Game Over

8

‘What happened? Why did you do it, Susie? What made you do this?’ Jed is being unusually dignified, under the circumstances. After all, a quarter of the British adult population have just seen his fiancée kiss her ex-lover almost in the vestry of the church, fifteen minutes before their wedding rehearsal, a week before their wedding. The film clearly shows her adjust her skirt as she emerged from behind the tombstone. Bale’s terrified of lawsuits so we are not explicit but it doesn’t take a Mensa IQ to work out that kissing wasn’t where the action stopped.

Susie is whiter than the wedding dress that she’d proudly shown the audience just before the advert break. But then that was another lifetime. That was a pre-public outing lifetime. Susie was still playing happy families, Jed was still living in cloud cuckoo land and Andrew was still standing in the wings waiting to expose Susie’s infidelity.

‘I am so sorry,’ whispers Susie. Which I think is a good move. Her only chance of winning the audience over is to be immediately and totally contrite. After all, Jed’s a good-looking guy and natural instincts are to root for him.

It’s an interesting moment, this one: when all three stooges are on the floor and they have to deal publicly with the consequences of a very private affair. Jed had thought he was in control. He hadn’t actually believed Andrew was any real competition. He’d imagined that it would be exciting to be on TV, something to tell the grandkids. He’d expected Susie to choose him, despite the fact that all their friends still whispered about Andrew and Susie being a great couple, so much more passionate. I bet he’s now wishing he’d simply stuck to the wedding video.

Andrew thought it was his game. He had little to lose as his and Susie’s romance ended in a veil of tears and reprimands some years ago (FYI, and it’s worth noting, the reason why they finished was because Susie found Andrew in bed with another woman). Andrew had happily agreed to tempt her. If he hadn’t, it would look as though he was chicken shit, and that foxy detective who’d approached him would think he was only half a man.

‘Why did you do it, Susie?’ pleads Jed.

‘I wish they’d ask more probing questions,’ comments Fi. We are both standing in the wings watching the action, live.

‘No, this is the crux,’ I whisper back. The reasons why the partners fall are massively interesting. The list is endless. Closure, revenge, consolation, opportunism.’

Susie has finally found her voice.

‘I am sorry, Jed. But I couldn’t not. For the last three years since Andrew and I split up I saw him in every square jaw and broad shoulders. Sometimes I’d see him in front of me on the tube escalator and I’d run to catch him up, my feet pounding on the wooden slats, my heart vibrating against my tonsils. And for that heady thumping moment I wouldn’t worry how I’d explain it to you. Or why I was forgiving him. I just wanted to heal myself by resting my eyes upon him. I thought then that the throbbing might go away. But it never was him. It was always someone less. Because everyone is less. Even you.’

How curious.

The audience knows that Andrew doesn’t deserve such devotion, but they are thrilled. Other than Susie’s very deep ugly sobs, you can hear a pin drop.

Tears are streaming down Fi’s face. ‘Aren’t you moved, Cas?’

‘Yes, I’m delighted there isn’t a dry eye in the house. It’s great television. What’s next?’

She hands me a clipboard.’ Interviews for next week’s show.’

I walk towards the interview room, ushering away a few giggling research girls who are cluttering the doorway. ‘What’s up with them?’ I ask Fi.

‘Haven’t you heard? Your thinking man, he’s a Greek god.’

‘Not very tall, then, and with several heads?’ I quip. But my sarcasm is whipped out of me as I open the door and see Darren. I can understand why Marcus is insecure. I met Marcus this morning. He is fine. He is bright enough, more interesting than most, average-looking and extremely wealthy. He obviously adores Claire. Claire realizes this is not a bad deal and I figure she adores him back. However, besides my personal belief that everyone will have an affair given the opportunity, Darren is breathtaking.

He’s tall, about six foot two, with long, gypsy hair touching his chin. I don’t normally go for long hair. Because, more often than not, it is accessorized with an entirely denim wardrobe and a Meatloaf album collection. But, right now, all I want to do is lose my fingers in his locks. More, I want to lose him in my Conran bâteau wooden bed. He has wide shoulders that taper to slim hips and the cutest bum. He is wearing a pale grey sweater and some old Levis. Just the right amount of effort, without suggesting he is conceited. His eyes are huge, deep brown and framed with the most stunning Bambi lashes. And best of all is his smile. He has the cheekiest smile that provokes his entire face. His eyes, his cheeks, his laugh lines.

He’s a babe.

For a moment I am at a complete loss. I don’t know what to say, what to do or how to stand. I am absolutely dispossessed of common sense, thirty-three years of precedent, or even a simple grasp at etiquette. I can no more think of the correct words than I could bungy jump from… God I can’t even think where people bungy jump. My mind is blank. He smiles and I think I can hear music, which is such a cliché that I’m ready to shoot myself. My nipples are getting hard, which I think is a filthy betrayal. Can he tell? I’m literally salivating. Get a fucking grip, I instruct myself.

‘Jocasta Perry,’ I say in a confident, don’t-think-I’m-going-to-be – impressed-by-your – stunning – good-looks-I’m-impenetrable voice. It’s entirely fictional.

‘Jocasta, how Oedipal.’ He smiles, taking my hand and shaking it very firmly. I’m amazed not at the firmness of the handshake but at the reference. ‘Jocasta or Ca—’

‘Cas,’ I confirm. Is this man psychic?

‘Darren Smith.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I indicate the clipboard, which has all his personal details. Telephone number, address, date of birth. I wonder if we should start including some more intimate questions in the briefing session. Like favourite sexual position, which side of the bed he sleeps on. Mentally I pinch myself. He’s just a man. I quickly draw attention to his short-comings. We both need to be aware of them.

‘Daz or Dazza?’ I smile icily.

‘Darren,’ he confirms without the slightest hint that he’s taken offence. I wonder if he realizes that I am trying to be rude. He doesn’t seem stupid. He grins at me. Exposing a row of teeth which the Osmonds would be proud of. How can anyone be this gorgeous?

‘Well, Darren, to business.’ I sit next to him and accidentally bang my knee against his. His touch blisters through my Joseph trousers. I actually flinch. Shaking, I reach for a glass of water.

‘You OK?’ He moves quickly, reaching the water before I do. Genuinely concerned, he hands me the glass. I’m incapable of telling him I’m OK. The glass slips an inch. He thinks I’m going to drop it and so guides it to my lips, watching me the whole time. His eyes bore right into me. Is he reading my mind? Does he know my knickers are in flames? I take a gulp of the water. And place the glass back on the coffee table. ‘It is hot in here,’ he comments and springs up to play with the air conditioning switch. He is so confident. So in control. And I’m…? I’m so lost. Maybe I’m sick. I glance at Fi. She’s grinning. This brings me back to my senses with a jolt.

‘Something funny, Fi?’ I glare at her. She shakes her head and retreats to a corner of the room. I force myself back to my guest notes and back to Darren. Only one of those actions presents a problem. ‘As you know, Marcus Ailsebury is about to marry your ex-girlfriend, Claire Thomson, on Valentine’s Day. Just over two weeks’ time. Marcus wrote to us to tell us that he feels’ – I correct myself – ‘fears that Claire may still hold a torch for you.’ I blush. This script, normally adequate, suddenly appears to be exactly what it is. Bloody awful. I hope Darren doesn’t think I’d normally use an expression like ‘hold a torch’. Regardless, I carry on. ‘Marcus needs to know whether his fears are founded. Now are you familiar with the format of Sex with an Ex?’ I look up at him.

‘Sex with an Ex? Sadly, yes.’ He nods seriously. His hair falls over his left eye. I can’t think of anything more attractive. He blows out of the side of his mouth. Except that. The hair almost magically falls back into place.

‘Good, well, what we need you to do is—’

‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have.’ I smile, quite happy to engage in a conversation with him. Answer questions and queries. He can have all evening. I want to hear everything he has to say.

‘I’m not going to do this.’

Except that.

‘I don’t want to be on your show.’

I stare at him, amazed. Arsehole.

‘I feel terrible that I’m letting you down and that I’ve probably inconvenienced a lot of people, but I had no idea, when your studio invited me here, it was for Sex with an Ex.’ He spits out the title with undisguised contempt.

‘Didn’t the private detective explain it all to you?’ I ask bitterly.

‘No. She just said that Marcus needed some help with the wedding preparations. I thought I was being invited on to a show similar to Surprise Surprise.’

I consider this. It is possible that our researchers and detective deliberately misled Darren. Or at the very least kept him in the dark. They too must have recognized that Darren would be great for ratings.

‘Nothing on this earth would induce me to be on Sex with an Ex.’

‘Why not?’ Frankly, I’m stunned. He’s saying no. No to the opportunity of being on TV. No to the opportunity of seducing an ex. No to me.

‘Because you are undermining everything I hold dear. Love, marriage, fidelity, constancy. I can’t do it.’

I’m amazed. A man who owns up to feeling these things must be gay. But I know he’s not. I mentally shake myself. Fuck. Twat. I haven’t got time for this. I’m busy. I don’t need some half-average-looking bloke, who has too high an opinion of himself, screwing things up for me now. I glare at him. I breathe deeply.

‘But Darren, why not? Marcus wants this,’ I say reasonably.

Then Marcus is wrong.’

‘He wants to test her.’

‘He’d do better to trust her.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Deadly serious.’

I check my watch. I have to speed this along. I still have the other guests to meet. First interview of the New Year and I run into a hitch immediately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d think it was an omen. But I’m not.

‘Look, Darren, is this a question of money? You see we can’t offer our guests hard cash, our lawyers won’t let us. But we can make this worth your while in expenses. Clothes, travel, entertainment, etc.’ I mentally calculate what I can up the budget to. We normally expect an outlay of up to £600 per guest.

‘It’s nothing to do with money.’ Darren rests his head in his hands and leans back against the sofa.

‘We can go up to eight hundred pounds.’

‘I just think it’s ignoble.’

‘Fifteen hundred.’

He shakes his head fractionally. And casually crosses his legs. They are extremely long. I take a deep breath.

‘Two thousand.’

He doesn’t acknowledge my offer. I make a quick calculation. This man is extremely intelligent, sensitive, stunningly good-looking. Even I, fleetingly, had found him attractive. Until he started arsing around like this. Now I realize he’s a wanker. But, generally, people aren’t as perceptive as I am. Audiences will like him. Bale will love him. How much?

‘Four thousand pounds.’ I hear Fi gasp. Darren smiles pleasantly, too astute to be insulted. He looks extremely confident. He shakes his head. I lean close to him. My mouth is only inches away from his ear.

‘It’s my final offer,’ I whisper. He smiles. I look closer. He’s resolute. Damn.

‘Big prick,’ I comment to Fi, as I charge out of the room. I don’t even check if the door has banged shut behind me.

‘Almost certainly has,’ she comments.

I glare at her. ‘I wasn’t commenting on his equipment,’ I snarl. ‘More his manner.’

‘I thought he was utterly charming,’ she confesses, blushing.

I sigh, irritated. ‘What exactly is charming about fucking up our shooting schedule?’ I rage. ‘Do you think Bale will be charmed?’

‘Guess not.’

I begin to charge down the corridor towards the other interview rooms. We are on an extremely tight schedule. We’ve moved Sex with an Ex from the Monday slot to Saturday, which has cranked up the pressure by one more near infeasible notch. We have to complete the interviews tonight. For both liaisons, pre and post advertisements break. We have to choose the location for the temptation scene. Tomorrow we have to arrange all the logistics for all the parties in each liaison. Film on Wednesday and Thursday and then edit on Friday. The entire team regularly work at the weekends. I don’t need spanners in works. I don’t have time for mistakes, misgivings or misjudgements.

‘So who do we have on reserve? Give me the briefing notes.’ I hold out my hand waiting for the relevant file.

‘Err.’ Fi looks a bit shamefaced. ‘We haven’t one.’

I stop abruptly. ‘What?’

‘We did have. But we don’t now. Mr P. Kent marrying a Ms L. Gripton were in reserve but he called the wedding off. I actually think he was using the show as a way to get rid of her. But he found the courage to do it without us.’ Fi smiles brightly and I consider murdering her. I don’t have time. When did she become stupid?

‘How fabulous for him. What a shame for Ms Gripton and what a bloody disaster for us.’ I’m not shouting. I’m too angry to shout. ‘We always have two reserve options. Who are the others?’

‘Well, there’s a bit of a problem there too,’ mumbles Fi. ‘The bride-to-be broke her leg. She’s unlikely to try to conduct an illicit liaison when she’s in a toe-to-hip cast.’

‘Such bad luck,’ I snarl.

‘Isn’t it? The wedding photos will be ruined.’

‘I mean ours. Fi, go back to your office and paw over every letter we’ve received. See if there is anyone who we can reach tonight. Who’s on next week’s show? Is there a case we can bring forward? Leave no stone unturned. If you can’t find anyone in the letters pile, go on the Internet and set up an emergency telephone line; run it tonight.’ Fi starts to dash down the corridor. I call after her, ‘Fi, do you know anyone who’s engaged? Check your Filofax. I’ll check mine.’ Fi starts to object. I sweep away her squeamishness. ‘This is important.’

I check my watch. It’s 6.30 p.m. I bleep for the Sex with an Ex runner. I know it will take some time to locate Trixxie because our policy for employing runners is another one of Bale’s economy-driven strategies. Instead of recognizing that the runner on a show is a lynchpin and needs to be astute, willing, energetic and proactive, TV6 employs the defective offspring of our big advertisers. More proof that Bale is a sycophantic stinge. He gets to suck the cock of his most important clients and at the same time is able to pay below the minimum wage, in the knowledge that Daddy will supplement with an allowance. I wait nine and a half minutes for Trixxie to respond to my page. She is undoubtedly doing something really pressing, like smoking hash or fixing her make-up or choosing the correct piece of metal to put in her eyebrow. When she eventually does show, I realize that ‘respond’ is probably too kind a description.

‘Like can I do something?’ she asks with a tone that is somewhere between careless and gormless. She is in reality about twenty-two but looks about six, as she is anorexic-thin, wears her hair in bunchies and has a number of bruises on her legs. The bruises are not, however, the result of playground bullying but UBIs – unidentified beer injuries. Unrestrained partying is part of the job. In fact, she thinks it is the job. She’s paid a pittance but she’s worth less. I tell her to go directly to Darren and delay him.

‘Delay him?’ she drawls. Redefining the adjective non-comprehending.

‘Yes. He wants to leave.’

‘But he can’t, he’s filming this week and whatever.’

‘He doesn’t want to film,’ I explain with what absolutely must be my last ounce of patience.

‘That’s bad.’

I sigh, far too aware that incompetents surround me. Trixxie stumbles on an obstacle. ‘I can’t force him to stay against his will or whatever.’

‘I know that. You have to persuade him to stay by making it worth his while.’

‘Sleeping with him?’ she asks.

I look at the specimen in front of me. Darren wouldn’t. I think on my feet. I need Darren on the show. He’d make a great show and more urgently, because of Fi’s incompetence in securing a reserve, he’s our only chance at any show. I have to keep this lead, as tenuous as it is, warm until we’ve explored all other angles.

‘No, don’t offer to sleep with him. Appeal to his better side. Say that I’m cool with his decision and would like to take him to dinner later, to show there’s no hard feelings etc.’ I’m sure he’ll agree to dinner. He’s too polite not to.

‘That’s big of you,’ says Trixxie, beaming at me. ‘Really cool. Like you could be pissed off and whatever.’

I don’t bother explaining that in reality I’d like to dissect Darren into small pieces and feed him to the lions at London Zoo for inconveniencing me so. I don’t think Trixxie is up to the deception. In fact, I’m not sure she is up to delivering the message. And there’s something else that I don’t mention. As irritating as I obviously find Darren, I’m also absolutely fascinated. He said no to me. He said no to me. Not the type of no which really means ‘yes’ or ‘maybe’. A flat, final no. Try as I might, I can’t think of him as the moralistic tosspot loser that he so obviously is.

I interview the two women involved in the other liaison for next week’s show. It calms me somewhat. I predict that the guy being tested will fall. I always think that there is a better chance of unfaithfulness if the men are being tested. It’s not that women are fundamentally more faithful, it’s just that women are more involved in the wedding preparations and are less likely to jeopardize their big day. I check my watch. It’s 8.15 p.m. I call Fi and as I feared she’s not hopeful about finding a reserve at such short notice. I threaten, cajole and bribe her into working through the night. I tell her to use the overtime quota and call in any reserves from the research department that she thinks are necessary.

‘And what are you going to do?’ she asks.

‘I’m going to take Darren for dinner.’

There’s a silence. Eventually she comments, ‘Tough work, but someone’s got to do it.’

‘It really is work,’ I insist. ‘I expect he’s going to be fabulously dull.’ I’d like to mean this but my groin obviously disagrees, as my knickers think it’s 5 November. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to, but we do need a show,’ I insist. ‘I’m going to persuade him to see our point of view.’

‘Well, I could go instead of you,’ volunteers Fi, with an enthusiasm that has been notably lacking in the past.

‘You are not manipulative enough. You’d want to sleep with him.’

‘So do you.’

‘But you’d fall for him emotionally. I never do that.’ She can’t argue with this. I continue, ‘We need to understand where he’s coming from. He doesn’t want to do the show because he realizes that his actions will have consequences, people will be hurt and humiliated. Irritating as hell. I think all we can do is try to appeal to his disproportionate and displaced sense of decency. I’m going to explain how a programme affects more than the people on the show; advertisers will be inconvenienced, audiences will be disappointed and you and I will lose our jobs.’ I hope it won’t come to this but Bale is unpredictable. My head aches. I squeeze my temples.

I’m desperate to see Darren again.

But only because I need a show. I think his moralistic approach is misplaced.

Quite attractive.

Bloody irritating.

‘Fi?’

‘Yes.’

‘What should I wear?’

We arrange to meet at the Oxo tower. Trixxie has booked the restaurant rather than the brasserie. Good work. He can’t fail to be impressed by the spongy leather tub chairs, the complicated wine list, the blue-white linen tablecloths, the huge, elegant wine goblets which are designed so that even Ten-ton Tessie would feel delicately petite – or maybe that’s an exclusively girl thing.

I arrive before him. I survey the restaurant. It is 9.00 p.m. and the restaurant is full of people cheerfully initiating voyages of the heart. By 2.00 a.m. the streets will be littered with the grieving casualties. This is true of every restaurant in London. I am wearing a black roll-neck jumper and an on-the-knee black wool skirt. Heavy biker boots that are so chunky my legs look matchstick-thin. I have a hunch that this is more Darren’s cup of Typhoo than low necklines and high hemlines. This is currently my sexiest outfit, albeit understated sexy. I keep it in the office, if not for this exact occasion, then certainly for something similar. Issue is I’m not sure what the exact nature of this occasion is. I’m clear that I want him in line, on board, part of the family. I do need a show.

But.

Or rather and. And, whilst I’m not sure why, I am sure that I want to see him again.

I see him arrive and I’m gratified to notice he’s changed clothes too. He’s wearing a light grey suit and a wide-collar, open, white shirt. It shows off his olive skin brilliantly. He looks gorgeous. He walks confidently to my table and leans in to kiss me.

Kiss me.

On the cheek.

I nearly knock over the bottle of mineral water that I’ve ordered, which by anyone’s standards would be uncool. His kiss scorches my face. I’m sure I’m branded like an animal. It takes every ounce of courage, sense and control I have to stop myself snogging him on the spot. I feel an overwhelming pull internally. It starts in my thighs and moves upward, enveloping my lungs, intestines and throat. What is wrong with me? I have experienced sexual attraction before. Keen sexual attraction, but this… This is something new.

I’m not threatened.

I know I’m cool as long as he’s either tediously dull or arrogant.

I already know he’s neither.

He sits down and smiles at the waitress. I notice that she nearly keels over on the spot. He orders the wine, giving me a cursory opportunity to offer up a preference, but he has taken control.

‘I’m really pleased that you suggested this dinner, Cas. And somewhat surprised. I didn’t expect you to take my views so well. Anyway your “runner” ‘– he manages to say the term using inverted commas, which is exactly how I describe Trixxie – ‘your runner informed me that you’d like to take me for dinner. Well, that’s daft. I’m very aware that I must have inconvenienced you and I insist this is my treat.’

‘But I can get this on expenses,’ I offer weakly. My being weak surprises me. I rarely am. In fact, the last recorded example of my being weak was pre-toilet training. But Darren is breaking all the rules. He’s not overwhelmed or intimidated by me, nor is he excessively combative. Every other man I’ve ever met has fallen into one of these categories.

‘I know that but, really, I’d hate to profit from your show in any way and’ – he pauses and raises one of his eyebrows – ‘I’d really like to buy you dinner.’ He has a soft, velvet voice, so I have to lean close to him to hear him. As I lean close I note that he smells amazing. If I hadn’t met him in these circumstances I’d think of fucking him.

No. I wouldn’t have to think.

But the thought is irrelevant, as the business I have to concentrate on is not funny business. It’s not funny at all. I have four days to get the next show in the can.

I think he’s wearing Issey Miyake.

I am extremely aware that the balance of power is definitely not in my favour. I remind myself again: the primary reason for my being here is that I must persuade him to be on the show. And even if he is drop-dead gorgeous, so what?

He’s drop-dead gorgeous, that’s what.

I stare at the menu, pretending to be interested; a toss-up between wood-roasted squid stuffed with chilli, or red mullet in white wine, parsley and garlic sauce. No, not garlic. Really I need to broach the subject of the show.

‘Why would you want to buy me dinner?’

He blushes and then drags his eyes to meet mine. ‘Any man would want to take you for dinner. You’re stunning.’

Bang.

I am delighted, thrilled to my core. Yes, I’ve heard it before. Yes, I’ll hear it again but really it’s never been quite so thrilling. Or terrifying. His up-front approach propels me into a unique position. I’m honest in return.

‘Look, Darren. Cards on the table, I’m not here to be social. I’m here to try to persuade you to be on the show. I need you. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I need a show and you’re it.’ I stop and take a deep breath. The bread arrives. He doesn’t comment for a while. Instead he chooses his bread. He selects the walnut one. In an effort to ingratiate myself I do the same.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t want to have dinner with me.’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘I’m not going to be on your show.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I couldn’t face myself in the mirror every morning if I did so. Myself or my parents or siblings, friends, nieces, nephew.’

No girlfriend. He didn’t mention a girlfriend.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are peddling the destabilization of family values.’

I sigh. I’ve heard it all before. Somehow the general public has convinced itself that TV is responsible for the disintegration of the family unit. It’s a way of avoiding responsibility. It’s not fair.

‘The family unit is under pressure for myriad reasons. Television is only one, ‘I argue. ‘There have been countless surveys that have tried to assess the effect television has on modern society but net net, bottom line, psychologists, educationalists and moralists have failed to agree that there has been any effect at all. How can you expect little old me to have all the answers?’ I’m trying to appear girlish and agreeable.

‘You are endorsing the gradual deconstruction of decency. You are encouraging the trivialization of love and sex.’ He butters his bread ferociously. He has magnificent hands. Very strong-looking. I reach for my wine.

‘Darren, no one needed me to do that. There were Blackpool postcards long before TV.’

‘So you accept your show is in poor taste, indecent and a contributor to the erosion of public standards?’

The waitress interrupts to take our order.

‘Taste is arbitrary, it changes according to fashion. Good taste is revised with every issue of Vogue. Decency I understand – a regard for cultural and religious issues, i.e. sending sympathy cards when some old dear pops her Patrick Cox.’ I fall back on familiar territory, sarcasm. ‘But standards, are they somewhere between the two? Like giving up your seat to a pregnant woman when travelling by tube, or more emphatically not travelling on public transport at all. And who is the standard setter? The law? The Independent Television Commission? The public? You? Are you the judge and jury in this, Darren?’ I’m raising my voice. He’s got me riled. The seating is tight; there’s no room for hysteria. I lower my voice in an effort to regain control. ‘I’ve always avoided racism. I don’t patronize people with disabilities. There’s no violence, we beep out the bad language and we don’t show actual penetration.’

‘How magnanimous of you.’

I’m not sure he means this. I take a deep breath. This conversation is not going in the direction I expected. It’s wrong by about 180 degrees, and Issie isn’t even navigating. I had planned to be beguiling, flirtatious and coquettish. This is usually a successful ruse. Instead I’m behaving like Attila the Hun’s more ferocious big sister. More peculiar still, I actually do want this man to see my point of view. Not simply to get him on the show: suddenly I want him to respect me. Wanting his respect makes it impossible to flirt. How much have I drunk? We both take a break as we sip our wine. It’s a ‘96 Puligny-Montrachet. It’s very fine.

‘Nice wine, good choice,’ I comment.

‘Thank you.’ Darren is not going to be side-tracked. He pursues his line of reasoning. ‘TV has exercised an unanticipated and unprecedented influence. Not since the invention of the wheel has anything been so transforming.’

Someone’s dropped an Alka Seltzer in my knickers. Although I don’t like his argument I am delighted that he sees the importance of TV. So few people do and as I’m passionate about it, I’m thrilled to find someone else who has an opinion, even if it is so condemning. I’m also ecstatic to be debating with him. The sparks, intellectual, emotional and sexual, are all but visible. Darren stares right at me; his divine eyes lock on mine so tightly that I can’t, however hard I try, break his gaze.

‘You must see how influential TV is, and therefore what a responsibility you hold. Your programmes articulate the world we live in. You’re saying that deception is OK, infidelity par for the course.’

We sit, sulky and silent. Listening to the clink of bottles and cutlery, and the hum of indistinguishable voices. Indistinguishable, that is, except for the table next to ours, where I can definitely hear the nervous pleas of a guy who is being ditched. The waitress brings our food. I sip my soup, carrot and coriander. It’s not particularly a favourite of mine but it was top of the menu and I didn’t have time to think about my selection. He is chasing skinny bits of courgette around his plate. He doesn’t seem much interested in his food either. The silence is thunderous.

‘So what else do you do, Cas?’

The sudden change of conversation throws me. Else? Else? Er. I’m too exhausted to think of anything creative, flirty or interesting so I plummet for the truth.

‘My friends Issie and Josh, the gym and men. Oh, and my mum – on a Sunday.’

Darren laughs. ‘So nothing conventional like stamp collecting or mud wrestling then?’

I smile. ‘I’ve tried mud wrestling.’

He laughs again. ‘Tell me about the men, Cas.’

There is another tiny pulse in my groin. Is he flirting with me?

Please.

‘Men fall into three categories for me. Those I’d sleep with. Those I wouldn’t and Josh.’

‘So who wouldn’t you sleep with?’

He is flirting!

Or maybe he’s just trying to get a handle.

Why don’t I know? I always know men.

‘My friends’ boyfriends and husbands, ugly or stupid men, and men I’ve already slept with.’ He moves his fork fractionally, indicating that he is interested and that I should carry on. ‘My friends’ boyfriends are safe because, despite the world being awash with infidelity and deceit, I don’t do that to my friends.’ This is true and the nearest I have to a moral code. ‘Besides which they just aren’t appealing.’

He raises an eyebrow again. Which is such a cliché and, regrettably, soooooo sexy.

‘I’m not saying anyone who would go out with my mates must be unattractive, far from it. It’s just that my friends and I tell each other everything. By the time I know about their boyfriends picking their toenails, the filthy tricks they get up to with loo brushes, the farting in bed then going under the sheets to smell it, they just aren’t sexy.’ He’s grinning. I’m being serious. ‘Intimacy breeds revulsion. The reason for not sleeping with ugly or stupid men is transparent. Men I’ve slept with have no allure for me. I rarely do repeat performances.’ I pause.

I wonder if he’s noticed that, by definition, he is a man I’d sleep with?

‘You seem to have it all worked out.’ I nod. Which causes his grin to broaden into a smile. Is he being ironic? ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Ask away and then I’ll decide if I’ll answer.’ In my experience, the questions people ask are just as telling as the answers they give.

‘Have you been unlucky in love, as they say?’ He blushes. ‘I mean, I only ask because I was wondering why you have such a mercenary attitude towards love.’

I choose not to take offence.

‘Of course I’ve been unlucky in love. If you meet a woman who hasn’t been unlucky in love, look for the little electronic chip behind her ear.’ I always use this line. I grin and fork a mound of food into my mouth. I wonder if he’s the type of man who finds a voracious appetite on a woman a turn-on?

‘So who was he?’ Same old question that all men ask. I have an answer rehearsed.

‘Er, my first lover,’ I bluff. I pause with my fork halfway between my mouth and plate.

The implication is that the memory is so painful that momentarily I can’t eat. Men like to think women are too sensitive to ever fully recover from a broken heart. It fits in with their view of us as delicate flowers.

‘Was it a long-term relationship?’

These incessant questions. I hesitate. ‘A couple of weeks.’

‘A couple of weeks.’ His tone is somewhere between incredibility and hilarity. That’s not the script. He’s supposed to be touched by the intensity of the affair. ‘But you said your first lover.’ He seems confused. ‘That must have been—’

‘A long time ago. Yes. I don’t get over things easily. I’m very sensitive.’

He stares at me. We’ve only just met but we both know how untrue this is. Darren’s too polite to openly refute my statement.

‘But you can’t still be getting over an affair that took place over a decade ago and only lasted a few weeks.’

Good point. First time it’s ever been made, which goes to show that the scores of other men who I’ve said the same to weren’t paying attention.

‘What really hurt you?’

This is unique and I haven’t got a practised answer to hand. I look at Darren and his face surprises me even more than his original line of questioning. He seems genuinely concerned. I’m genuinely perplexed. I mean, what can I say? ‘My first lover irritated me but frankly my heart hasn’t ever been broken. I’m just a bitch.’ It seems an unlikely solution. After all, it is the truth. He tilts his head a fraction in my direction. He’s astonishingly close. His long hair is falling in front of his eyes and, although not quite touching my skin, it is touching the hairs on my forehead. There is acid in my knickers. My throat is dry and my breasts are straining upwards, obviously hoping he’ll swoop down and kiss them. Hello, sexual tension. I shake my head.

‘Hmmm?’ he prompts.

‘What?’ My mind has undergone a spring clean and I can’t remember what he asked me. His eyes are fabulous. Brown. A cluster of really rich browns, like autumn leaves piled up under a tree. Suddenly Darren appears embarrassed.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. Erm—’ He scrambles around for a recovery conversation. ‘Tell me about Josh.’

I’m grateful that he’s let me off the hook and garble, ‘Josh is my only male, platonic friend. I’ve known him since we were kids. He has too much dirt on me to risk me falling out with him. He could sell to the press when I’m rich and famous.’

‘Is that your ambition, to be famous?’

‘Isn’t it everyone’s? Frankly I’m confident that Josh wouldn’t do that. Despite all odds, tantrums, time and the tenuous nature of platonic love, Josh and I adore each other. We trust each other and would never hurt one another.’ I pause and consider what I’ve just said. ‘Perhaps this is because of all the tantrums, time and the tenuous nature of platonic love.’ I grin at Darren. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment. Why am I saying this? I’m telling him about myself. I’m being truthful and straightforward. What has possessed me? I hate people knowing more about me than I know about them. I never do this. I try to hide the sudden intimacy in humour. ‘Besides which, I have an incriminating photo of him dressed in suspenders and a basque. He claims this was for a Rocky Horror Show party but I’m not convinced.’

Darren laughs.

The conversation is snappy, intense and truthful. I’m over-whelmed. Darren and I have finished a bottle of wine. We are, in fact, halfway through our second bottle. We drift from topic to topic. My clipboard detailed that he’s a tree surgeon, which apparently means that he is based at London University, where he has an office and a lab but he travels to, well, wherever there is a sick tree by the sound of it. This is at once strange – as it is so individual – and at the same time expected. It’s extremely fitting; I sort of imagine him working outdoors and with his hands. This connection throws me into confusion, as I have images of rolling around a park with him. I see myself picking leaves out of my hair and twigs from my ruffled clothes. Of course he has no idea what I’m thinking but the way he stares at me suggests that he is privy to my X-rated daydream. I struggle to think of anything suitable to say.

‘I’ve never known a tree surgeon.’

He laughs again. I guess that isn’t my best line ever. I try another. ‘Fantastic view of the river from here, isn’t there?’

‘This is one of my favourite buildings in London, actually,’ agrees Darren.

‘Really.’ Bullseye.

‘Yeah, the view is amazing, as you said, and I like the brickwork.’

‘You said one of your favourite buildings. Which others do you like?’ As if I care.

‘My favourite, by some way, is the Natural History Museum, I like everything about it. How and why it was conceived. The structure, the brickwork, the lighting, the contents, the concept.’ How can anyone be this animated by a building full of stuff? Not even stuff you can buy.

‘What’s your favourite building?’ he asks.

‘I haven’t thought about it before. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me.’ I consider it for a moment. ‘Bibendum. You know, the restaurant in South Kensington.’

‘Why?’

I could tell him that I adore the stained-glass windows and the unusual tiling that François Espinasse designed in 1911, but I don’t want him to get the impression that I’m anything other than shallow.

‘It’s kind of a Golden Gate. It heralds the entrance to shop heaven – Joseph, Paul Smith and Conran. Besides which they sell fabulous oysters.’ I smile coolly and he laughs again.

The evening flies by and I am keenly aware that I haven’t really talked about getting him to appear on the show. Which is careless of me – I rarely diversify from my agenda. I drag myself back to the point.

‘So why did you and Claire split up?’

Frankly I’m confused. He’s clever, handsome and filthily sexy. I only have Marcus’s statement, which is an unreliable source. Marcus will have received a sanitized version of events from Claire, which he’ll have distorted in his head with neurotic paranoia. If I can get Darren to reveal the reason why he and Claire split up, I’ll be able to manipulate the facts to justify why he should go on the show.

Besides which I’m interested.

‘We were a casualty of cohabitation.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s your phrase? Intimacy breeds revulsion. Well, in our case it certainly bred irritation. We liked one another, even loved one another well enough before we moved in together, and then it started. The rot set in.’

‘What, you started to take each other for granted? Became complacent?’

‘Nothing as dramatic. She didn’t like the way I kept film in the fridge. I hated the way her beauty product things seemed to be procreating all over the dressing table. She hated Sky Sport.’

I gasp, shocked.

‘I loathe soaps.’

I’m horrified. What that girl must have put up with.

‘I like to read in bed. She likes the light out immediately. And then it escalated. She began to hate my friends. I hated her hairs in the bath. She, my laugh. Me, her mother. I’d forgotten all this until I talked to Marcus earlier today. He said she was shopping. I knew that she’d be buying Easter eggs although it’s only January. Her organization was always horribly efficient. I hated it. There was no spontaneity. The truth is, we split up because we weren’t suited. We’re not together because it didn’t work and we shouldn’t be together. Why else do people ever split up? It’s so easy to look back on a past relationship and idealize it.’

Thank God. This is the whole premiss of my programme.

‘I’ve never met anyone as right as Claire was for me but it still doesn’t alter the fact that she wasn’t 100 per cent right.’

‘90 per cent is pretty good.’

‘She wasn’t even that.’

‘85 per cent,’ I suggest.

‘Nearer 65 per cent.’ There is an unaccountable warm glow of delight in my stomach. He’s right, 65 per cent doesn’t sound like the One.

If you believe in the One.

Which I don’t.

‘So you are really over her?’ I’m disproportionately anxious to hear his reply. Which I hate myself for.

‘Yes.’

‘Then what harm can there be in appearing on the show? Can’t you just tempt her and leave it at that?’

Darren forces his mouth into a wry grin. Does he think I’m joking?

‘You just don’t get it, do you, Cas? Your show’s a travesty. Besides which, I loved her once. Why would I want to hurt her? I doubt she’d be tempted by me—’

‘I think she would,’ I interrupt enthusiastically.

‘Thank you.’ Darren’s face relaxes into the widest smile I’ve seen all evening. Ever, in fact.

Arrogant bugger!

‘I didn’t mean it as a compliment,’ I mutter sulkily into my plate. Unperturbed, his smile widens an unfeasible fraction further.

‘I’ll take it as one anyway.’

I scowl but try to appear unflustered by playing with the stem of my wine glass, caressing it as though it were a brand new pashmino. ‘Well, if you are convinced that Claire wouldn’t fall, the programme might be good for her and Marcus. We did have one couple, before Christmas, who managed to resist.’

‘Yes, I read about that. TV6 turned their wedding into a media frenzy,’ says Darren with obvious disgust. ‘That must have been marvellous for the ratings. Cas, haven’t you been listening to me? It’s not about whether she would want me or not. Any association with Sex with an Ex is contemptible. A need to “test” someone you should love exposes the fact that there is a problem with the relationship. I don’t want to embarrass Claire or anyone else for that matter. I don’t want her to know that her fiancé has this insecurity. I don’t want to drag up our past, not even to entertain your – what did you say? – 8.9 million viewers.’ I nod. ‘I loved her and that fact is still important and private.’

He believes all this. I look at him, this six-foot-two specimen of pure sex, sitting in front of me. I don’t understand him. He seems to be from another era. One that is perhaps a little more genteel. And trusting.

And pointless.

I try to think about my initial strategy.

‘Look, Darren, this show isn’t just about entertaining the general public. There are a lot of other serious issues hanging in the balance here.’

‘Such as?’

‘My job, the jobs of about thirty-five other people, advertising revenues.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Darren calls the waitress and asks for the bill. It’s time to go. I’m disappointed. The restaurant maybe empty but I don’t want to leave. I try to think of something else that will be damaged if the show doesn’t go ahead. There’s my ratings-related bonus. I don’t think it’s wise to mention this. I sigh, resigned. The quiet determined way he explains his views convinces me that he won’t change his mind tonight. I suppose it does sort of make sense in a horribly moral way. Never again will I attempt getting a thinking man on the show. I’ll stick to Neanderthals.

We leave the restaurant and start to wander back to the tube, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Although it is January my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat. I hope I’m not coming down with flu. Couples are edging up to one another, the foolish myth of intimacy protecting them against the late-night chill that is settling. And it must be chilly because the people who are on their own pull their coats about them. My bag weighs a ton. It’s full of my life: notebooks, Dictaphones, research manuals, schedules. The weight of it drags my shoulder down to the right, causing me to lean. I occasionally bump into Darren. Each time I do so I tut so that he, at least, is clear that it’s an accidental collision and I don’t like it.

My senses are on red alert. I can feel the cold night air not brushing my skin but laying icy hands on my forehead and shoulders. I hear a train rattle across Charing Cross bridge, splitting the night. Sparkly lights outline the bridges and pavements. An adult dot to dot. There is metal on my tongue. I can smell sweat, fresh and stuff that’s months old. The fresh twang is mingled with Darren’s aftershave. It rinses my nostrils. I tut at the dreamers hanging around the National Film Theatre, lost in nostalgia or stupefied with pointless hope.

‘Look at them,’ I spit. ‘Incapable of getting off their arses and doing something real.’

Darren surprises me by laughing. ‘Is that all you see?’

‘Yes.’ I look at the jugglers and pseudo-intellectuals. People happier to watch plays about other people’s lives than actually live their own. ‘What else is there?’

‘Look again,’ he insists. He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me to look at the crowds. ‘You have to look at everything from as many different angles as possible. In as many ways as possible. Look at it and try to see it differently.’

I look again and see scores of people hanging out. Some are drinking coffee sold from the cafés at the theatres. Others are standing around the buskers. Others are debating with one another or chatting animatedly about the performance they have just seen. Others are snogging the face off each other. I shrug.

‘Don’t you see dozens of people having a good time, improving and enjoying themselves? A mass of humanity buzzing with just being here.’

‘No.’

‘Again. Look closer,’ he insists.

There is one old guy playing a violin. He’s ancient; he has a long, white beard. He is playing Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’. He skips lightly through the air, barely landing before rising again, his skinny limbs tapering in effortless rhythm. Grudgingly I throw some coins into his battered Panama. He is talented. He moves his head in a slight dip, more dignified than a bow. Darren smiles at me. I smile back.

We cross over the river and reach Embankment tube station. It’s heaving. A burly mass of drunks in suits and drunks in rags. Distinguishable simply by their disposable incomes. Darren fights, through the morons and marauders, to the ticket machine. He buys our tickets. Mine for east London, his for south. We’re on separate lines and going in separate directions.

‘Will you be OK getting home?’

‘Fine. I’m a tube veteran.’ This is a lie. I usually catch a cab but if I say so I’ll have to explain why I’ve just walked half a mile to the tube station. Which I can’t explain, not even to myself.

‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Cas. A very entertaining evening.’ Darren stops and turns to face me.

‘I bet you’ve hated every second.’

‘Not at all.’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘The reverse.’

I smile broadly, relieved. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Neither of us moves. Suddenly this feels very date-like. Will he kiss me? Is he going to shake my hand? He leans in and I think he’s going to kiss my cheek so I move my head suddenly. In fact, it appears his original target was my lips but my sudden manoeuvre means that his smacker ends up somewhere between my chin and earring. We jump apart and Darren heads towards the ticket barrier. It’s certain. He’s going to walk out of my life and back to his trees.

And right now I can’t think of anything more soul-destroying.

My reluctance over letting him go must be attributable to the amount of wine I’ve drunk. Isn’t it? God, I really fear it’s more than that.

‘Darren!’ My yell slices through the crowds and almost as though he’d been waiting, Darren responds immediately by turning and walking straight back to me. I usher him away from the tube-station crowds, back towards the river. I’m buying time as I formulate a plan.

‘At the very least I have to be seen to have done everything in my power to persuade you to come on the show.’

‘You have,’ he assures.

‘Not everything.’

Darren looks a bit shocked. ‘Are you going to—’

I read his mind. ‘No. Not that,’ I interrupt, understanding at once that he thinks I am going to offer to have sex with him. I’m unaccountably insulted. Darren blushes.

‘That’s a relief.’ Then he blushes again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t want to, but the circumstances are—’

I help us both out by interrupting him. Before I’ve even thought about what I’m going to say, or why I’m saying it, or the consequences of opening my mouth at all, habitual bullshitting kicks in.

‘No, my proposition is of a different nature. I’d like to be given the chance to present my side of the story. To do that I’d need to spend some time with you. I’d need to shadow you for a day or so.’ It’s a gamble but I’m a player. He looks at me doubtfully.

‘You won’t change my mind.’

‘Maybe not, but at least give me the opportunity to appear to have done my best. It will save my bacon with the guys at TV6.’

This isn’t true. In fact, what I should do now is return to the studio and help Fi recruit a replacement scenario.

But after spending the evening with him I know that if he were to appear on Sex with an Ex, it would be the best show ever. He’s delicious-looking, articulate, sexy and moral. If I could publicize his objections and how we overcame them, the entire country would support Sex with an Ex. There have been some objections to the show. Few and far between, and in my opinion mostly hypocritical. But those who are squeamish about weddings collapsing like stacked cards would surely throw their lot in with TV6 if someone like Darren has. Who could resist Darren? And although I can’t be sure that he will be persuaded I’ve got to give it my best shot.

I begin to mentally rearrange my schedule and calculate how much Fi will be able to handle on her own if I’m not in the studio. At the same time that I’m making these hurried calculations, trying to predict scenarios, outcomes and consequences, Darren is leisurely weighing up the proposition, which he has taken at face value.

‘I was taking the week off work, expecting to be on the show. Now I’m planning on going to see my parents and family.’ With something near reluctance, he sighs, ‘You won’t change my mind but if it helps you out with your bosses, you can join me for a couple of days.’

‘Great.’ I smile. Agreeing before I know whether I mean it. ‘So where do your parents live?’

‘Whitby.’

‘Where?’

He laughs, ‘Whitby, you know, in North Yorkshire.’ No, I don’t know. It sounds a long way off. It sounds a different and uncivilized world. But the show must go on. How bad can it be? I nod and try to appear informed without committing myself.

‘OK, Cas, I’m happy for you to shadow me, if that’s the official term, but I think we’d both have a better time if you started to trust me and enjoy yourself.’

I’m not here to enjoy myself and I don’t do trust. I bite my tongue and resist pointing out either of these pertinent facts.

‘Trust simply leads to disappointment,’ I state frankly.

‘Listen to yourself, Cas. You are not convincing anyone with this super-hard bitch act.’

He is very wrong. I’ve convinced eight primary school teachers, twelve senior school teachers, dozens of fellow students, scores of colleges, numerous girlfriends, exactly fifty-three lovers and my mother. Even Issie, painful as it is for her, admits from time to time, ‘You can be so callous.’ What is this obsession with being soft? Isn’t it obviously asking for trouble? Asking to end up hurt, abused, alone? I like being impenetrable. I don’t want to be discovered.

Darren pauses and stares out at the river. It’s twinkling, which surprises me. I always think of the Thames as a rest point for crap and sanitary towels.

‘You know what I think?’

‘No, bowl me over,’ I sigh.

‘You just want to be discovered. You want someone to make the effort and scratch the surface. You want to be loved. You just want to make it difficult. A modern-day Agamemnon challenge. You are the same as every woman I’ve ever met.’

I didn’t realize Darren could be so insulting.

I look at him and he is gorgeous. The streetlights are reflected in the river. The reflection bounces up to illuminate Darren. He looks like an angel. He smiles and he’s mucky sexy. He looks like a devil. I’ve never come across anything so complex and compelling in my entire life. I realize that it’s going to be more important than ever, and quite possibly harder than ever, to keep up my super-hard bitch act. And whilst my mind is resolving that I won’t let my guard slip for a second, I hear my disloyal tongue say, ‘Oh bugger it. Go on then, show me a good time. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to.’ I grin my challenge. But even I don’t believe me.