation, and to be super-safe, we must get the guests to sign this.’ She waves a weighty document, about the thickness of the Yellow Pages. ‘The fine print will bore the proverbials off most guests and they’ll sign. You can use CCTV footage as long as the local council agrees. I’m working on clearance. Those cameras are everywhere – shops, garages, on street lamps in dark alleys’ – I like the fact that she’s been thinking laterally – ‘libraries, public car parks, hotel foyers.’

‘I can’t imagine these public and commercial bodies will agree, though, will they?’ asks Fi.

‘As I say, I’m working on clearance but as long as all the correct legal documents are in place no one seems too squeamish about blowing the whistle. Restaurants and hotels see it as free publicity. However, taping the dupe is much more difficult. If someone doesn’t know they are being taped it’s illegal to show footage of them, unless they are committing a criminal act and it’s to help the course of justice.’

‘Oh,’ I sigh. This isn’t good news. The whole premiss of the show depends on catching these guys and gals red-handed, so to speak.

Jaki continues. ‘The only way round it is to conceal their identity. Do it all through implication. So, for example, show stills of the dupe and current fiancé,’ fiancée, which the fiancé,’ fiancée will have released. Then show stills of the “tempting party” and then when filming the actual seduction scene we’ll have to be creative with those black banners that obscure identity or body parts. It will be clear whether the dupe has fallen or not, without having to actually say so.’

I think about it. As the film will be shown for the first time in front of a live audience and all the parties, it will be impossible for the dupe to deny if he/she is the person committing infidelity. And even if they do, the guaranteed ensuing row will still make great TV. I can’t lose. ‘Sounds manageable. Anything else?’

‘In addition, you can’t show any actual lewd acts, even after the watershed. We must bleep out the C word, at a minimum, and other expletives if you want to avoid controversy.’

‘Which I don’t.’

Jaki shrugs. ‘It’s your call. In summary Mr and Ms J. Bloggs have very few legal rights over their privacy.’

‘Fantastic. Document everything. Remember the golden rule.’

Jaki nods. ‘Yes, I have it tattooed on my cranium, “Thou shalt cover thy arse.”

‘Precisely. OK, Ricky, what did the scheduler say?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual bollocks that their responsibility is to heighten the built-in tension between random luck and rules in a game structure – between the predictable and inconceivable, the controllable and the frenzy, which creates enjoyment, blah blah. Need I go on?’

‘No. What slot do we have?’

‘They offered us seven thirty on Saturday night, going out against Cilla.’

‘That’s stupid. Blind Date has been running for sixteen years. It still pulls in over seven million viewers. I’d never think of running a head-to-head.’ I pause. ‘Well, at least not until towards the end of the series. What else did they offer? It’s hardly as though we are flush with brilliant programmes.’

‘Monday at ten.’

‘Take it. Gray, how are the sponsorship and advertising deals coming along?’

‘Good. The advertising is all in place. The TV trailers are set up and we’ve optioned press and poster adverts – the exact placement will be confirmed a few weeks before the first show. As for sponsorship, we have a lead. A teenage retail store is interested in sponsoring the show. It would be a cash-and-barter deal. You know the type of thing: the guest would be obliged to wear their gear, etc. The creatives have come up with some suggested break-bumper ideas.’

Gray cautiously puts the ideas on the table. It’s an unsubtle play on the words ‘top shaft’. The creative team annoy me on a number of counts. They are incapable of accepting a creative brief without whining that they are overworked, which is unlikely to be the case in a channel struggling to come up with programmes; they take long lunches; they switch off their mobiles; they never accept advice, use dictionaries or attend meetings. They proudly admit to reading the Sport and comment on the size of the tits of their female colleagues. And finally, worst of all, their ideas are puerile. Gray reads my face.

‘You think they’re puerile, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘It won’t work. The Independent Television Commission won’t touch it. And even if we could get it through, it says the wrong things about the show. Get Mark and Tom to come up with some more up-market directions.’

I push open the pub door and am hit by the familiar and comforting smell of beer-soaked carpets, cigarette smoke, and salt and vinegar crisps. It’s mid-September and although the sun is weakly trying to battle with the autumnal winds I’m glad Josh has decided to sit inside rather than in the beer garden. I spot him immediately. He is sitting in the corner reading Private Eye, oblivious to the adoring looks he is attracting from the small gaggles of women office workers. I weave my way towards him and kiss him on the cheek. He puts down his reading matter and, grinning, points to the vodka and orange which is waiting for me.

‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses. ‘How did you know it was a vodka day?’ I normally drink gin and tonic except when I’m under extreme pressure at work, when I drink vodka and orange. I like to think the orange cordial will somehow compensate for the fact that I haven’t eaten a proper meal for days.

‘Well, since you started this Sex with an Ex project, neither Issie nor I have heard from you. I figured if you hadn’t had time to call us in ten days you wouldn’t have had time to eat either.’

‘Sorry,’ I mumble. Josh shrugs. I don’t have to say much more. I’m still reeling from the ticking off he gave me this morning when he finally got through to me at work. He’d made it quite clear that he was sick of talking to my answering machine. I’d insisted that given a choice, of course, I’d prefer to be drinking with him and Issie, but developing a new show monopolizes my time, whether I like it or not. Josh swept aside my objections and bullied me into coming out for a drink with him. To be honest I was grateful to concede. ‘Where’s Issie tonight?’

‘Yoga. She said she might join us later. So in the meantime you’ll just have to put up with me boring you with stories about court.’

‘Bore away.’ I grin, because Josh is anything but boring. He is a good storyteller. He practises criminal law and is always full of amusing anecdotes about his day-to-day dealings with the dregs of society. We chat about his work and his flat (he wants my advice on bathroom tiles and I agree to go shopping with him next Saturday); he tells me about his latest flirtation, which he doesn’t appear to be that enthusiastic about – although he assures me that she has stunning legs. The chat is comfortable and relaxed. I listen intently and whilst I’m bursting to talk about Sex with an Ex I resist. Josh knows me well enough to know I am practising extreme self-restraint and so finally allows me centre stage.

‘And what about you? How’s Sex with an Ex panning out?’

This is what I’ve been waiting for. I know that I can discuss all aspects of the show with Josh without the reserve I have to employ when talking to anyone else. In the office it is of paramount importance that I appear confident and assured at all times. I can’t express any doubts or misgivings even about small things, like the colour of the set design. With Josh, on the other hand, I can bounce from extreme confidence to misgivings and back again in one easy move, without him thinking any the less of me. I sigh.

‘I don’t want this show to be tacky, but I am working against the odds. When we don’t have good ideas we have to employ amazingly expensive actors and construct lavish set designs – it’s an attempt to distract the viewer.’ I explain. ‘Sex with an Ex is a good idea so we are investing sweet FA in the production. I’ve seen the set – it shivers dangerously whenever anyone sneezes or shouts loudly. If only Bale would dig a little deeper into those pockets of his. I know they are not limitless, but they are fathoms deep.’

‘Is Bale being tight?’

‘He did, at least, agree to a warm-up act – you know, someone to keep the audience amused during the commercial break.’

‘Well, that’s something.’

‘Yes, the epitome of generosity. He suggested we pick up some act from Covent Garden and pay them thirty quid,’ I bite sarcastically.

‘Who are you getting as the presenter?’

‘Well, I wanted Zoë Ball, Yasmin Le Bon or Nigella Lawson, but Bale instructed me to go and get “some new totty” straight out of drama school. That way he won’t have to pay her more than a few grand for the series.’

Josh laughs. ‘Typical Bale.’

‘Absolutely. Even so, I’m optimistic. After interviewing for ever we found the perfect presenter. She is busty, with short spiky hair and personality. She wears cropped tops and baggy trousers. She’s young.’ I don’t add that I see this as an advantage because she’s too young to feel particular about the tragedy bus she is if not driving certainly stamping tickets on.

‘Have you worked out the detail of the show’s structure?’

‘Yup. We advertised and were inundated with responses from the paranoid and jealous. We interview these individuals on tape. We draft in the threatening ex and interview them too. The motivation of the ex is usually revenge or desperation (if they were dumped), curiosity or vanity (if they were the dumpee). We then follow all parties (including the unsuspecting dupe) for a week, intercutting the preparations for the wedding and the possible betrayal. The key to the show is that we bring all the guests back and play the footage live. The unsuspecting dupe thinks they are going to be on Who Wants to be a Billionaire or something similar, right up until the moment they are on stage. It will be on stage that the letterwriter gets to either faint with relief or discover if their worst fears have been founded.’ I stop and check Josh’s reaction. He’s very pale and sweaty-looking. Perhaps he’s been drinking too much. ‘You do think it will work?’

‘Yes, sadly I think you’re on to a winner.’

Pleased, I stand up to get the drinks. Issie calls Josh’s mobile to say that she’s not going to join us because she doesn’t fancy being in a pub after meditating. We stay until last orders and I have a great time.

As I climb into a cab, Josh wishes me luck with the show and makes me renew my promise to help him shop for bathroom tiles. I nod, blow him a kiss and fall back on to the leather seat. My slightly inebriated state brings with it a sense of well-being and all is right with the world. I really should make more of an effort to see more of my friends.

I find the interviews with the selected couples obscene and fascinating at once, and have insisted on conducting as many of them as possible myself.

‘So, Jenny, you wrote to us in response to the article you saw in Gas. Let’s run through the details of the letter, so you can confirm them for me and I can get them straight in my head.’ I laugh in a jolly oh-silly-me-I-find-it-so-hard-to-retain-information way. I find it gets them onside. ‘Do you mind?’

Jenny shakes her head. The movement is exaggerated. She is trying to appear confident and assured. However, she is chainsmoking full strength Benson and Hedges, lighting another before the first stops smouldering – not the actions of a confident woman. Jenny is skinny but not the fashionably anorexic skinny that is prevalent in the studio. She’s skinny because she can’t afford to smoke and eat. We all have choices. According to my notes Jenny is twenty-three. She looks forty-five but then I suspect she was born looking forty-five. I suppose the advantage is she’ll still look forty-five when she’s sixty-five. Her face is pinched and reminds me of a balloon the day after the party, all shrivelled and twisted into a knot. She’s had a lifetime of poor school results, no chances and no splendour, which is why she’s here.

‘Jenny, you must be very excited by the chance to be on TV?’

‘Too right, yeah.’

‘And it’s been explained to you exactly how the show works?’ This is code speak for ‘You know the humiliation you are about to undergo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You wrote to me because you think there is a possibility that your fiancé, Brian Parkinson, is being unfaithful. Or at least he would be, given the chance.’ I tilt my head and quietly cluck.

‘Yeah.’

‘And you mention in your letter that you have your suspicions as to who the object of affection is.’

‘Too right, yeah. My best friend, Karen.’

‘Karen Thompson,’ I read from my notes. She nods again and swaps stub for fresh fag. ‘Can you give me a brief history?’

‘Brian was going with Karen when I met him.’

‘And that was when?’

‘I was seventeen.’

The story is bleak. Brian has yo-yoed between Karen and Jenny for the past six years. It’s hard to understand what drives the change of allegiance. I think it is something to do with which of the two women is employed at the time and can supply money for his fags and booze. The only cheering thought for humanity is that the women have not allowed Brian’s indecision to come between them. More often than not, all three of them go to their local together. I’m not delicate but I wonder how any of them live, not knowing whom Brian will want to go home with on any given night.

‘She’d be better getting it on with Roy, Brian’s brother. After all, she’s my bridesmaid and Roy’s the best man. It’s traditional, ain’t it?’ She slaps my thigh and laughs. But the laugh is tinny and nervous. She stops suddenly and leans close into me. I know from Issie and a number of my other friends that she is about to indulge in a confession. In a more religious age she would be offering up prayers to Mary the virgin mother, saint of desperate cases.

‘I really wouldn’t like to lose him, darlin’. I love him. But if I’m going to lose him, it’d better be before the wedding.’

I back away, disentangling myself from the woman’s cigarette fumes and her earnest stare.

My interview with Karen is almost identical, except Karen is as fat as Jenny is skinny. Her arms wobble when she raises a glass of beer to her mouth. Her life has been one of steaming hot chips wrapped in newspaper and pastry cakes with custard. She’s wearing a flowered tent. I pull Fi to one side.

‘Fi, has she had her clothing allowance?’ I ask horrified. There are some shows that encourage their guests to wear bright outfits, so that they look like fat sugared almonds. This isn’t supposed to be one of those.

‘Ya, but we couldn’t find anything in Harvey Nics to fit her,’ Fi whispers back.

‘Well, what about a high-street store?’

‘We couldn’t find a researcher who was prepared to go and find out.’

I sigh and resign myself to the tent. I wonder how the colours will work against the backdrop of the set.

Karen, the ‘other woman’, explains that she thinks she has as much right to Brian as Jenny has.

‘After all, I was with him first.’ But people aren’t like pieces of furniture or clothes; ‘I saw him first’ isn’t exactly a reason to lay claim to someone. I remind Karen that Brian must love Jenny, or else he wouldn’t have proposed. Karen corrects me and points out that it was Jenny who proposed and in fact she bought her own ring too. She admits that she is still sleeping with Brian. She shakes her tits at the camera: ‘He likes something to get hold of.’ I leave the room.

‘That is so depressing,’ comments Fi.

‘What is?’ I ask.

‘The way both of those women want the same man and by this time next week one of them will have been rejected. Don’t you think that’s awful?’

‘I think that’s the point of the show. Now, here’s the rest of the schedule. I want you to take a cameraman and stay with Jenny. Get lots of shots of her trying her wedding dress on, interviews with her mum, something to depict their financial struggle to put on the best wedding reception they can afford and a shot of her on her own, preferably in a church.’

‘So you are expecting Brian to choose Karen, then?’ asks Fi.

‘Not so much actively choose, more like his dick will jump out of his trousers through habit. Now, I need the logistics crew to work out where the camera should be for the grand seduction. Karen is planning to seduce him over a pint and some pork scratchings in their local.’

‘Very glamorous,’ says Fi wryly.

‘She’s not a glamorous girl. And he’s not a glamorous boy. It should be on their usual turf – we don’t want to arouse suspicions. Besides which, our budget is a pittance. Now go to it.’

Next I interview Tim Barrett. I think that Tim has a good career ahead of him as a criminal. Not because he appears particularly vicious, immoral or crooked but because he would be impossible to identify in a line-up. He is neither extraordinarily skinny nor obscenely fat. He is, in fact, of average build, average height, average looks and average intelligence. His hair is mid-brown; his eyes are a brown/grey/green colour. I forget which. After close investigation I discover that the only thing that distinguishes him at all is his fanatical, obsessive jealousy in relation to his fiancée, Linda. He runs through his suspicions regarding three of her exes. I don’t think his suspicions are founded. But that’s irrelevant. As he tells the stories he fidgets on his chair, moving from one buttock to the other. His hands appear to have developed an independent personality. They are animated. He picks up his coffee cup, puts it down again, he picks up a pen, pencil, ashtray, clipboard, biscuit. Everything, other than the biscuit, is put into his mouth. After he has spent fifteen minutes boring me with his paranoia and insecurity I think that this girl deserves a fling. If we do manage to cause a rift between them we will be providing a public service. I instruct a private detective to track down some of her exes immediately.

My next interview is with a petite brunette, Chloe. Chloe is an advertising executive in a small advertising agency in Bristol. She is more like the type of guest that I crave for the show. She is certainly attractive, with shoulder-length, curly hair, a winning smile and a neat, sharp body, which she is obviously and justifiably proud of. She’s aged twenty-five. She’s bright, funny.

And insecure.

I imagine that generally she hides it quite well. I imagine that her acquaintances and colleagues describe her as confident. But behind her back her friends discuss her ugly neediness. After chatting to her for four and a half minutes it is obvious to anyone who has ever read any popular psychology books (and I’ve read them all) that she is a woman who loves too much. She believes she is half a person unless she has a boyfriend. The men she meets believe she is an entire person, until they become her boyfriends. On sensing her dependency, their cocks go limp and they leave her. However, as I listen to her chat, it seems to me that her fiancé. Rod, breaks the mould. He actually likes her dependency; it makes him feel valued. But her historical, consistent failure has eroded her trust and faith in the concept of fidelity. Instead of being grateful to have found Rod and keeping her head down, Chloe is hitting the self-destruct button by testing him.

On national TV.

As the interview comes to a close and I have all the details I need regarding Rod’s exes, I ask Chloe why she feels compelled to verify his fidelity on TV. She must know that she is risking personal humiliation and universal disdain.

She shrugs and with a bravado which we both know to be fake replies, ‘I think if you are going to be a failure, you should try to be as conspicuous as you can about it. Who wants to be a run-of-the-mill failure?’

I love this wisdom. You’ve got to hand it to the British public. There’s an Aristotle in every one of them.

The queue for the live audience is massive – it stretches the entire length of the car park,’ laughs Fi excitedly. This is a good sign. The PR vehicle must have done its job.

‘What do they look like?’ I ask. The correct live audience is essential. There are lots of things that the majority of us will do in our homes that we wouldn’t do in public. Things like: cheer at other people’s insecurities, rejection and fear, encourage savagery and disloyalty, positively celebrate humiliation and distress. I need people who are either honest or stupid enough to have these reactions on live TV.

‘Generally poor and unhealthy-looking. But they appear oblivious to their aesthetic drawbacks – they’re oozing excitement,’ says Fi.

This is exactly what I want to hear. An anonymous voice cries, ‘Spot checking, ladies and gents.’ Nobody has a clue what that means, if anything at all, but it has the desired effect and the audience squirm with nervous expectancy. I don’t blame them. It is exhilarating. We put on a bit of a show to get them in the mood. The runner’s bleep pings incessantly; she ignores the increasingly desperate calls. The director (long-haired and self-important by necessity), production manager (a grumpy git – it’s a professional qualification) and the stage manager (careworn and exhausted) huddle in a corner debating furiously about some technical point or other. The production executive is running around the set as though her life depends upon it. A plethora of cameramen – dressed entirely in black, baggy combat trousers and Ted Baker shirts, Cats or DKNY trainers – are standing around, trying to look casually indifferent, as though their lives and souls depend upon it. The set, although flimsy, is attractive. The backdrop is a close-up picture of dozens of fat red hearts. At first glance the impression is romantic; a dip in the lights and the effect is satanic, open-heart surgery on stage. There are the compulsory comfy couches in the middle of the stage, ensuring everyone gets the best view of the gallows.

‘Where did he come from?’ I am referring to the warm-up act. He is a fat, northern comedian who has blatantly been on the circuit longer than Schumacher. He looks like a pantomime dame and his requests for the audience to ‘Go wild, go crazy’ illicit nothing more than a few embarrassed titters. Fi shrugs, ‘He does well with the Kin’s Kismet audience.’

I listen to him telling a few mucky jokes. He is the only one laughing.

‘What were you thinking of? I’ve told you I want an up-market show. Which bit of the word up-market is it that you don’t understand?’ I snap. Somewhere I can hear someone say, ‘Thirty seconds to live.’

‘You told me to deal with the detail,’ she defends.

I’m not in the mood for debating. ‘I want him off the show by next week, Fi.’ The voice in my earpiece says, ‘Twenty seconds.’ I tune back in to the fat man.

‘It’s a live show tonight, so if you are sitting next to somebody you shouldn’t be, move.’ The audience finally begins to smirk. ‘Ten seconds.’

‘Did you see anyone move, Fi?’ I ask. I’m always thinking about potentially adulterous relationships. ‘Eight, seven, six.’ There is a swell of expectancy.

‘Now a big hand for Katie Hunt, this evening’s presenter.’ The audience starts to clap their hands raw for the remote chance that there may be a nanosecond mug shot on TV. The fat man tries to get Katie to twirl like a modern-day Anthea. This is proof, if we needed it, that he has had his day. Katie wouldn’t twirl if Robbie Williams asked her to. Katie casts him a withering look. I’m relieved – at least she understands what type of show I’m making here.

Three, two, one – we are on air.’ The roving camera sweeps magnificently across the audience and set. The camera reminds me of an internal. It must do the same for Fi, as I notice she writes ‘smear’ on her hand with a felt tip. The emergence of the cameras acts as an aphrodisiac on the audience. Everyone visibly brightens; they grow a couple of inches, smile a bit wider.

‘Hello, and welcome to the very first Sex with an Ex.’ The stage manager initiates more applause; the audience catches on quickly and begins to cheer. Katie smiles back at the camera, appreciating their appreciation.

‘You smell the same.’

‘Smell? What do I smell of? ‘He is mildly irritated. Scrupulously clean at all times, he has made a particular effort tonight.

‘My youth.’ She smiles.

She leans closer to inhale him again. She notices he is quivering. She notices she is. He turns a fraction and he is staring into her eyes, straight past the pupils, and directly hitting her mind and soul. She is sixteen again. Which makes him eighteen. She has been propelled back to the doorstep of her parental home. The season is irrelevant; she feels warm and safe. It’s late at night, very late, because although they abide by the curfew and get her home by 10.45 p.m., they are literal: she is home but not in her home. It’s past midnight and they are still sitting on the step. They can’t go in because her mother is waiting up in her nylon dressing gown. Her mum will want to know what the film was like, and she’ll make a cup of coffee and stay up and drink it with them. They don’t want to talk to anyone else. They never do.

Did. ‘Did’ is the correct verb because she’s not sixteen, she’s twenty-six and she’s not on the step of her mum and dad’s house in Croydon. She’s actually just bumped into Declan outside Pronuptia bridal shop.

‘Big box,’ he comments, grinning, and he’s just the same. The grin is just the same; it lights up her stomach and a bit lower.

‘Er, yes. ‘She hesitates. The natural thing to say next is, ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ but Abbie doesn’t say the natural thing. She says, ‘Wow, it’s been a long time.’

‘Yes. Ten years.’ He pauses for a moment and then adds, ‘Four months, two weeks and about eight days.’

‘Delighted and shocked, Abbie blushes and glances both ways up the street. She’s not sure what or who she’s looking for. But she’s relieved not to see anyone she knows. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been counting.’

‘Fair cop. I haven’t. I just made up the stuff about months and weeks.’ They both laugh because it always was easy for him to make her laugh.

‘Fancy a drink?’ he adds casually. And why shouldn’t she? It’s just a drink. She hasn’t anything else planned except a night in with a face pack. Lawrence is out tonight – rugby practice.

They make their way to a nearby wine bar that he knows. She is impressed with the way he takes charge and really he couldn’t have chosen better. As she pushes open the door, she is overwhelmed by the smell of fags and booze, by the litter of noise and dark suits. Money and irresponsibility, the most potent aphrodisiacs. The wine bar is packed. Smart bods forcing their way to the bar, into each other’s psyches and beds. The suits are Armani and the bed linen will be Egyptian cotton. It’s Abbie’s kind of bar, full of deeply attractive and arrogant media types, all of whom have disposable incomes matched only by their disposable lifestyles. She hasn’t been to a bar like this for ages. It was in a bar like this that she met Lawrence. But once they’d been together for a few months such dens of sin were superfluous. It was easier to sin on the settee in his flat.

The music pumps through Abbie and Declan’s brains and rushes to her knickers and his cock. Music just does that. No one is dancing, it’s a bar not a club, and although Abbie is tempted to sculpt out a space on the designer scuffed wooden floor, she’s far too shy to do so. Besides which she’s still carrying her huge box with her bridal dress and six-foot veil. Where would she put it? What is she thinking of? Bringing her dress into a smoky bar? She notes that she’s tapping her foot. In fact, her leg is jerking almost uncontrollably. She wants to dance. She needs to whoosh and swirl. Suddenly she understands stripping. Music does equate to sex. It thumps and jars and consumes and fills and ultimately relieves. Abbie prefers to make love to music, rather than in silence. It helps to create the mood. Whichever mood she wants. Fast and frantic or slow and seductive. Abbie shakes her head. What is she thinking of? Sex, that’s what. Why is she thinking of sex? She’s not out with her fiancé; she’s with Declan. She should not be thinking of sex.

‘Drink?’ she yells. She orders him a Becks and herself two gin and tonics. She downs one at the bar and then returns to her seat with the other. She doesn’t normally try to calm her nerves with drink. Then again she’s not normally nervous with men. She’s been with Lawrence for three years so she can’t remember the last time she felt flirtatious or sexy. But she is nervous with Declan.

And flirty.

And sexy.

‘So you don’t drink Bacardi and Coke any more?’ He smiles.

‘No.’ She smiles back. ‘And I assumed you’d moved on from Woodpecker cider. Cheers.’

They clink glasses. They fall silent, as they have so much to say. She wants to ask him why he never wrote once he went to university. Why didn’t he reply to any of her letters ? She remembers the endless waiting for the postman, the fruitless, pointless hoping. The answer is he met a girl from Nottingham in Freshers’ Week. For the first two terms it seemed like love. He reads her mind and says, ‘I never was much of a letterwriter.’

He wants to ask her who she lost her virginity to and was it good. The answer is that, furious and bored with waiting for his letters and calls, she eventually climbed into bed with his cousin within hours of blowing out the candles on her seventeenth birthday cake. Yes, it was good, very good.

She reads his mind and assures him, ‘Pretty average, really. Like everyone’s first time.’

They both start to laugh at the cosmic connection that seems undamaged by the years of neglect. They had always found talk easy. Indulging in endless outpouring of thoughts, views, dreams and emotions. Now they exchange suppositions, opinions, histories and sentiments. They don’t notice the difference. It is still there, the familiar but indefinable sense of possibility. He’d always filled her with such a pure sense of adventure. She loves Lawrence dearly, but he doesn’t create that sense of future possibilities; he brings with him a sense of future stability. She thought it was impossible to feel sixteen unless you were sixteen, but now she is within inches of Declan, it’s back, that overwhelming sense of YESness. Her mood is buoyant as she drinks those first few G&Ts. Quickly they pass a respectable G&T hour, so they swap to red wine.

‘Aren’t you hot?’ he yells over the crowd.

‘Hot?’ she asks with feigned nonchalance.

‘You are still wearing your gloves.’

‘Slowly she peels them off, revealing her engagement ring.

‘When?’ he asks.

‘Two weeks,’ she answers. The answer does not create the same rush she experienced this morning when she checked her countdown calendar.

‘He’s a lucky man,’ says Declan, but he won’t look at Abbie. ‘We should be celebrating. I’ll buy us some champagne.’

Occasionally when she wanders around Heal’s furniture department or sits at a dinner party with Lawrence, Abbie finds herself idly wondering whether, if she’d met Declan later in life, he would have been ‘the One’. Occasionally Abbie has wondered what sleeping with Declan would be like. The front step of her parents’ house didn’t offer the correct opportunity. As she watches him at the bar she believes that it can’t hurt to find out.

As Abbie pushes back the hotel sheets and climbs on top of Declan she is sixteen again. As she leaves the hotel room, three hours later, under the cover of darkness she feels her twenty-six years and to be frank she rather likes it. Declan was a lovely part of her past and that’s where he should be. She’s walking with a swagger. It’s the swagger of a confident young woman who knows she’s marrying the right man.

When Lawrence watches the tape he misinterprets the John Wayne stance and is disgusted.

For a moment the studio is silent. Awash with betrayal, regret and fear. Lawrence is staring at Abbie. His jaw is hanging open, which is unbecoming. He looks like the dumb animal Abbie has reduced him to. It’s complex. I admit that. I signal frantically for camera two to move in tightly. Close up, close up. I want to see every muscle twitch, every emotion exposed. Abbie is shaking so violently that I think she may spontaneously combust. I suspect she wishes she could. She resolutely stares at the floor. Too humiliated and ashamed to think beyond how she can get out of the studio, she doesn’t even attempt to catch Lawrence’s eye. She’s forgotten that Declan ever existed. Declan is trying to look unconcerned. He is sitting back in his chair, with his long legs casually crossed, and he’s tapping his toe. His brave performance is exposed as the act it is when camera three picks up the fact that he is tearing at his own skin, digging his nails so deeply that his quicks are brilliant white. Boy, are they regretting it now. They are a mass of sweaty palms, quivering lips and knotted intestines. Their faces ask what they’ve done.

I wish I’d never written the letter.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Fuck.

Lawrence breaks the silence. ‘Why did you do it?’ he upbraids.

‘Why didn’t you trust me?’ accuses Abbie.

‘Fuck,’ says Declan.

That’s the cue for the audience. They become animals. They boo and hiss and spit and claw. They are collectively relieved that, in this instance, it is someone else who has been fucked over. Unscathed, they fly into an uncontrollable frenzy. The savages hurl abuse and insults. I think that if they’d had rotting fruit to hand they’d have used it. They despise Lawrence for being cuckolded. They loathe Abbie for being a slut. And they forgive Declan because he has got a cute grin and he’s a bit of a lad. The synthesized music pipes cheerfully through the studio. Oblivious to the fact that Abbie is sobbing hysterically and has to be carried off the stage. Her legs buckle. It’s a sad pathetic sight. I hope camera two got a close-up.

‘Good job, Cas.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Way to go, Cas.’

‘Thanks.’

‘High five, Cas.’

‘Yes, very high.’ I efficiently accept the congratulations and charge through the corridors with the air of someone who has a mission. Thing is, I have. My heart is pounding; the blood is rushing through my being. The show only finished minutes ago but already I know it is a huge success. Massive. The audience won’t leave and we have had to call in security. Lawrence punched Declan. Live on stage! I’m delighted. It couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it. Then Jenny, Brian and Karen – what a horror show! Brian wasn’t sure if it was the worst or best day of his life. The audience loved his unashamed cockiness.

I walk into my office, which is awash with flowers and champagne. Good news sure does travel quickly. I had expected to be doused in congratulations and good wishes. After all, nearly everyone at TV6 is scared of me and therefore they try hard to ingratiate themselves. But I never calculated a result as big as this. I’m delirious, but I know that it is essential that I appear unmoved.

‘Where should I put these flowers?’ asks Fi.

‘Anywhere.’ I casually read the cards. There’s one from Josh and Issie. It reads, ‘You are an unscrupulous, overly ambitious, single-minded exploiter. Well done. Love, your best friends.’

I grin. There is another from Bale. It reads, ‘Big things get bigger very quickly.’

‘You are so profound,’ I mutter.

‘I’ll crack open this bubbly, shall I?’ asks Fi. She’s holding a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot.

‘If you like. As long as you understand that this isn’t a celebration.’

Her smile vanishes. ‘Isn’t it?’ She is genuinely dumb-founded.

‘No, it isn’t. We need to see the overnight runs and also the log call book before we can really celebrate. In fact, I think I’ll go and sit in the log room now to talk to the duty manager.’

‘But I’ve booked Bibendum. The team’s looking forward to it. They’ve worked so hard over the last eight weeks.’

It’s true we’ve all worked regular fourteen-hour days.

‘On whose budget?’

She’s crushed. She’s silent. I relent. ‘OK, you guys go along and I’ll catch you up. If the news is good, I’ll pay. If it’s not, I’ll pay.’

Sometimes I’m nice like this but it’s just to confuse them.

I make my way through the rabbit warren of corridors, leaving the sound of popping champagne corks behind me. I stumble past piles of A4 paper and mountains of clip files (the paperless office is a figment of management consultants’ imaginations). I note dozens of plastic crates that haven’t been unpacked in the twenty-four months that we’ve been here. I wonder if someone knows something that I don’t. As I approach the normally silent log room, where all complaints and compliments are handled, I am struck by a general buzz of activity.

I wake up with an aching back and neck, a furry mouth and a fuzzy brain. Not enough sleep. It’s a huge effort, but I force concentration. I establish the following facts: I’m not in a bed, my own or a stranger’s; I’m not hung over, but there is a glob of saliva on my desk where my head has been. I consider that this is one of the reasons I’m careful about intimacy. Imagine if I had woken up with the man of my dreams, if such a thing existed, and there had been a string of saliva on the pillow. It would certainly put him off. Far too human. However, such speculation is irrelevant, as my pillow last night was a box file, my bed companion a portable computer. I try to think it through. I’m here because—

The phone rings. I reach for it and automatically chant, ‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good…’ – I hesitate and check my watch. It’s 7.15 a.m. – ‘morning,’ I confirm, confident that it is morning, but I’m less sure why anyone would be calling me at this hour.

‘Thank God,’ says Josh.

‘Oh, hi,’ I mutter, reaching for my fag packet. I light up and inhale. The nicotine hits me behind the eyeballs. That’s better.

‘We were so worried. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Hey, don’t come on all marital with me,’ I laugh. ‘I’ve been here all night. Did you see the programme?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’ The tar and bad stuff have helped. I now know why I slept at my desk. ‘We were taking calls all night. I took the last one at 4.45 a.m. The lines were jammed. TV6 has never seen anything like it!’

‘Lots of complaints, then?’ asks Josh sympathetically.

‘Complaints, sure,’ I say dismissively, ‘but compliments too and applications to go on the show.’ I check the latest figures in the log book. ‘Two hundred and forty-seven calls!’ I do some quick mental arithmetic. ‘One hundred and thirty complaints! Can you believe it? I only have to get fifteen before I am obliged to take the programme to the ITC for reappraisal.’

‘So that’s good news?’ Josh asks hesitantly. He simply doesn’t get it. ‘All those complaints are good news?’

‘It’s caused a national outcry. It’s huge. It’s fantastic. It’s – look I can’t chat. I need to call PR – we’ll have to put out a press release. I wonder if any of the papers have picked anything up yet.’

‘It’s a shame you didn’t make it to Issie’s last night. We had ricotta and basil risotto, as planned.’ Josh slices through my euphoria. I suddenly remember that I had promised to go straight to Issie’s after the show. In fact, I’d begged them to meet up. I’d insisted that Issie miss her pottery class and that Josh skip his rugby practice. I’d worried that the show would be a disaster. We’d all known that if that was the case Issie and Josh would be the only people I’d be able to face.

‘Oh, shit. Josh, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. I just got caught up here on the telephone lines. Shit. I’m sorry.’ This is genuine. I feel awful. There have been occasions when Issie and Josh have let me down, always due to circumstances they couldn’t control. I’ve sat endlessly staring at the clock wondering where they were. Why they didn’t call? My irritation that their supper is ruined has turned to fear as I imagine they’ve been abducted or murdered or involved in a road accident. Worse, that they are dating someone unsuitable. I know that standing each other up is a bishop sin.

‘I should have called,’ I add meekly.

‘Yes, you should have. We were worried.’ Josh can’t stay angry with me for long. ‘The risotto was ruined. I’ve had to soak the dish but the stubborn bits of cheese won’t come off.’

I know I’m off the hook. ‘Try Fairy Liquid extra concentrated king-strength,’ I laugh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tonight.’

‘You’d better.’

I can see my reflection in my computer screen. By rights I should be looking rough. Last night I secured just a few hours’ sleep. Over the past eight weeks I’ve been averaging six hours a night at best, even at weekends. I haven’t had a night out in all that time. I’ve existed largely on sandwiches from the staff canteen and double espressos from the Italian deli round the corner. I can’t remember when I last saw natural daylight or a vitamin. Either boxed or first-generation.

And yet I look fantastic.

Well, there is no point in my being falsely modest. I look keen and lithe and sharp and I’m glowing. I know I look like a woman who’s just fallen in love. And the reason for this, the little beauty secret, tip for the top, is that the show is a success. I rattle around in my desk drawer looking for a toothbrush and all the other necessary toiletries. I open my stationery cupboard. I keep a full wardrobe at work for all events. A few basics: trousers from Jigsaw, T-shirts from Gap, white cotton knickers from M&S. Plus a couple of Nicole Farhi trouser suits and shirts from Pink, in case I’m unexpectedly called into a big meeting. Some Agent Provocateur underwear and a number of garments that vary in their size and transparency but are reassuringly, constantly black. These are for when I get lucky. None of this is appropriate for today. I see what’s lurking behind the plastic file dividers. Eventually I select Miu Miu trousers, a slash-neck Cristina Ortiz wool jumper and Bally boots. I find a pair of clean knickers and a tiny lacy bra in my filing cabinet. I know today is my day and it’s important to look the part. I go for a brisk workout and then shower in the office gym. By 8.45 a.m. I’m back at my desk.

Fi is in too. It looks like my budget was thrashed at Bibendum.

‘You look crap,’ I tell her, as I generously offer a can of Red Bull.

‘Thank you. You look as fresh as a daisy.’

I graciously accept the compliment. After all, I do. ‘Was it worth it?’ I ask.

She grins. ‘Yeah, I had a fantastic time. Or at least I think I did.’ She holds her head steady for a moment trying, no doubt, to chase a faint memory. She gives up.

‘Well, that’s the main thing,’ I assure.

‘We went on to the Leopard Lounge. I didn’t go home – I’ve come straight in.’

I’m impressed by her dedication. I try to ignore the brewery smells she’s exhaling and fill her in on the excitement of the night in the log room.

‘Sounds a gas.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘I’m glad it went so well.’ She starts to tell me some funny tale about Di getting off with Gray, and Ricky trying to pull a transvestite. I’m glad they’ve had a good time. But I’m not interested. I know I’ll lose most of today. The team’s productivity will be severely depleted because of the necessary administration of Alka Seltzer and intravenously dripped black coffee. They’ll spend hours discussing the pros and cons of the various hair of the dog cures. Choices being Bloody Mary, a pint of Guinness, fried eggs with gin. Most importantly they will all be extremely ashamed of themselves and so tomorrow I’ll get commitment overdrive.

My phone rings again.

‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good morning.’

‘Jocasta?’

‘Mum.’

‘How are you, dear?’

‘Brilliant. Mum, did you ring about the show?’ I’m thrilled.

‘Show?’

‘My show. You did watch it, didn’t you?’ I’m devastated. I can’t believe that my mother has forgotten about the show. Even when things were really hairy and busy around here, in the penultimate couple of weeks before the show went live, I’d religiously visited my mum on Sundays. I had been there in body, although, I admit, not always in spirit. I’d had to spend a lot of time on my mobile. But when I wasn’t on my mobile I had taken time to tell her all about the show. Now my mother is acting as though she’s never heard of it.

‘Oh yes. Erm, Best with an Ex.’ She demurely avoids the S word. Actually, I’m quite impressed with her title. I should have consulted her before the show went out. Best with an Ex is so much more subtle than Sex with an Ex. I wonder if there is any chance of a name change at this stage. My train of thought is interrupted as Mum mithers on.

‘I did watch the first ten minutes but then Bob, from across the road, popped over to fix that drawer that’s been sticking. You know, the third one down in the kitchen.’

Bob, one of a small number of names that my mother floats past me on a regular basis. ‘Mrs Cooper said that there’s a buy two and get one free offer on shampoo at Boots at the moment’; ‘It’s Albert and Dorothy’s fortieth wedding anniversary on Saturday – they are having a supper’; ‘Dr Dean was asking after you’. It’s tedious keeping up with the comings and goings of these tiresome people.

‘I couldn’t have the television running whilst he was in the house,’ comments my mother.

I’m disappointed, so move quickly to get her off the line. A non-offensive exit demands a certain amount of self-sacrifice. I agree to go shopping with her on Saturday. I regret the offer almost the moment the words are out of my mouth. It will be a disaster: it always is. For a start she will want to find a bargain in the Army and Navy store, whilst I will want to spend obscene amounts in Bond Street. If we do go to Bond Street, her face will settle into one of the expressions I can only assume she most favours, shocked or cross. Shocked at the prices and cross at life. I can’t bear her sudden outbursts in small boutiques. ‘That’s how much? There’s nothing to it! Look at the hemming. I could run you one up on the sewing machine.’ Which is odd, as she has never sewn in her life. Worse than her audible disgust will be her silent condemnations of my frivolity, the incessant tutting at the cashpoint as I hand over one of my magic pieces of plastic. Therefore we usually shop at the Army and Navy store, where I destroy her pleasure by continually pointing out ‘nice’ things and adding for clarity, ‘Nice for you, Mum.’ Revenge is always hers as she buys whichever monstrosity I’ve picked out and gives it to me for Christmas or my birthday. All this accepted, we regularly put ourselves through this purgatory on earth. What else can I do? She’s my mum. I wonder if I can get Issie or Josh to meet us for lunch.

By the time I put the phone down most of the team have arrived. Except for Tom and Mark. Their status as creatives excludes them from having to appear at work at all if they are hung over. The scene is as I’d predicted: I am in an office with the walking dead. They are pale and unshaven, and they smell of booze, sweat and sex. There is a certain amount of squabbling, the excuse being that the vending machine is all out of non-dairy creamer, the real reason being the bad heads. However, the atmosphere is immediately dissolved when Ricky bursts into the office.

‘Have you seen the ratings?’ he screams.

Shit, the ratings. I must have been affected by the booze fumes to allow the ratings figures to slip my mind. The number of calls we have received that have been duly logged suggests we have a stonking success on our hands. However, I can’t count my poultry just yet. Ratings are the accurate measure of exactly how many people watched the show. This is the acid test.

Ricky is breathless. I know it is good news.

‘Well?’

He grins. Enjoying his moment.

I humour him and extend my grin a fraction wider. ‘Well?’ He hesitates again. This time I consider firing him. A girl can only be so patient.

‘1.4 million viewers tuned in at 10.00 p.m.’ There is a whoop. The team throw off their hangovers to cheer and shout and clap and generally behave like delinquents on E, which is not so far from the fact. I stay calm.

‘Well done to marketing.’ I smile across to Di and Debs. I know that the number of viewers we draw in as the initial credits roll is 95 per cent down to the marketing. Keeping the viewers for longer than five minutes is down to the quality of the programme. I am at the mercy of the remote control. It’s so undignified.

‘And what were the numbers after the centre break?’ I ask.

‘1.6 million!’

Now I scream.

Really loudly.