Game Over

16

A whole new world opens up in front of me. An entirely novel conversational track. An individual way to relate to my mother, Josh’s mother, aunts, neighbours, women I meet at dinner parties, restaurants, art galleries, the gym – my Ph.D. in Brides and Setting up Home. What had I talked about before I had the cluster on my finger? It surprises and delights me that wedding preparation is an admirable substitute for sex. Which is a good thing because Josh and I have decided not to rush having sex.

‘Why?’ Issie doesn’t understand.

‘Well, we’re both finding it a bit harder than we imagined crossing over from friends to lovers.’

‘Isn’t that a fairly major detail, since you are planning on getting married? Aren’t married people supposed to be lovers?’

‘Yes, and friends.’ I sound defensive. ‘We thought of getting through the initial embarrassment by just getting pissed and shagging each other. After all, we’ve both done it to other people often enough in the past. But now that seems so tacky and cheap. I realized that the reason I can’t rush this is because I want it to be really special. A few more months without sex will be good for me.’

‘It might grow over, you know,’ teases Issie. I throw a cushion at her but we both shut up as Josh comes into the room with a tray of wine and Pringles.

‘Why do I get the feeling you were talking about me?’ He sits in-between us. Issie and I exchange glances.

‘Just singing your praises,’ Issie says.

Little white lies are a way of life. Issie could hardly say, ‘Oh, actually we were just talking about yours and Cas’s vow of celibacy.’

Although in the past we did discuss every aspect of our lives. The nitty gritty, not just loose morals but, when travelling in India, loose faeces too.

Tonight after Issie leaves I’ll tell Josh what we were really talking about. It’s a small shift in the dynamics, almost imperceptible and certainly not important.

Issie’s brother is designing our wedding invites so Issie has come round tonight to help us decide on the wording. Which is the other tiny change – Issie rarely pops round just to hang out any more. She only ever visits when she has a reason. Still, there are plenty of reasons – choosing dresses and flowers, repainting Josh’s flat, returning a casserole dish. Her visits are just as frequent, so it’s not really a problem.

‘So, Issie? Have you decided – are you going to be the bridesmaid or the best man?’ asks Josh.

‘I’m going to be the bridesmaid. I like the outfit better.’

‘You like me better,’ I screech playfully.

I notice she doesn’t answer me but instead asks, ‘So where are you getting married?’

We answer simultaneously and differently.

‘In London,’ I say.

‘At home,’ says Josh.

‘At home,’ I offer quickly.

‘In London,’ he presses.

‘We haven’t worked out the details,’ I smile apologetically to Issie. Wisely, she doesn’t comment.

‘We do have a date,’ says Josh. I snuggle closer to him.

‘Well, that’s good,’ smiles Issie. ‘When?’

‘June,’ I say.

‘July,’ says Josh at the same time. We both laugh. ‘Look, I don’t mind. Do what you want. I’m just thrilled. It’s going to be the best party ever.’ He leans in and kisses me. I wiggle away because I don’t want to embarrass Issie.

Josh leaves for rugby practice and Issie and I set to on Project Wedding. I approach it exactly as I approach projects at work.

‘OK, we need a list.’

Issie jumps up and finds paper and pen. I grab a bunch of bridal magazines and I open the bottle of Chardonnay.

‘So you are still working on when and where?’ says Issie quietly as she carefully writes ‘Cas and Josh’s wedding’ at the top of the page. Her handwriting is round and childish and familiar.

‘July and Esher, Josh’s family home.’

‘Good progress,’ grins Issie. ‘Which church?’

‘A church? I hadn’t thought of a church.’

‘They usually feature.’

‘I was thinking of a civil ceremony. Maybe in a garden or a smart hotel?’ I cross my legs underneath me.

Issie gently probes, ‘Have you discussed this with Josh? I mean he’s quite godly.’

‘Considering he plays rugby,’ I add.

We both laugh. It’s true Josh is a long way from being a bible basher but he does believe in God and goes to church at Easter, Christmas and at least two or three other times a year. I do recall him taking his godfather duties very seriously when he became godfather to the children of his head of chambers. I’d sort of put it down to brown nosing. But maybe not. I consider it.

‘Of course he’s godly, Issie. He went to a posh school which had obligatory Mass. Look, I’ll discuss it with him.’

‘Well, if you are hoping for a July wedding you’d better discuss it pretty damn quickly. It’s April now. I take it you mean this July?’ She’s doodling hearts and bells on the corner of the list.

‘Yes, I mean this July.’

We move on and begin to draw up a list of costs. I’m somewhat perturbed to discover that tradition has it that the bride’s parents are supposed to pay for just about everything; the groom’s parents get off with the odd bunch of flowers and the rings. I doubt very much that my mother has had a secret trust fund that magically matures as I meet Prince Charming. I think her budgeting for my wedding would truly have been a leap of faith; I’d hardly indicated that I was marrying material. Unless I want to give my guests sausages on sticks and cheese and pineapple chunks, Josh and I will have to pay for the wedding. I hope that won’t offend anyone. People have been acting rather strangely recently. Indeed, if I’d had a pound for every time anyone had said the words ‘traditional’, ‘the done thing’ and ‘expected’, I’d be a millionaire. I’m surprised that these words have been showered on me with such frequency because I’d never heard them previously in my entire life.

‘OK, so what else needs to be included in this project plan?’ I ask.

‘No one could ever accuse you of being overly romantic, could they, Cas?’ grins Issie wryly.

‘I just want to be well organized.’

She shrugs and then reverts to the bridal magazine; I revert to the wine bottle.

‘Well, for the service, civil or church, you need wedding rings and a form of service. You need to select music and readings. You’ll have to consider cars, photographers and guest accommodation. There is a lot to think about. You’ll need a guest list, and an acceptance list, lists of menus, lists of drink, gift lists. There are caterers to consider. You need to book a photographer and videographer. If I were you I’d decline my dad’s kind offer to bring his cinecamera along. It’s older than I am. What type of reception do you want?’

There’s only one type, isn’t there? The after-ceremony type.’

Issie rolls her eyes. ‘Sit-down meal, buffet, melon balls and chicken or something a little less traditional, Asian, sushi, Italian, Mexican? What about your silverware, napkins, menu design, flowers? Are you going to invite children? And if so, you should consider their menu and an entertainer. What about the favours, the balloons, the seating plan? Round tables or square ? Who’s going to sit in the seat that is traditionally saved for the father of the bride? Will you have speeches? Will you make one?’ She finally draws to a halt.

‘Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?’ This is the question Issie has been waiting to be asked all her life.

‘Well, if it were me, I’d want it to be sit-down and with a seating plan. I wouldn’t try to mix oldies and youngies – because that only works in books. I’d allow the people with things in common to sit together. I’d want tuna carpaccio, followed by tempura fish with chilli salad and Parmesan polenta and then summer berries, which I’d have stacked in huge mounds as table centrepieces. I wouldn’t have a traditional cake but I’d have a bitter chocolate profiterole mound instead.’

I’m left stranded somewhere between horrified and admiring. When has Issie had time to think of all this? Then I remember she does this imaginary wedding thing instead of t’ai chi.

‘Er, sounds good. Let’s have that.’

‘You can’t have that! That’s what I’m having!’

I don’t point out that Issie isn’t even seeing anyone on a regular basis. It doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do.

‘Well, erm…’ I’m unsure what to say next. ‘I don’t really mind and I’m pretty sure Josh is relaxed about it too. Let’s ask my mum. She’ll love getting involved. Planning my wedding will cheer up her drab little life.’

‘I’m not sure she thinks it’s drab.’

‘Oh, come on, Issie, she must! Before she married she lived an exemplary life of purity and chastity – which can hardly be a barrel of laughs. Then she fell uncontrollably in love with her husband, he exited stage left and ever since she’s put her life on hold by refusing to get over him.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘Is there any other way?’ I’m already dialling my mother’s number, so I can’t be sure, but I think I hear Issie say something about three sins I’m clear of. I watch as she moves her finger down the magazine page as she reads, which I find quaint and touching. The finger stops and hesitates.

‘What about insurance?’ asks Issie.

‘Insurance? What will I need insurance for?’

‘Theft of pressies, damage to the dress, damage to the marquee.’

‘It’s a wedding, not a rave.’

‘The loss of deposits due to the cancellation of the wedding.’

We both pause.

‘Well, let’s get an estimate.’

My mother picks up the mantle. She works steadily throughout the summer and does a marvellous job of knocking the day into shape. Full of zeal, she organizes everything from the church to the caterers, tactfully asking Josh’s mum’s opinion every step of the way. The wedding has a profound effect on everyone. Josh’s mum has become more animated than I’ve ever seen her before, drinking less and smiling more. As I don’t have a father to do the traditional patriarchal stuff, Josh’s father happily adopts the role. He invites everyone he’s ever met to the wedding, talks about the ‘forthcoming happy event’ and, I swear, he’s even taken to swaggering. This would be infuriating behaviour except, a more happy consequence, he has decided that keeping a mistress is incongruous with his current self-image. For the time being at least, he has given up his philandering. Josh is delirious. Issie hasn’t actually voiced any objections. Everyone is as happy as pigs in mud. I’m relieved to be freed up from the hassle, as I can now turn back to concentrating on my work. With vengeance.

I have returned to my routine of five trips to the gym a week, cycling into the office by 8.30 a.m. and working through lunch. However, I don’t often stay late now because Mum organizes imperative meetings with the dressmaker/vicar/caterers/videographer/photographer/florist, etc., on a more or less continuous basis. But then I like to be busy. I exist in a huge waft of tissue paper and ribbons with a sprinkling of rose petals.

‘Someone has parked their bike in my space. Deal with it,’ I bark at Jaki. ‘Ricky, do you have the runs for last night’s shows? Di, Debs, have either of you seen the papers today? We are mentioned in the Guardian for our storyline in Teddington Crescent and in the Sun for the documentary on stars’ babies and in the Star for Sex with an Ex. Pretty good crop for one day, I’m sure you’ll agree. Get a response out to all three editors by 10 a.m.’

Jaki puts a double espresso on my desk.

‘What did you watch on TV last night?’ she asks.

‘No time, I was at a tiara fitting.’ We take a moment to smirk at each other.

‘Morning, darling,’ shouts Tom generally to no one in particular.

‘Afternoon,’ we chorus as it’s 8.45 a.m. Tom looks wounded – he’s probably never been in the office so early before.

The status meeting runs exactly to plan. Gray tells me that we have received two complaints from the ITC about offensive language, but, or indeed therefore, the ratings achieved for most of our shows are as expected. The entire team negotiates with him over the predicted ratings for next season’s schedule. As the advertising and sponsorship director, it is in his interest to put in ‘stretch predictions’. The rest of the team see this as setting unfeasible targets. I settle the matter by diplomatically choosing a number mid-distance between the two extremes. Ricky updates me on scheduling. I’m only half listening because I notice Debs isn’t listening at all but instead staring at her Screensaver of George Clooney. I’m irritated by her lack of commitment. I tune back in to Ricky.

‘… So net net what they are suggesting is to push back Sex with an Ex. I’ll say OK, shall I?’ If he hadn’t closed his file quite so swiftly and tried to walk away faster than Road Runner, I mightn’t have noticed.

‘What did you say?’

Ricky sighs when he realizes he’s stuck with my undivided attention. He has no choice other than to tell me the full tale.

Ironically, because of the success of Sex with an Ex TV6 is a bit flush with cash, which we’ve invested in big box hit movies, a move that I’d sanctioned. Now the Strategy and Scheduling Department are suggesting we take on the other commercial channels by showing the blockbuster films at a time which will necessitate Sex with an Ex being pushed out of peak hour. Why didn’t I see that coming?

‘There’s not much we can do,’ shrugs Ricky apologetically. ‘Their case is watertight. The Sex with an Ex viewership has stabilized; we can pull more viewers in with an Arnie Schwarnie film. There’s more violence.’

He’s right. I sigh and nod.

‘OK. Say we agree.’

‘What, just like that?’ asks Fi, amazed. ‘Aren’t you even going to try to think of a way to make Sex with an Ex bigger?’

‘Look, Fi, you’ve got to learn which battles to fight. See the bigger picture. We are responsible for the channel, not individual shows.’

‘But the show was your idea.’

‘Fi, I have loads of ideas. Ten million viewers is an excellent achievement for a show of this nature. Far beyond anything we expected when we set out. Let’s not get greedy. We’ll pull in 12 million with the right films. And besides which, it’s not as if they are suggesting we ditch Sex with an Ex – we’re just moving it out of peak.’

‘Well, if it were my show I’d be fighting tooth and nail to keep it in peak,’ spits Fi, with far more passion than I’d ever seen her display before.

‘It’s not your show.’

As part of my self-protection campaign against Bale sidelining me, I have started to increase my own public profile. In interviews with the national press I make it clear that my personal contribution to the channel is colossal. I also make the most of my less cerebral attributes. I figure that Bale will be keener to keep me sweet if I am a public sweetheart. I’m mid-interview with a journalist from one of the big women’s glossies, when Jaki announces that my mother is in reception.

‘I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave it there. I’m taking my mother out for lunch,’ I smile apologetically. The interview has been more demanding than I expected. The journalist and I are playing a very sophisticated game. I know he likes me but he’s pretending not to; it’s a matter of professional pride. I’m pretending that I’m still trying to win him over, although I know he’s eating out of my hand.

He grimaces stiffly, trying to decide if I planned this interruption in the hope that he’ll mention my lunch date with Mum in his article. If I have planned it, he won’t mention it. If I haven’t, he will. It would, after all, provide a human angle, which is notably lacking. In truth, it’s a complete coincidence. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed if Mum wasn’t tyrannically anal about promptness and this journalist wasn’t stereotypical in his tardiness.

‘Just one or two more questions.’ I agree and smile a candy-coated smile. ‘You receive an enormous number of complaint letters about the nature of your lead show Sex with an Ex, from parents, teachers, local governments. Even the Church of England has condemned you—’

‘I’m agnostic,’ I smile my interruption.

He ignores it. ‘How do you feel about the charge that you are advocating adultery?’

‘Quite simply, I’m not. The ratings are just as high if the couple stay together. I see TV as a nationally authorized culture. I don’t force anyone to watch or to participate in the show.’ I parrot my answer, barely suppressing my yawn. It doesn’t sound as convincing, to me, as it used to. I hope it convinces him. I think of a new bit to add. ‘The British public is far too intelligent to be dictated to. Will you write that up as a direct quote?’ He nods shyly. I know he’s annoyed with himself for being acquiescent.

‘Finally, how do you feel about the label that you’re “the voice of your generation”?’

‘I haven’t heard that one before.’ I titter and twitter in a vain attempt to convince him that I’m harmless. ‘Truly? Off record?’ I don’t think I can maintain this syrupy exterior for another minute. It’s such a strain. He nods.

‘I’m not the voice of my generation because I’m far cleverer, far more compassionate and far crueller.’

He mulls over what I’ve just said. I suspect he regrets agreeing to keep that off record. It’s the best quote of the interview.

If only he knew what it meant.

I stand up, indicating that it’s time for him to go. Jaki ushers the journalist out of the office and brings my mum in.

‘I’m sorry, I’m running late.’ I blow her a kiss and my apology as I grab my jacket and handbag off the back of the chair.

‘Jaki, I’m taking Mum to lunch and then we are going to choose her outfit for the wedding. I’ll be out most of the afternoon.’

This isn’t a problem because I do such long hours I feel entitled to take an hour or two off. Other than my team, most TV6 employees don’t arrive until 11.00 a.m.; for many the real work doesn’t begin until after sobering up from lunch. ‘Keep checking my e-mail as I’m expecting an important decision from the executive committee, regarding the budgets for next year. I’ll keep my mobile on but don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Don’t put anyone through except for Darren.’

‘Darren?’ repeats Jaki astounded. About two thousand watts charge through me.

‘Did I say Darren? Oh, I meant Josh.’ I’m scarlet, so I delve into my handbag pretending to be looking for a tissue to blot my lipstick and I’m not even wearing lipstick.

‘Why did you say Darren?’ asks Jaki.

‘Oh, it must have been that journalist. He was asking the same kind of questions that that Darren bloke asked about the show. You know, did I feel responsible for the nation’s adultery? Do I feel guilty for being the catalyst of so much aggro?’

My hands have suddenly got a life of their own. They are scratching my nose, moving my hair behind my ear, itching my leg. They won’t stay steadily on my hips or by my sides. Jaki and Mum are both staring at me very closely. They were a lot alike, the journalist and er, thingy, Darren. They were both unrealistic, misguided, moralistic pricks. Sorry, Mum.’ I’m apologizing for using the word ‘prick’ before she demands that I do.

Sorry, Darren. Somewhere deep inside I feel treacherous.

‘Who’s Darren?’ asks Mum.

‘Nobody. Some guy who didn’t appear on my show.’

‘Sex on legs,’ says Jaki matter-of-factly.

‘Sorry dear?’ My mum’s pretending she doesn’t understand.

‘Very Jude Law, but kind of more dangerous, muckier,’ adds Jaki. My mother still looks bemused. ‘Very Rhett Butler,’ clarifies Jaki.

‘Oh, I see.’

My mother and I collapse gratefully into the chairs in the Selfridges restaurant. We are carrying heavy bags and light purses and therefore truly euphoric. It’s quite an achievement. We’ve managed to buy Mum an outfit for the wedding, which we both like. And the said purchase has been completed without either of us resorting to sulking, glowering, blackmail or tears. We are on a roll, so despite having already had lunch, we now order a traditional tea with scones and sandwiches. I won’t touch the cakes or cream, of course. Fanatical about my food before, now I’m going to be a bride, I am rabid. Still, Mum’s delighted and only worries about the extravagance for the briefest time. She does what she always does nowadays, whenever we are together: she delves into her bag and produces the How to Plan for Your Wedding book.

‘Have you spoken to your hairdresser?’

‘Yes. I’ve made two bookings. One so she can practise putting my hair up and then one for the wedding day. But I’m playing with the idea of getting my hair cut.’

‘Oh, not your lovely hair.’ Mum looks as though I’ve just suggested sacrificing vestal virgins to pagan gods.

‘I’m too old for such long hair. What do you think of a sharp bob or a Zoë Ball crop?’

Evidently not much because my mother simply ticks the box entitled ‘hairdresser’ and moves the conversation on.

‘Have you informed your bank and building society of your name change and ordered new business cards?’

‘I don’t think I’ll change my name.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, it’s one less job,’ I defend, concentrating on sipping my Earl Grey. My mother speaks a million words with her silences. Finally she moves down the list.

‘You have to choose the flowers.’

I instantly know this isn’t going to be as simple as picking out something fragrant and pretty.

‘I was thinking hydrangeas and—’

‘You can’t have hydrangeas.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re unlucky. They represent boastfulness and exposure.’

‘Well, which are the lucky ones?’

‘Roses are always good. They stand for love, innocence and thankfulness, depending on the colour. Or something delicate like heliotropes, which represent devotion and faithfulness, with a bit of lemon blossom. They stand for fidelity in love.’

‘It’s bollocks. What did you have?’

‘Lemon blossom.’

‘There’s my point.’

My mum looks away. And I know I’ve hurt her. I can’t quite say sorry.

‘Oh, OK, heliotrope and lemon blossom it is.’

She smiles, relieved, and I’m embarrassed at how easy it is to please her.

‘Have you thought about your honeymoon?’

‘I’m leaving it to Josh. Which probably isn’t all that wise, but it is traditional. Will you have a discreet word with him, Mum? So that he doesn’t book anything too active. Don’t let him book a trekking holiday to the North Pole or a canoeing safari. Beach and bars will suit me fine.’ My mother makes a note.

‘Has he chosen his ushers and best man?’

I stare at her with incredulity.

‘It’s not me who’s asking, it’s what the book says. Here, look: “Check your fiancé has chosen his ushers.” ‘She points to the page.

‘God, they assume we all marry simpletons, don’t they? The implication is that he couldn’t wipe his own nose unassisted.’ My mother and I treat the surrounding tables to looks of disdain and disbelief.

‘So has he chosen his ushers?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I reply and we both giggle helplessly. I like this relaxed Mum. When the giggles subside, I say, ‘I am grateful, Mum. Thank you. I know it’s a lot of work.’

Mum glows and simpers. She carefully cuts her scone into halves and then quarters. There has been a mass of work and I don’t know how I’d have coped without her. I hadn’t expected to care about the fairy-tale day but as it approaches I really do want it to be perfect. I want a perfect bride with perfect hair, dress and make-up. Perfect Mum with all her friends attending and a hat that suits her. Perfect guests who are happy with the food and seating plan. And a perfect husband, which Josh is.

‘We’ve had a lovely day, haven’t we?’ asks Mum.

‘Yes,’ I agree.

She doesn’t pause. ‘Issie mentioned a Darren to me. Pass the jam, dear.’ She’s desperately trying to be disingenuous but she’s had no practice. I, on the other hand, am a veteran. I reach into my bag and pull out, from acres of tissue paper, the shoes I’ve just bought for the wedding. They are covered in tiny beads, zillions of them. They are certainly the prettiest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen.

‘What do you think, Mum?’

‘They are beautiful. Wasn’t Darren the one from the north? Didn’t you go on holiday with him?’

Issie really is rent-a-mouth.

‘It wasn’t a holiday. It was work.’

Mum falls back on the etiquette we have used for a thousand years. She refills my teacup and cuts me a slice of cake. She does this with the precision of a geisha girl. I try to be patient until the little ceremony comes to an end. It is only now that I realize she always uses this ritual to buy time. She has something important to say and she is carefully considering how best to phrase it.

‘Josh is a lovely boy.’

I smile, this is fine. We both know this.

‘He’s been like a son to me in some ways, over the years, and certainly like a brother to you. I’m sure he loves you very much.’

‘Er, Mum, this is hardly headline news. We are engaged to be married next month. Isn’t this the usual state of affairs?’

Mum reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. ‘Do you love Josh?’

‘Mum!’ I’m shocked. When my father informed my mother about his affair, she could not believe it. Quite literally. I watched, from the doorway of the kitchen, as she ran to him and hung her arms around his neck. She smiled sweetly, hopefully, up at him and asked if he could possibly love the other woman as much, no more, than his wife and daughter. She had expected him to see sense and tell her, ‘No, of course not.’ That way we could all sweep the whole silly business under the carpet. Unfortunately, my father was unaware of the script. He’d replied that, yes, regrettably, that was the case. My mother reeled from the shock. It was at that moment that she began to construct the elaborate safety net that would protect her from any such horrors and indignities again. The most notable components of the net are that she doesn’t readily show affection (I can count on one hand the number of times she’s deliberately touched me). She never talks about love. And she never asks questions to which she doesn’t know the answers. It bothers me that in a single afternoon, sitting in the Selfridges restaurant, my mother has broken all three of her own rules.

I figure it’s a bit late in the day for my mum to take up the role of adviser. Just because I’ve let her choose the flowers and menu doesn’t mean I want her opinion on every part of my life. She’s my mother and therefore understands nothing and knows less. She’s always let me pretty much make my own mistakes and learn my own lessons. Why start interfering now? Anyway, I am suddenly piqued with myself. Marrying Josh isn’t a mistake. It is the right thing to do. He’s kind and decent and easy-going and everyone likes him and he’s got great career prospects and he’s a good cook.

And he’s not Darren.

I glare at Mum but she won’t be intimidated into shutting up. Instead she says, ‘I’d hate to think that all I’d taught you was sacrifice.’

I put Mum in a taxi, which very nearly spoils the day because she thinks a taxi is frivolous and sees it as yet another example of my decadence and ‘odd ways’. I simply think it will save her hat box from being crushed on the tube. We all but have a stand-up fight, but we are reunited when the cab driver is rude to us and tells us to get ‘bloody in, or bloody out, the bleedin’, bloody cab’. I take another cab and rush back to the studio in time to sit in on the interviews of a couple of possible candidates for next week’s show. The interviews finish at 7.45 p.m. and when I return to my desk I find the department empty, except for Fi.

‘You’re here late,’ I comment.

She doesn’t reply directly but grunts and glowers. I remember my mild, but public, rebuke earlier this morning and calculate that she’s probably still sulking with me. I try to restore departmental harmony by telling her about the interviews.

‘There was this archetypal Essex girl…’

It may be that she wasn’t from Essex at all, but from Edinburgh or Exeter or anywhere in-between. But it’s shorthand that Fi will appreciate. The girl had been describing her ex-lover. His CV read like the admission book to the Priory. A compulsive womanizer and gambler, whose idea of a day’s work was a sticky-fingered sweep round the local shopping centre; a louse in every way but redeemed in her eyes because he was ‘a real salt’.

I stared at the girl, non-comprehending. ‘An Essex term, I presume?’

‘Salt. Salt of the earth. The real thing. A fucker,’ she elaborated.

‘Quite,’ I smiled. Knowing she’d make great TV and the warm-up act would be able to wallow in innumerable Essex jokes.

‘Hey, Fi, what does an Essex girl say after her eleventh orgasm?’ Fi shrugs. ‘Just how many are there in a football team?’

It’s an old gag, but Fi appreciates my effort and finally allows herself to smirk. I know I’ve won her round when she says, ‘I’m just packing up. Fancy a drink? We could go to the Brave Lion.’

I’m about to decline, as is my habit, and explain that I have thirty plus e-mails to clear, when I suddenly think of my mother’s fretful face in Selfridges.

If only I could leave it there.

I know that if I stay in the office on my own she’ll haunt me, so I shut down my PC and grab my bag.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

I’m not. But what can I say? How am I going to explain it to Fi, of all people? We clink glasses and sip our G&Ts.

I wonder what she meant? Sacrifice?

Fi is using her fag to orchestrate the tune playing on the jukebox. It’s playing ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’, which seems poignant. Fuck, I’ll be reading horoscopes next. I wish pubs would stick to ambient music. Sentimental lyrics and alcohol are a lethal combination. I charge towards thoughts of work, and away from ones of my mum, or Josh or the wedding.

‘So tell me, Fi, if Sex with an Ex were your show, what would you be doing to “make it bigger”?’

Fi looks shamefaced. ‘Er, sorry about this morning. I got wound up. I was being ridiculous. As you said, I should choose my battles.’

‘Apology unnecessary,’ I grin. ‘It’s good you are so passionate about your work.’ Or at least I think it is. ‘Tell me, what do you think of the show at the moment?’ I ask this to give the impression that I value her opinion. It’s a motivational thing I learnt on a course. Fi sucks the lemon slice from her drink.

‘Honestly?’

Suddenly I do value her opinion.

‘Yeah, honestly.’

I’m indignant that she’s implying that I like to hear anything other than honesty. Then I remember that I often accept half-truths, exaggeration, insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticism, knowing that they are blatant lies. It’s the oil that eases the wheels I call my life. Exaggeration – of anything from quoting the sales figures to qualifications on a CV – is routine. Insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticisms are always the result of someone else having an agenda. Usually the three Ps: promotion (securing theirs, ruining the chances of mine), pay rises (earning theirs, negotiating mine), promiscuity (all of the above).

Half-truths.

This is more uncomfortable.

This is horrendous.

I drain my G&T. Issie and I are dealing exclusively in half-truths at the moment. I find it totally impossible to be frank with her or, for that matter, with my mother or Josh. To be frank with them I’d have to be honest with myself and, although I have briefly considered this, I’ve rejected it as the lunacy it so obviously is.

‘Want another drink?’ Fi is up and halfway to the bar before I nod my response.

The full truth is I have not forgotten Darren. I had expected that by now his name, if mentioned, would call a blank. That momentarily I’d struggle to place him and on placing him I’d be indifferent, cool, unconcerned.

I think of him more or less continuously and a fleeting thought sends me into a flurry of, of, of… happiness.

Pure unadulterated happiness. I’m happy he’s on this planet somewhere. Even if that where isn’t anywhere near me. All this and I’m marrying someone else in four weeks. I force myself to return to Fi. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, honesty.

She puts the drinks on the table.

Tes. Honestly, what do you think of the show at the moment?’

‘Well, it’s fine.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Very good,’ Fi corrects. I raise the other eyebrow. This doesn’t create such a fetching effect but at least my expression corresponds with my thoughts. Fi sighs. ‘It’s lost its bite. There are no surprises.’ She’s right.

‘Any ideas?’

‘A few.’ I wonder if she’s going to share them. She must have invited me for a drink just for this opportunity. The opportunity to say, ‘Actually I’ve sketched out a couple of ideas and a business case,’ and then to reach for her satchel. I pause. She doesn’t do this. I’m surprisingly relieved. Frankly a ten-hour day is enough for anyone.

‘Another thing.’ Fi hesitates and examines her nails. I notice that, somewhat out of character, her nails are bitten, stubby runts of nails. I wonder what’s making her nervous. Or has she always bitten her nails? I can’t remember.

‘Go on, what other thing? Actually don’t, I’ll get the drinks in then you can tell me.’ Odd that our glasses are already empty. I engage in that necessary hand-to-hand combat with other pushy, over-aggressive and well-dressed Londoners. Luckily I’m served immediately. It takes a rare barman to ignore me (and a rare barwoman to serve me). I squeeze my way back to Fi. I feel as though I’ve just spent six weeks in army training. Sensibly I’ve bought us both two G&Ts; two doubles, actually. Well, it saves having to tackle the assault course for at least another fifteen minutes.

‘Go on. The other thing?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘You. You’ve changed.’

‘I’m wearing eye shadow – maybe that’s it. I read that eye shadow was in again,’ I defend.

Fi stares. She can’t decide if I’m being deliberately obtuse or uncharacteristically thick. The truth is, I’m nervous. I neck both my drinks as though they are water. Fi pushes her spare one in my direction.

‘Maybe it’s the engagement but—’ she’s steeling herself. Deciding whether to be brutally straight or not. She ploughs on. All I can do is admire her stupidity. ‘You just don’t seem as interested.’

‘I’m very busy,’ I snap with indignation.

‘Of course.’ Assuring.

‘I can’t be expected to do everything.’ Defensive.

‘Certainly not.’ Insincere.

‘You’re managing.’ Petulant.

‘Absolutely.’ Condescending.

‘I’m not as interested.’ Truthful.

Truthful. Fuck. That’s unprecedented. I swill back another huge glug of gin.

‘Oh shit, Fi, what can I say?’

Fi tilts her head, silently nods and I want to say something. I want to confide in her. I mean, I really like her. OK, it’s quite a sudden intimacy, I have been resisting becoming matey. It could be something to do with the several gins that I’ve necked in as many minutes, but I want to talk to someone. Anyone. And Fi is the one in front of me. Two actually. There are suddenly two Fis in front of me. And a whole pile of glasses. I shake my head gently from side to side.

‘Maybe because now you are getting married you are slightly less cynical and the programme is no longer as appealing?’ offers Fi.

Maybe.

She could be right. I want this to be the answer.

‘Or maybe it’s simply that you are really busy with other things. I mean before you got engaged absolutely everything came after work – your friends, your family. Maybe you are simply reprioritizing because you are busier now.’

Yes, the endless lists. I’m suddenly chilled as a flash of panic hits me. Have I given the list of hymn choices to the organist?

What does she mean – ‘everything came after’ my work?

Fi’s saying something else. I try to listen. The room is carousing. I touch my head but it still thinks it’s a spinning top.

‘When did you get engaged? March, wasn’t it?’ She doesn’t wait for my confirmation. She drags heavily on her cigarette. ‘Yet I’d say that your disinterest stems back further than that.’ I freeze. ‘Back to January. Did you make a New Year resolution not to work as hard?’

I glare at her. Both Fi and I know that she’s pieced it together. She isn’t absolutely spelling it out and this could be for one of a number of reasons. Either she’s not drunk enough, or she still has vague enough recollections that I whip hide rather efficiently and I’m her boss, or she hasn’t a lot of cash with her and she can’t afford to offend me as she needs me to buy her drinks. I pause and consider what her reticence can be attributed to. Fi takes advantage of the pause by going to the bar and buying some more drinks. So she has plenty of cash.

As she sits down I blurt, ‘It’s Darren.’

‘Darren who?’

‘Darren Smith.’ I resist adding ‘of course’. How can she not know who Darren is? How come his name isn’t embroidered on her consciousness? I feel gelded.

‘Smith? I always think that’s such a pointless surname. It doesn’t throw any light on the matter of identification.’

I scowl at Fi. Smith is a strong name. Where would England have been without black smiths and gold smiths and plain smiths? A slightly embarrassing recollection tickles my conscience. I vaguely remember thinking Smith (and Darren) were stupid names. Over the last few months this has changed somewhat; I’ve been associating Smith (and Darren) and, more specifically, Darren Smith with strength, goodness and downright horniness, rather than pseudo names for adulterous couples embarking on a dirty weekend. I hunt out the more familiar part of my nature, my ability to be Machiavellian.

‘Darren. You know, that stubborn git that I tried, and failed, to get on the show,’ I prompt Fi. I’m trying to give the impression that he was a no mark in my grand scheme. This is stupid. Talking about Darren is stupid. Why am I doing this? It’s dangerous. Fi hadn’t associated my peculiar and sudden squeamishness with Darren and I should be relieved. I shouldn’t be pursuing the topic. Because no matter what I am marrying Josh next month. Josh who isn’t a risk and isn’t a bad option. It’s stupid to bring up another man’s name in conversation.

I can’t stop myself.

Saying his name aloud is a relief.

And anyway I’m only talking about him. Perhaps talking about him will help me clarify the situation. It does need clarifying because – I’m certain this is just the drink – but suddenly I can’t remember why I didn’t return his calls.

The beauty? The horn?’ asks Fi.

‘Hmmm. Was he? Yes, I suppose, in a very obvious way he could be described as attractive. I’m referring more to his arguments on collective responsibility, taste, decency and erosion of public standards.’

I force myself to look at Fi. She’s staring right back at me. It’s obvious that she doesn’t believe me. That’s because she wasn’t born yesterday. I suddenly sober up and know I have to change the subject. My mind is whitewashed. Blank. Vacant. Clean.

‘I slept with him.’

‘I know that.’ Fi waves my confession away with a beer mat. It strikes me that when other women confess this type of thing the reaction is usually a little more stunning. Fi goes on to explain why she’s not that astounded. ‘But you sleep with everyone.’

‘Actually I don’t. Not any more. I haven’t slept with anyone since Darren.’

‘Not even—’

‘Not even Josh.’

Fi looks as though she’s just received news that there is intelligent life on Mars. More, that they are male. I take a deep breath.

‘We tried but – well, it was awkward, and so we thought it’s probably just the pressure.’ She doesn’t seem to be following me. ‘Josh says it doesn’t matter.’

But patently it does. Josh must be wondering how, since I’ve slept with half the male race in London, I can’t have sex with him – my fiancé. It is a good question. He’s lovely. I’ve slept with men I barely knew, never mind liked. Why the sudden capricious nature? Sex has never been in my head, firmly staying where it should be, in bed. Except for the mind fuck games which I played, but that was entertainment. I don’t do sentimentality or lamenting lost love.

At least I didn’t.

I got on. So there was never any issue about, ‘I like him but I just don’t fancy him’. Now I have problems with every aspect. His smell. Not that he smells terrible – the reverse is true. Josh always smells beautifully coiffured and doused in aftershave. But I want to smell him. His fingers, his armpits, his feet, his sperm.

But then I don’t.

‘Well, you know, it was bound to be difficult because we’ve known each other so long, in such a different context.’ I look at Fi again. From her face it’s clear that my explanation is mud. ‘And so we thought we’d wait until after the… you know—’

‘Wedding?’ prompts Fi. I’m grateful.

‘Yeah, the wedding.’

‘But the real reason is because you’ve still got the hots for Darren.’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘Oh, I thought you were.’

Another cab. This time to Josh’s. I find him in front of his PlayStation. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he tells me that there’s beer in the fridge.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he yells through to the kitchen. ‘What’s on your mind? If it’s the ushers, don’t worry, your mother’s already called me. And she mentioned the honeymoon, too. I’ve cancelled the bungy jumping from Sydney harbour.’

I bring my beer back into the living room and don’t waste any time trying to work out if he’s kidding or not.

‘No, nothing to do with wedding arrangements, I just – look put away the PlayStation. I’ve a couple of other dials for you to play with.’

I sort of dive on to him, quickly fastening my mouth on to his before he can comment on my terrible seduction line. I hastily unbutton his shirt and push it back off his shoulders. I frantically kiss his chest and neck whilst tearing at his buckle.

‘What’s the rush?’ he asks as he tries to turn my hasty pecks into lingering kisses.

‘It’s time now,’ I insist. ‘We’ve waited too long.’

It’s encouragement enough. After all, he is male. He jumps up and walks to the bedroom. I follow him. We undress ourselves quickly. He folds and hangs up his clothes. We get into bed and have sex.

He wants to please me, that’s obvious. He strokes my head and thighs and caresses my breasts. I bury my head into his neck and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s pointless. Darren is tattooed on to the inside of my lids.

It’s fine, absolutely fine. I even have brief waves of orgasm, although I don’t quite achieve a full climax, but then, I rarely do.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Josh props himself up on one arm and lies facing me. I pull the duvet up to my armpits. He strokes my hair.

‘I’m sorry that was all a bit quick.’

‘No, no, it was – fine. Great.’ I’m desperate for a cigarette.

‘Really, you, er, enjoyed yourself?’ He wants to believe it. ‘I mean, did you, er—’

‘Yes, really, I came. Well, just about.’

Relieved, he reaches for his cigarettes. ‘Well, that’s good, then.’

‘Yes.’

He hands me a lit fag and I edge up the headboard so that I can smoke it. I’m gripping on to the duvet like a Victorian virgin. We smoke in silence and then we stub out in silence.

‘Do you think we are doing the right thing, Josh?’

‘What a big wedding, rather than something small and intimate? Absolutely. It’s going to be a great party and we’ve both got loads of people we have to invite – my family, your colleagues – and a few we actually want to invite. A big wedding is definitely right for us.’

I hold my breath. As I let it go, unscheduled words tumble out. ‘No, I mean by getting married at all.’ Double jeopardy. Gin-induced soul-searching, the worst kind.

‘Well, even if we simply lived together you’d still have to have sex with me,’ jokes Josh. I turn to him and see he’s terrified. He coughs. ‘Was it that bad?’

‘No,’ I smile, messing his hair and planting a big kiss on his cheek. ‘You are every bit as good as you’ve always said.’

We laugh, me and mymateJosh. I feel more relaxed with Josh than I have done since the engagement. Obviously it was the sex thing that was stressing me out. It’s better to have got that over with. I feel I can talk to him again. I push on.

‘I just worry that neither of us knows how to do this. Neither of us has ever sustained a relationship for any length of time—’

‘That’s because we were with the wrong people. We are meant for each other.’

Of course.

‘But my parents are divorced and yours just stay together to spite one another. Hardly ideal role models.’ Why am I trying to reach for the self-destruct button? Marrying Josh is what I want to do. Why am I putting doubts in his mind?

‘Loads of people manage.’

‘Loads of people mess it up too,’ I counterargue grimly. But then I remind myself: those who don’t make it through are the ones who marry for the wrong reasons, for lust, for passion, because they are irrationally in love. Josh and I are quite different. We are marrying because we are alike. We are compatible. We are comfortable.

Fine.

Josh puts his hand under the duvet. He rests it on my thigh. He moves his thumb in circles. It feels like he is dragging my skin in the wrong direction.

‘Again?’ he asks.

Again? I hadn’t thought about again. But of course there’s an again. And again and again.

‘I’m a bit tired actually.’

‘No worries. We’ve got all the time in the world.’ Josh turns away from me and is asleep in seconds. His breathing is deep and relaxed.

A lifetime of doing it again.

My feet are ice blocks.