Game Over

‘I don’t deal in principles – they are no longer legal tender.’

‘More is the pity.’

I start to imagine the marketing and PR. ‘He’s put on a pound or two, maybe lost a bit of hair, but otherwise he’s unchanged. He was the love of your life when you were twenty-one and ten years have gone by. Yet he has that same boyish grin, he still calls you by your nickname and he remembers that you bought your hair gel in goldfish bowls at Superdrug. How can you resist?’ I’m warming to my theme.

‘Flirting with nostalgia is perilous,’ warns Issie.

‘That’s its selling point,’ I confirm.

‘You could wreck lives. Be responsible for cancelled weddings,’ she squeals.

‘We’d pay for the wedding if it fell through.’

Josh looks at me as though I’ve just crawled out from under the rim of the loo. This surprises me.

‘What?’ I demand, hotly. ‘I’m saving taxes. Your hard-earned taxes.’ I think this will get him. Josh is in the 40 per cent bracket. He has private healthcare and went to public school, so my very reasonable argument that taxes aren’t just for the building and deconstruction of our roads but for the building and reconstruction of our healthcare and future has never washed with him. Now I’m grateful.

‘If these people married, they would sooner or later divorce, dragging their five children through the courts. The children would be emotionally scarred and, no doubt, perpetrate the scenario by re-enacting their parents’ failed marriages. The total legal aid costs could run into hundreds of thousands.’

‘Christ, Cas, you deserve a medal,’ bites Josh sarcastically.

I choose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’

I can hardly sleep with excitement. I fine-tune the details. I consider that perhaps it is too much to expect every couple, weeks away from marriage, to have cracks in their relationships, but I could advertise. I reason that no one is going to come forward and volunteer that they are feeling restless or randy. People lack such emotional honesty or self-awareness. I know – I’ve operated in the so-called adult world for sixteen sexually active years and I’ve yet to find anyone who is prepared to call a spade a shovel. But perhaps there is another way. Perhaps I could attack it from the other side. I’ve seen countless examples of paranoia, jealousy, insecurity and mistrust. Now that is an angle! Maybe I could advertise for people who doubt their partners and want to test them before they make that final commitment. Then all TV6 will have to do is manoeuvre a situation where the mistrusted party comes into contact with the threatening ex and then… And then! I hug myself. Obviously it depends on the mistrusted partner never having a clue that they are being tested. Total secrecy. But that shouldn’t be too hard to achieve. In my experience secrecy between couples is pretty commonplace. I know this is big. I can see it now. The reaction of the duped, the hypocrisy of the rogue partners. All on live TV. It is pure brilliance! It’s so cruel. It’s so honest. I can smell my success and it makes me feel sexy.

I switch on my bedside light and feel under my bed in an attempt to unearth my electronic diary. I hesitate. Problem with repeat performances is that they invariably lead to unnecessary complications. The guy involved thinking I really care, him thinking he does, or his wife finding out and thinking both of us do. Yet, needs must. I really can’t be bothered to get dressed and drag myself to my club to pick up something fresh. The diary beeps at me. Steven Arnold? No, I think he just got married. That would be awful timing. Keith Bevon? No, psycho, stalker tendencies. Phil Bryant? Didn’t he emigrate? George Crompton, or perhaps his brother Jack? Oh no, too late in the day for the complex sibling thing – ‘Why did you ring me rather than my brother?’ ‘Is mine bigger than his?’ Lord, it’s enough to bring on a headache. Miles Dodd? Good idea, not too clingy, not too involved – with me or anyone else. Prepared to hold back until I come. Yes, Miles will do nicely. Disappointingly his line is engaged. Well, at least it’s just his line. Joe Dorward. It takes me a moment to place him. Oh yes, the researcher on that pop quiz show on Channel 4. I met him at a workshop several months ago. I hadn’t found him sexy at first – good-looking, yes, but not clever enough to really turn me on. I figured I could run verbal rings around him, which is rarely attractive. However, after three or four glasses of champagne I was less fastidious. It had panned out quite well. As Josh says, it’s not verbal stimulation you want in bed. I call his number. He picks up.

‘Hey, Joe,’ I murmur.

I wake up and Joe is already up. I can hear him in the kitchen, whistling and fixing breakfast. He brings up a coffee and tells me that he’s been to the 7-11 to buy croissants, that they’ll be ready soon. I tell him I don’t eat breakfast and struggle to sit up.

‘Water?’

He rushes to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water. I’m so dehydrated that I ignore the fact that this glass of water has undoubtedly passed through five other bodies before me. Joe climbs back into bed and starts nibbling my shoulder. In the cold light of day I realize that first impressions are always right. He is dumb. Admittedly, he is extremely handsome and, I suppose, sexy, in an obvious sort of way. But how come I hadn’t noticed those puppy-dog eyes shining with devotion? That overloud laugh that erupts every time I say anything, even unfunny things like my name and that nodding bloody head that agrees with everything I say. It’s nauseating. He still smells good and, thinking about it objectively, he is a shag. But he’s so certainly besotted. I try to think of the things that could put him off me. Perhaps if I showed him my cellulite or my untrimmed bikini line he’d leave the flat (unlikely). Maybe if I insist on watching Oprah, or pick the pubes from between my teeth with my toenails. I can’t think of any antisocial behaviour that is antisocial enough to discourage him. I realize that the only way to get him to lose interest is to pretend to be in love with him. I doubt I have the energy. His large legs, erotic last night, look overwhelming today. I push him away, get out of bed, locate his trousers and throw them at him.

‘Get dressed. I’ve a big day today.’

‘Bale, I have the answer.’ I charge into his office, shooing his secretary away with a single, withering glance. I decline the seat and the cigar he offers. He really is a twat. However, he is my twat boss and I want to impress him.

‘I have the Idea.’

‘I’m all ears,’ he sneers. Actually, he does have jug ears but he’s all teeth, not all ears. I resist the jibe and start to tell him about my idea. Although I’ve stormed into his office at 10.50 a.m. to give the impression of an employee who knows her worth and won’t be bullied, I have actually been in the office since 8.15 a.m. rehearsing this meeting. I have perfected a pitch that guarantees punch but appears spontaneous, that is irresistible and, most of all, assured. Besides the presentation of the pitch, I have paid immaculate attention to the detail of the presentation of the person. I’m wearing a Dries Van Noten white cotton slip dress with heavy boots on bare legs. The look I’ve achieved is naive charm, but the boots hint at something a whole lot tougher. I’m showing enough cleavage to secure his attention.

‘OK.’ I take a deep breath. The brief was to have a high-profile programme that will attract viewers, advertising budgets and the press.’ Bale nods cautiously. ‘You want notoriety on a shoestring,’ I add for clarity.

‘I never said notoriety.’

‘But you agree we need to be noticed.’ He nods. The nod is fractional. I know this is because if there is ever a debate with the executive committee regarding this programme, Bale will deny he gave consent. Sod him. I tell him my idea.

‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’ says Bale cautiously.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, the premiss you’re working from is that we need couples who are just about to skip towards the altar but are paranoid enough to think that their dearest is not 100 per cent kosher and he fancies a bit of pork with his ex-totty.’

The analogy is repulsive. Offensive to a number of religions, vegetarians and women, but yes, basically Nigel has it. I try to encourage him.

‘Look, I’ve done my research. There are 6.6 marriages per 1,000 population in the UK. Which is roughly 11,000 per week. It’s one of the highest marriage rates in the world, twenty-ninth highest, actually. But we also have one of the highest divorce rates too—’

‘Well, you can’t divorce unless you marry,’ says fucking Einstein. I smile icily.

‘The divorce rate is 3.2 per 1,000 population. Ninth highest in the world.’

‘And your point is?’

‘Do you know in how many cases the ex is cited in court? Thirty-seven per cent. There are countless rekindlings of old flames and remarriages to ex-partners each year. The ex is so compelling. I give you Liz Taylor