Game Over

6

I couldn’t have wished for a better outcome. Declan enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame so much that he ached for more. He has a talent for the kiss-and-tell. Which arguably isn’t a nice characteristic, but it is commonplace. And commercially admirable. Within a week of the first show he has appeared in most tabloids, giving sordid details of various aspects of his and Abbie’s relationship, immediate and distant past. Some of it is undoubtedly true. He has been interviewed on local radio and TV stations, he has an agent and rumour has it that he is reading a couple of screenplays. There’s no truth to this rumour. I know. My PR team initiated it.

Lawrence has asked his boss for an overseas posting but this has not shaken off the rat pack. It simply means he has become the Pied Piper for the European paparazzi as they maniacally search for him.

Abbie has gone underground. However, her actual presence isn’t such a loss, as a number of her friends, family and associates are available to make comment. The woman who sold her the wedding dress offered extraordinary insight, as did the vicar who should have married them, three or four of Abbie’s other ex-boyfriends and perhaps, most questionably, her hairdresser.

‘Fi, can you believe her hairdresser betrayed her?’ I ask, aghast.

Jenny, Brian and Karen have gone one step further. They’ve happily handed over letters they’ve written each other, posed for photographs with their families and finally invited OK to cover their wedding, although we are still unsure whose wedding it will be.

We have created a real live soap opera. By week two we have secured ratings of 1.8 million. By week three there’ve been two articles in the serious press discussing the nature and motivation of betrayal. The ratings tip 2 million.

‘What’s making you grin so much?’ I ask Jaki, looking up from the letters commenting on the show. ‘Have you been promoted and they’ve failed to tell me?’

Jaki laughs. ‘No, but they should.’ I admire her; she never misses a trick. ‘No, it’s something else. I was at a dinner party on Saturday night.’

‘Oh yeah, what did you eat?’

She perches on my desk and Fi stops working on her laptop. There is nothing we like better than a good conversation about food. Conversations about food have an advantage over actually eating. You can take an avid interest without jeopardizing your waistline. Conversations about food are better than conversations about sex, which are often mildly pervy or frustrating. I’m not sure how to rank conversations about food and actually having sex. It’s close.

Jaki details her menu comprehensively, taking an inordinate amount of time to describe the chocolate soufflé. We hungrily hang on her descriptions of double cream and blackberry sauce. When she’s told us that the mints were Benedict, I drag her back to her original point.

‘So what’s nearly as exciting as a promotion?’

‘Well, after dinner we usually play games. So that the boys can get competitive legitimately.’

‘And the girls whip their arses openly,’ adds Fi enthusiastically.

‘Exactly. Sometimes we play Outburst or Trivial Pursuit but more often than not we prefer the more revealing Truth or Dare. This week someone, not me, suggested playing Sex with an Ex.’

‘Nooooo,’ Fi and I chorus. We both immediately understand the importance of being absorbed into real-life popular culture. And so damn quickly!

‘It was brilliant. Everyone had to name the ex in their past. You were right, Cas: there is always one who can send a thrill through the groin or heart. Then they had to say whether they would risk an uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, one-for-old-times’-sake bonk.’

‘But wasn’t it all couples at that dinner party?’ I protest. We are a small team; the stuff we don’t know about each other’s private lives isn’t worth knowing. Believe me.

‘Yup. Ellie and James, Daisy and Simon, Nige and Ali and Toby and me. That was the attraction. A public outing.’

‘So what happened?’ asks Fi, excitedly playing with a staple gun. I take it from her before she causes serious bodily harm.

‘Well, to start with everyone lied through their teeth. Those who I reckoned would do it became extremely demure. Those who wouldn’t tried to pretend they had an experimental streak – which they blatantly don’t have. But as the alcohol flowed the truth began to emerge.’

‘And?’ Fi and I chorus. We both know the result we want.

‘Huge rows. Ali walked out, Ellie burst into tears, Daisy and Simon’s party was ruined.’

‘Wheeeey heeeeey,’ squeals Fi. ‘Our first row.’

‘But think,’ adds Jaki, ‘if we were having this row in Clapham, how many similar rows must be taking place both north and south of the river, up and down the country! It’s become a matter of national debate.’

‘Jaki, go to marketing and tell them to slap a copyright on the board game, if they haven’t already. They should be talking to game manufacturers before anyone else does. I wonder if we could get it out before Christmas?’

‘That’s only four weeks away,’ Jaki protests. I silence her with a glance. She rushes off. Her dark Afro hair and pert bum sway jauntily.

‘Did you notice, Fi, Jaki never said how her evening panned out with Toby?’

By the end of November, on week four, the ratings rip through the 4.5 million viewers’ mark, and Bale insists I start interviewing again for a second series. The initial pilot series was scheduled to run six episodes. I have enough material to go to ten.

‘Ten,’ yells Bale. ‘You are far too conservative. Interview enough couples for twenty shows.’ I try to object and explain that the show will only work whilst we can surprise the stooges – that’s why we filmed so many shows in advance.

Bale glowers away my objections. ‘Cas, have you seen last night’s ratings?’ I shrug. I hope my shrug implies that I am far too busy having a fabulous social life, juggling several other projects at work and actively contributing to society by doing charity work to have checked the ratings. The reality is I checked the ratings this morning, before I went to the gym. I have worked out my related bonus and mentally spent it half a dozen times.

‘Have you any idea how big this is? It’s more ratings than this channel has ever had on a single show. It’s the same number as ITV gets for—’ – he names one or two really big shows that ITV has as staples on their schedule. ‘It’s more ratings than—’ – he names one of our competitors – ‘has ever had.’ He’s not telling me anything new. I know this. ‘I’ve had offers from other channels to buy us out.’

I startle. I didn’t know this.

He reassures me, ‘Of course I’m not going to take them. Our lawyers are selling the idea to networks in the States, Australia and Asia. Murdoch wants to meet me!’

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ I reply coolly as I help myself to tissues from his desk and wipe his heinous spittle off my face. ‘Yeah, it’s good. I think we were helped by Melvin Bragg and Sue Lawley both condemning the show.’

‘It’s good. You’re good.’ Bale smiles. He’s genuinely pleased with me. And why not? I’ve just saved his channel. More, I’ve probably made his career. I smile back and hand Bale the latest draft of my terms and conditions. It’s not at all eighties in its scale. I’m not looking for a Boxster convertible or a six-figure salary. Although I’m confident that the bonuses will take me there. Bale picks up the paper and holds it at a distance. He eyes me suspiciously. He doesn’t need to be afraid. The most demanding perk I’ve requested is that my mum gets to meet Tom Jones when we do The Audience with Tom Jones show on Christmas Eve. I’ve also suggested that Issie’s younger brother gets a temporary placement as a cameraman during his university vacation and that Josh can have half a dozen tickets for the Cup Final. Bale doesn’t know this and naturally assumes the worst. He feels compelled to be nasty.

‘Yes, you are good. It is relatively easy to reach the dizzy heights of your chosen profession if you’re not hampered by morals and squeamish sentimentality.’

‘You’d know best, Bale,’ I reply and leave his office. I’ll give him some privacy to review the T&Cs.

Kirsty had thought long and hard about this after the private detective contacted her. At first it’d seemed ridiculous. She thought some of her mates were winding her up. But then she began to understand. A new show. Something to do with confidence in fidelity. To be specific, Eva Brooks had contacted the TV station to say that she had some doubts about her fiancé Martin McMahon. Did any of those names mean anything to Kirsty? They did. They meant the taste of metal and bile in her mouth.

The private detective was not wearing a long raincoat and a beret. In fact, she looked rather more like one of those women who stop you in shopping centres and ask if you’ll spare a few minutes for market research. The private detective, Sue, liked her tea strong with two sugars.

Kirsty considered the proposition for two days solid. She was unable to keep her mind on her job and kept irritating the doctors by giving them the wrong patient notes. They nagged and grumbled at her. Ironically it was their irritation that coerced her into accepting the role, rather than a wish to wreak revenge on Martin. Well, why shouldn’t she be on TV? It had to be more glamorous than her job here as a receptionist, in the dowdy little practice, in her small town. The same small town she’d been born and bred in, and if she wasn’t careful would be buried in too. Sue promised that Kirsty would get a complimentary haircut and makeover, an allowance for her outfit for the show and some publicity photos afterwards. Sue thought Kirsty had a great chance as a model but she warned time was of the essence.

Kirsty didn’t care for Martin at all any more. She was surprised to hear that Eva thought of her as a threat. He’d chosen Eva over her before, hadn’t he? Oh shit he had. What made Kirsty think he’d choose her over Eva this time? Her knees nearly buckle under her. The humiliation was painful last time – the stinging, scorching disappointment as he explained that Kirsty was a really fun girl but absolutely not marrying material. Whereas Eva, with her posh university qualifications and green Wellingtons, was. Kirsty had tried to comfort herself with the thought that their kids would look like horses. But the thought didn’t really keep her warm at night. Still, it was a long time ago and she was far too sensible not to move on. In the last ten months she’d only thought of Martin occasionally, like when her sister had a baby, her birthday or when one of the patients did something hilarious at work. But that was natural – that wasn’t hankering. Christ, what if he rejected her again? Still, the channel didn’t want her to get him to propose, just to have some fun. To compromise himself. She figures it will be easy.

Kirsty waits for Martin outside the high-street bank where he is assistant manager. She doesn’t often come into London. It’s busy and cold and she remembers why.

‘Martin.’ She steps through the throng. He is with a couple of colleagues. They are all dressed identically, even the women.

‘Kirsty, my goodness. What are you doing here? God, it’s nice to see you.’

And Kirsty knows him well enough to know that he is being genuine. She sighs, relieved, not just because the channel will get what they want but because something, somewhere very deep inside her, melts. He cares. Not enough. Not consistently. But he does care. Martin nods his colleagues away, assuring them he’ll catch them up in the pub.

‘Erm, I came up to meet a friend for lunch. I heard you got engaged so I thought I’d pop by and drop off a congratulations card.’ She holds out the card and beams, ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks.’ He reaches for the card and their fingers bump.

‘I’m really pleased for you.’ Kirsty stretches her amazing smile a fraction wider.

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Martin seems quite embarrassed and quickly thrusts the card into his suit pocket without reading it. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

He’s not wasting any time.

‘Should we catch up with your friends?’ offers Kirsty.

‘No. I know the bar they are going to; it’s really loud. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, let alone talk. Let’s go somewhere quieter.’

‘I know just the place,’ says Kirsty.

It surprises Martin that Kirsty knows a local pub, which turns out to be absolutely perfect, because she doesn’t come up to town that much. Then Martin sighs to himself. Maybe she does come into town now. He doesn’t know much about her life. He always felt it pointless to keep in touch with old flames, especially ones who obviously have such different ambitions and expectations in life. Besides which, Eva wouldn’t hear of it.

He only expected to have a quick one, but this is their third round. It is good to be out with a bird who drinks pints again. Instead of the obligatory gin and tonic. Nice that she gets a round in, too, and isn’t above going to the bar herself. Christ, Kirsty has fantastic tits. He’d forgotten how magnificent they are. She’s still very chatty, too. She still makes little sense. She keeps wittering on about cameras. There again he’s not being that rational either. Psychologists rate getting married as equally stressful as bereavement; people do odd things under stress. For example, right now all he wants to do is snog the lips off Kirsty.

With every day a new triumph emerges. The Evening Standard runs a story on the weddings that have been cancelled by couples who have appeared on the show and the financial implications for the industries involved. The Express picks up the lead and runs a story on how many weddings, up and down the country, have been cancelled since the show began.

‘A 120 per cent increase on the exact same period last year!’ cries Debbie. We are ecstatic. The Express hasn’t said that Sex with an Ex is responsible, but the implication is there. If the show is responsible we are creating a national reaction. It’s big. It’s bigger than the ‘Free Deirdre Campaign’ that ITV ran in reaction to a Coronation Street storyline.

The Mail spots the same potential story as we do. They track down a couple who have called off their wedding recently to ask them why. People quite unconnected with the show, people who’ve never appeared, had no desire to appear and would probably be horrified at the idea of appearing, admit that frank discussions on the sex appeal of an ex-lover have led to a discovery of ‘fundamental disagreements, which can’t be ignored’.

Debs is reading from the morning paper. ‘This is it. This is the quote we need to use for our latest press release.’ She is literally jumping up and down.

‘What does it say?’ I ask.

‘“I am regretful,” says the would-be-groom. “I believe our parting of the ways was a direct result of staying in to watch TV on Monday.’” Debs stops reading and asks, ‘Why do people use such ridiculous and pompous vocabulary when talking to the press? I’m sure he doesn’t normally say such stupid things as “parting of the ways”.’

‘Very astute, Debs. What else did he say?’ I ask, trying to keep her on track.

‘“I wish we’d gone to the pub as we’d originally planned. But you see we were saving up. I wish I’d never heard of the show Sex with an Ex.” ‘Debs puts the paper down with a satisfied flourish.

‘Ah well, he sounds like a prick. By the way, Kirsty is doing well. I saw her in B Magazine the other day and I understand she has a contract with some modelling agency.’

All this points to the fact that the show only has a shelf life of one or two episodes. It is becoming almost impossible to lure people on to the show, as the entire nation appears to be on infidelity alert. The plan is to use the kudos from this show to launch other programmes. My phone rings, interrupting Debs’s newspaper review.

‘Hi, stranger.’

‘Hi, Issie.’ I wait for her justified complaints. I never ring her, or Josh. I’m totally absorbed in my work. Have I visited my mum recently? It’s a relief that she skips it.

‘Fancy a night out?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s just that I’m still interviewing. Bale’s keen to commission another series.’

‘Then what? Another and another?’

‘He seems to think so. I’m sceptical. I mean how gullible does he think the general public is?’

‘Well, you may as well have a night out. You can’t continue working at this rate ad infinitum.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ I ask.

‘A drink? Grab some pasta? Somewhere where we can talk and catch up. I feel I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

I wonder if this is code for ‘I’ve been ditched.’

‘OK, let’s try Papa Bianchi’s,’ I suggest. ‘The food’s fine, not exactly Michelin star, but it’s cheap and cheerful and most importantly the waiters understand the importance of having a laugh and getting lashed.’ I don’t mention that it is also in spitting distance of the studio and I’ll be able to return to work after we’ve dined, but when I give her the address she’ll guess.

‘OK, hold the line until I get a pen.’

I can hear the music from Issie’s radio drift through the telephone line. I hear her scrabble around for a pen. I know where she’s looking. She’ll be starting in the telephone table drawer – futile. She’ll progress to the kitchen drawers, the jamjar on the windowsill and then behind the cushions on the settee. She’ll find a number of pens but none of them will work, the pencils will be blunt. For a scientist Issie is extremely disorganized. She’s back on the line.

‘Couldn’t find a pen. An odd earring that I’ve been looking for, a telephone number and a recipe but no pen.’

‘Try your handbag.’

‘Good idea.’ She leaves the line again and this time the hunt is successful.

Issie takes down the details of where and when we are going to meet and I put down the phone. I’m pleased to have averted the inevitable disaster of her arriving late because she’s lost or going to the wrong place and not arriving at all. My life is made up of a series of these small services which make other people’s lives more comfortable. If only people realized.

I turn back to Fi and the problem of an increasingly moral nation. I know this squeamishness is hypocrisy and I don’t expect it to be sustained, but it is an irritation.

‘You know what, Fi?’

‘What?’

‘This new morality that the British public have so inexplicably developed’ – I’m scornful – ‘may work to our advantage.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, as I predicted, they’ve fallen. One after another. We really are living in a faithless society. Fidelity, or the lack of it, knows no boundaries. Indiscriminately it rages and rocks the lives of anyone who dares to trust.’

‘But it is brilliant television,’ adds Fi, not getting my drift.

‘But somewhat depressing,’ I assert.

‘Well, yes, it is,’ she confirms. ‘In fact, we had a letter from a silkworm farm in Ireland today.’

‘Really?’ This trivia momentarily distracts me.

‘Yes. Apparently last year, this farm – I forget its name – won the Queen’s Award for Industry and some other shield thing for their exports. Apparently this year demand has dipped perceptibly.’

‘Honestly.’ I’m delighted. Fi doesn’t catch my drift.

‘I know, it is a huge responsibility, isn’t it?’

‘Responsibility bollocks, it’s a huge story.’ Sometimes Fi lets me down. ‘Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Whilst interviewing next week I want you to actively look for those you think have a chance of resisting.’

‘I thought you said people like that didn’t exist,’ protests Fi.

‘Prove me wrong.’ She looks nervous. I try to be helpful. ‘Pick the under-confident who don’t believe they are attractive to one individual, let alone two. Or pick those who are too driven by public recognition to risk public humiliation.’

‘What, like budding politicians?’

‘Yes, or Freemasons.’

‘You are a sensation! You are a fucking marvel.’

‘Thank you, Nigel.’

‘Where did you find them?’

‘Believe me, it took some doing.’

‘Your timing is immaculate. We’ve had six shows and just when there was a danger of infidelity becoming a foregone conclusion, you find a couple who resist.’

I smile at him. I’m trying not to look excited but to be honest I’m delighted too. We found a couple who although probably tempted were not stirred, so to speak. These people amazed me. They resisted not simply because the ex turned out to be a Clash bore or knew all the lyrics to every Duran Duran song, not just because they were worried about the chiffon and lace industry, not just because they feared being caught. But because they believed in it. Fidelity.

Loving.

Cherishing. They wanted to be exclusive lovers. For ever.

‘Suckers,’ I comment.

‘Still, it’s brilliant television,’ adds Fi.

This it is. It brings the house down. This is what people want to believe in. It tantalizes. I’ve made it a possibility again, the Happily Ever After. We plan to do a massive follow-up show. By paying for the most OTT wedding. We are investigating the possibility of getting Westminster Abbey. It’s short notice but providing there are no obscure foreign royalty or minor member of the aristocracy booked in I think we’ll pull it off. I’m going to give the public what they want.

‘Next week we can go back to the cheats.’

It’s late and it’s 24 December. I look up from my desk and note that there is no one else left in the office except the cleaner. I note that he is wearing a Santa hat and a red nose. The red nose is real. I close down my PC and decide to lock it away rather than take it home for Christmas. My phone rings.

‘Cas Perry, evening.’

‘Cas, you silly tart. What are you doing in the office on Christmas Eve?’

‘Hi, Josh,’ I sigh, too tired to tell him how pleased I am he’s called. ‘Just finishing off, actually.’

‘Good. We’re in the Goose and Crown. Come and join us.’

‘Who’s there?’

Josh names a number of our friends. I look at my watch. It’s 8.40 p.m. – not too late to join them. I can’t remember the last time I got pissed with genuine mates.

‘I’d love to. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Suddenly I am awash with Christmas cheer and so give the cleaner a bottle of malt whisky that some advertiser sent me. He’s disproportionately pleased. I received about a dozen similar gifts this Christmas and can’t relate to his excitement. I call the lift and experience the unusual sensation of being relieved to leave the building. It is a glass elevator not unlike the one that appears in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; it glides up and down in a graceful, effortless movement. As the lift takes me to the ground floor I mentally checklist the next show. This is the hundredth time I’ve done this – I know everything is fine but I do it anyway. It’s habit. The building is dark, only illuminated by fairy lights. I pass the meeting areas. One has a photocopier in it and is always empty. The other has a Mars bar dispenser and a coffee machine. The latter room is always heaving. It’s a good place to catch up on conversations about the male menopause. No one is there now. They’ve all gone home to start basting turkey or stuffing their wives. I pass a few words with the receptionist, which I do every Christmas. We comment on how quickly it’s come around again. This time, however, I mean it. I’ve been so busy that I’ve completely missed autumn. Which is a shame because, if I was pushed to comment, I’d say that autumn is my favourite season. I nod to the security guard and then head towards the huge glass rotating doors. I’m already imagining downing my first vodka and orange.

‘Jocasta Perry.’ A voice slices across the tranquillity.

I don’t have a chance to reply or to establish where it’s coming from.

‘Do you know what it is like to feel humiliation? Betrayal? Do you understand the pain? I don’t suppose you do with breasts like those.’

The woman who is shouting at me is in her early thirties. She has presumably been sitting in reception waiting for me but I hadn’t noticed her until she’d called out. She has fine, highlighted, shoulder-length hair. It isn’t particularly styled. She’s a comfortable size twelve or fourteen. I don’t think I actively know her and yet she has a vaguely familiar face. She looks a lot like a lot of women. She walks across the foyer and is within a foot of me. She is pointing a plump finger at me: she’s so agitated she is actually shaking and as a result the strap of her handbag keeps slipping down her shoulder. Each time it does this she stops for a second and hitches the strap back on to her shoulder. Smart mac. Gucci bag. Where do I know this woman from?

‘The people who write the letters – do you know what motivates them? Have you the slightest idea?’ I look at the security guard and make it clear that I want him on standby. Whoever this woman is, she is obviously buoyed up by Christmas spirit(s). ‘I don’t suppose you do. You obviously love yourself so much you can’t love anyone else enough to be made vulnerable.’

As I can’t believe I know her, I consider it a near impossibility that she knows me. Even my best friends would be reticent to claim they know me. So what right does she have to draw such conclusions? Cast such aspersions?

Still, she’s right.

She isn’t shouting or threatening, but her powerful anger is obvious. She’s controlling the menace, but only to show me she can. I mentally run through my Filofax and index cards. Finally I place her.

‘I know you. It’s Libby, isn’t it?’ I hold out a hand for her to shake. Libby was on one of our early shows. She’d suspected her fiancé still had a thing for his ex. She’d been right. I remember Libby because she had had such lovely taste. I remember her showing me her wedding dress and the brides-maids’ dresses; they’d been exquisite. Yes, lovely taste, except in men, that is.

She nods curtly. ‘I was scared but I was with him. Now I’m scared and alone.’

I touch her arm. She smells of teenage perfume which reminds me of Fairy Liquid. I doubt this is Libby’s because of her impeccable taste. I suspect that she went for a quick one after work and with the combination of gin and Christmas songs on the jukebox she has become maudlin. I imagine her mates geeing her on to come and track me down to tackle me. One or two of her really good friends will have tried to stop her. On noting her determination they’ve done the next best thing – doused her in their perfume.

‘He’d have left anyhow,’ I comfort.

She starts to sob. ‘Would he? Would he?’

The receptionist gives her a cup of tea and the security guard leads her to the settee. She’s telling them how lonely she is. I think she should be evicted from the building, but as it is Christmas I won’t report the lax approach of the receptionist or the guard. I head towards the door.

‘Merry Christmas, Libby,’ I shout. I pause, waiting for her to wish me a Happy New Year.

She doesn’t. Instead she grips my arm and asks, ‘Have you ever looked in the mirror and been disappointed with your reflection?’ I turn to face her and she meets my gaze. ‘Well, I loathe mine.’