Game Over

14

Being in love is just as painful as I always expected it to be. I wake up every morning and my first thought is of Darren. In fact, as my dreams are also littered with him, I’m beginning to find it difficult to distinguish between the two states. They smudge together. I’ll be driving into work and I’ll see him in every car and on every street. The excitement of spotting him is tremendous. The disappointment that it never is him is side-splitting. I walk into the TV6 building and always look around to see if he’s in reception, which is a ridiculous thought, considering how much he loathes the studio and all it stands for. I listen to weather forecasts for Whitby, even though I know he’s in London. How could I ever have thought that Whitby was Smallsville? Now it’s everywhere I turn. TV6 is setting a new drama there; on the news yesterday there was a small piece about the myth of Dracula and there was a shot of the cemetery we visited. Issie’s parents have just bought a caravan and Whitby was one of the first places they visited. Whitby is suddenly the centre of the universe. Every time the phone rings I leap and whilst I always listen to his messages, several times, I haven’t returned any calls.

Initially he called often and left complicated messages. Jaki begged me to return them.

‘Call him, Cas. He doesn’t believe you’ve left the firm.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to him.’

‘Well, at least tell him that! If not for your sake, for mine. My workload has practically doubled since I started taking his calls.’

‘Then you weren’t working hard enough in the first place,’ I replied, without looking up from my screen. ‘Contact reception and get me a new extension number and next time he calls tell him I’ll inform the police if he keeps pestering me.’

Darren has called round to my flat twice. Both times he conscientiously left a note detailing when he’d return, so I moved to Issie’s for a while. He took the hint. The visits stopped. The calls stopped. Except for the occasional one, late at night, when he’s obviously drunk – just a dulcet ‘It’s me.’ He still sends me e-mails. He no longer sends long notes asking me to get in touch; now he simply sends links to websites that he thinks might interest me. Articles on Audrey Hepburn, surveys on TV viewing habits and yesterday an update on the latest divorce statistics released by the government. I wonder what he meant by that? It’s hard to read significance into any of the articles he sends, as he doesn’t introduce them or sign off with anything personal. Which I suppose is a blessing. Imagine if he wrote ‘best wishes’ or ‘love’ or ‘all my love’ – I’d turn into Issie, analysing the significance of each word, when there isn’t any.

Facts about him erupt into my consciousness when I’m least expecting them. One moment I’m checking interview scripts, the next I’m thinking about his arguments on the collective responsibility of programming.

Which is bollocks.

But he did argue his case stylishly.

If only my thoughts of him stopped with recalling his arguments. I send myself to sleep each night remembering the way his lips felt hanging on my nipple and I wake up smiling. But only for the nanosecond it takes for my brain to explain to my heart that there will be no repeat performance.

Ever.

It seems that I know a million things about him because I’m always considering, remembering, recollecting. Yet there is so much that I don’t know. I examine trees and wonder exactly what tree surgeons do. We did talk about his work but I’d like a clearer picture. I’d like to be able to imagine every part of his day. I wonder what his flat is like and what car he drives. Then I remind myself that it is safer I don’t know these things because the less I have to forget the better. And really it is only a matter of time before he’s annihilated from my mind. I comfort myself with the thought that, in the beginning, everything is fascinating. The way they part their hair, the way they blow their nose, their views on government policies towards third world debt, how they like their tuna steak. Every manifestation seems enticing, but if I were still with him these things would have already become tedious. It would be impossible to keep noticing these things if they were constantly before me. The commonplace is not rare and beautiful. Interesting. Precious. Like all my memories. It’s better that I have the luscious intensity intact rather than sullied through everyday wear.

I’m aware that I sound like Issie. But it’s under control.

I prescribe my usual antidote and work is hot. Full of despair, betrayal, rage, depression, sweaty palms and tight throats, but other people’s, not mine. Weddings bring out the worst in people, which is ideal for my purposes. The British public don’t disappoint me in their levels of paranoia or jealousy; contestants fall through the doors realizing what a perfect opportunity for revenge a wedding is. Who could ask for more? A huge stage packed with an audience of the stooges’ nearest and dearest (plus 10.6 million viewers and rising) available to witness the humiliation. It’s a fact that during preparations for a wedding small problems escalate. A decision about a buttonhole – carnation or lily – can be make or break; therefore the turmoil that the choice between Carol and Lily can wreak should not be underestimated.

My response to the bishop’s letter ran in all the quality press. Which created just the correct amount of indignation. Calls were made for the government to intervene by issuing TV programmes with certificates of classification, similar to the cinema. A sensible suggestion with which no one with any common sense could argue. Luckily the tabloids misrepresented the issue and re-opened the old debate on freedom of the media and ‘big brother’ censorship. The uproar is tremendous. Although the tabloids fail to articulate a sensible counter-argument to the idea of classification, there is enough contagious anger to keep the issue (and most importantly the show) in the headlines for weeks. I am delighted with the controversy. There are a number of distinct advantages, besides the incessant snowballing of the number of potential guests. I have been given the go-ahead to shoot Sex with an Ex episodes from now until July. Advertisers are more confident and are pledging big advertising budgets, which has allowed me the opportunity to extend the channel’s programme schedule. We’ve bought four massive films, which are set to secure huge audiences. We’ve put more money into the Teddington Crescent soap, commissioning better writers and sets that are not made of tissue paper. We’ve also introduced a number of entirely new programmes – quiz shows, sit-coms and docusoaps. I am Midas.

The only disadvantages of Sex with an Ex being a runaway success is that Bale has become more ‘hands-on’ in the management of the show. Like all good bosses, his main strength is identifying a winner, created by someone else, and stealing it. Bale has never had an opportunity to pull a fast one like this on me before – I’m normally too sharp, too many steps ahead of him. But this time I unintentionally handed him the opportunity on a plate. Bale describes my trip to Whitby as my ‘wild-goose-chase period’. He frequently cites it as an act of misjudgement and irresponsibility. The implication is, of course, that if I’ve been so heinously stupid and irrational once, there is always the danger of my doing the same thing again; perhaps when even more than a tight schedule is at stake. My twelve-year exemplary CV counts for nothing. I would resent this treatment but I know the rules we play by in this industry – I made most of them up; so I simply have to take it on the chin.

At least publicly.

Privately I’m plotting ways to circulate pictures of Bale in women’s underwear, which I procured from his latest wounded jilt. She happily offered them up to me, as she has been giving Bale head for three weeks, on the back of his promise that ‘he’d see her right in the firm’. In fact, he saw her right out of the firm with nothing more than a P45 for her effort. She’d taken the pictures during one of their more bizarre sessions. She gave them to me and I gave her a letter of recommendation based on some of her talents, other than those Bale sampled. I also suggested she concentrated on her shorthand, rather than hand jobs. But I expect the advice will have fallen on deaf ears. Once you find yourself on your back, on the back of a promise, you never get up. I’m not sure when, or if, I’ll ever run the pictures on the Internet but I like knowing I have them.

Bale’s insidious presence affects the entire show, largely because he doesn’t understand it. The success of Sex with an Ex is its spontaneity. Now, speculation has been annihilated.

We have telephone lines set up for those wishing to be on the show, which are manned by counsellors. I rarely handle the interviews these days, but have a team of psychologists to do so. The channel gets involved with the stooges’ wedding preparations from a very early stage in the engagement, often selecting the ring. We attend most dress fittings and censor the guest list. We bear the entire cost of any weddings that actually manage to limp to the altar but, worse than twenty parents, we exercise our right to advise on all aspects, from cake to consummation. We have teams that are specially selected for their sympathetic qualities or at least their ability to feign sympathy convincingly, and they become the friends of the stooges. We become indispensable to the ordinary people who wish to compete. Because it is about competition. Who will he choose? Does she love me alone? Nothing is left to chance. It’s now very rare that when the lights go down the contestants’ confidence drains and they find themselves asking, ‘What am I doing here?’ It’s unlikely because they’ve been rehearsed, tutored, scripted, groomed to an inch of their lives. They know how to act if they are humiliated in front of millions (ideally a woman should cry and a man should be violent, but we sometimes turn this expectation on its head to create an extraordinary effect). They know how to act if their partner remains faithful (sweet relief mixed with assured confidence). They practise how to sit, walk, hold their hands, cry, punch and kick. I personally feel the show has lost its bite but Bale is so paranoid about the big bucks which are rolling on Sex with an Ex that he won’t hear of returning to a more impromptu approach. I could argue my case but, unaccountably, I’m not as fired about the show as I have been in the past. I’m more concerned with getting some new shows off the ground.

I call a meeting to discuss some new ideas. Through the glass partition I watch the team cluster. They no longer look like the anxious relatives of the sick, as they did last August. It’s amazing what six months and over 10 million viewers can do. They look happy and confident, proud and exhilarated. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Darren Smith.

‘Hey, guys, how are you?’

‘Hanging,’ replies Tom. I stare my rebuke. It’s a lie. I’ve seen Tom’s tackle and even the most generous description would not stretch to ‘hanging’.

‘Cool.’

‘Top.’

‘Smart,’ reply Mark, Jaki and Gray respectively. I hope they understand that I am responsible for their feeling of euphoria.

‘Pleased to hear it. Now to business.’ I glare Ricky out of his chair at the top of the table and sit there taking command of the room. Each team member gives a brief update on their department. Gray reports the massive revenue increases in sponsorship and advertising. I was expecting this; the others gasp, happy and astonished. Di gives us more good news, announcing that the exec. committee has increased our team’s marketing budget by 250 per cent. Tom and Mark immediately start debating where we should go for lunch.

‘Quo Vadis?’

‘No, the Ivy.’

‘Grow up,’ instructs Fi. ‘There are more important things to discuss.’ She’s learning.

‘Like what?’ spits Mark.

‘Like what next?’ I reply. ‘We have to stay hot.’ We bandy some ideas around.

‘A follow-up to Sex with an Ex. You know, how are the couple doing? Did they make the right choice?’ suggests Jaki.

‘That’s really obvious,’ snarls Fi.

‘But cheap,’ Jaki defends, knowing it’s me not Fi she has to impress.

‘You’re right, go for it,’ I instruct. ‘Write it up as a proposal. Make it sexy. Get some visuals.’

‘How about a series on serial killers?’ suggests Tom. ‘Compare and contrast the Yorkshire Ripper, the Moors Murderers, that Dr Death guy.’ I concentrate on concealing my disgust.

‘Or something more broad, like tyrants and despots. Stalin, Hitler, Pinochet – we could have an audience participation deciding who was the most vicious,’ adds Mark.

‘Too gruesome,’ comments Gray, and I’m relieved that someone has articulated my killjoy thoughts. ‘Let’s stick to what we do well, humiliating and exposing the normal blokes.’

‘Yeah,’ says Ricky. ‘We could follow guys on their stag weekends. You know, get shots of them licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts or being tied naked to a lamppost.’

‘Good idea,’ enthused Fi. ‘We could film the hens puking into their handbags singing “Let Me Entertain You” whilst taking their bras off.’

‘No, no. I think we should go more up-market,’ comments Di.

I want to kiss her.

‘Let’s do some undercover work on politicians and fat cats. Let’s film them standing on bar tops or licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts.’

I want to kick her.

‘Or we could do a series of celeb profiles?’ I suggest.

‘Absolutely,’ enthuses Jaki. ‘Dig up all their dirty past, lots of photos they’d rather not see published.’

‘No,’ I shout, marginally more forcefully than I intended. ‘Something more’ – I hesitate, nervous of how my suggestion will be received – ‘profitable.’

‘Well, skeletons in the cupboard are profitable. The advertisers are bound to see the appeal and put loads of money behind it,’ comments Fi.

‘I mean emotionally profitable. Perhaps we could do a show about how celebs are getting along with their millennium promise or, if they didn’t make one, perhaps we can get them to pledge something improving now.’

‘Maybe,’ mumbles Ricky. But he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic. I look at the others but they are all steadfastly concentrating on the cobweb in the right-hand ceiling corner of the room. I’m embarrassed, but push on.

‘OK, maybe that’s not too keen, but I’m just trying to think of something more educational than the current mix.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Quite right.’

‘Definitely agree,’ chorus the cobweb-gazing brigade.

‘Do you?’ I smile enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, like a programme on cross-dressing. Now that’s educational.’

‘Or something on plastic surgery. Perhaps some horror stories of women desperate to keep their husbands and prepared to go to amazing surgical lengths to do so – all the better if the operations have gone wrong.’

‘Don’t be so stereotypical,’ shouts Fi. ‘What about male plastic surgery stories? Penis extensions – now there’s a tale to tell.’ The room erupts into sniggers. I don’t join in. I’m relieved when someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. I’m praying that the salt and Linneker versus cheese and onion debate will overwhelm, and that the original subject of the meeting is forgotten.