For a moment the studio is silent. Awash with betrayal, regret and fear. Lawrence is staring at Abbie. His jaw is hanging open, which is unbecoming. He looks like the dumb animal Abbie has reduced him to. It’s complex. I admit that. I signal frantically for camera two to move in tightly. Close up, close up. I want to see every muscle twitch, every emotion exposed. Abbie is shaking so violently that I think she may spontaneously combust. I suspect she wishes she could. She resolutely stares at the floor. Too humiliated and ashamed to think beyond how she can get out of the studio, she doesn’t even attempt to catch Lawrence’s eye. She’s forgotten that Declan ever existed. Declan is trying to look unconcerned. He is sitting back in his chair, with his long legs casually crossed, and he’s tapping his toe. His brave performance is exposed as the act it is when camera three picks up the fact that he is tearing at his own skin, digging his nails so deeply that his quicks are brilliant white. Boy, are they regretting it now. They are a mass of sweaty palms, quivering lips and knotted intestines. Their faces ask what they’ve done.
I wish I’d never written the letter.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Fuck.
Lawrence breaks the silence. ‘Why did you do it?’ he upbraids.
‘Why didn’t you trust me?’ accuses Abbie.
‘Fuck,’ says Declan.
That’s the cue for the audience. They become animals. They boo and hiss and spit and claw. They are collectively relieved that, in this instance, it is someone else who has been fucked over. Unscathed, they fly into an uncontrollable frenzy. The savages hurl abuse and insults. I think that if they’d had rotting fruit to hand they’d have used it. They despise Lawrence for being cuckolded. They loathe Abbie for being a slut. And they forgive Declan because he has got a cute grin and he’s a bit of a lad. The synthesized music pipes cheerfully through the studio. Oblivious to the fact that Abbie is sobbing hysterically and has to be carried off the stage. Her legs buckle. It’s a sad pathetic sight. I hope camera two got a close-up.
‘Good job, Cas.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Way to go, Cas.’
‘Thanks.’
‘High five, Cas.’
‘Yes, very high.’ I efficiently accept the congratulations and charge through the corridors with the air of someone who has a mission. Thing is, I have. My heart is pounding; the blood is rushing through my being. The show only finished minutes ago but already I know it is a huge success. Massive. The audience won’t leave and we have had to call in security. Lawrence punched Declan. Live on stage! I’m delighted. It couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it. Then Jenny, Brian and Karen – what a horror show! Brian wasn’t sure if it was the worst or best day of his life. The audience loved his unashamed cockiness.
I walk into my office, which is awash with flowers and champagne. Good news sure does travel quickly. I had expected to be doused in congratulations and good wishes. After all, nearly everyone at TV6 is scared of me and therefore they try hard to ingratiate themselves. But I never calculated a result as big as this. I’m delirious, but I know that it is essential that I appear unmoved.
‘Where should I put these flowers?’ asks Fi.
‘Anywhere.’ I casually read the cards. There’s one from Josh and Issie. It reads, ‘You are an unscrupulous, overly ambitious, single-minded exploiter. Well done. Love, your best friends.’
I grin. There is another from Bale. It reads, ‘Big things get bigger very quickly.’
‘You are so profound,’ I mutter.
‘I’ll crack open this bubbly, shall I?’ asks Fi. She’s holding a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot.
‘If you like. As long as you understand that this isn’t a celebration.’
Her smile vanishes. ‘Isn’t it?’ She is genuinely dumb-founded.
‘No, it isn’t. We need to see the overnight runs and also the log call book before we can really celebrate. In fact, I think I’ll go and sit in the log room now to talk to the duty manager.’
‘But I’ve booked Bibendum. The team’s looking forward to it. They’ve worked so hard over the last eight weeks.’
It’s true we’ve all worked regular fourteen-hour days.
‘On whose budget?’
She’s crushed. She’s silent. I relent. ‘OK, you guys go along and I’ll catch you up. If the news is good, I’ll pay. If it’s not, I’ll pay.’
Sometimes I’m nice like this but it’s just to confuse them.
I make my way through the rabbit warren of corridors, leaving the sound of popping champagne corks behind me. I stumble past piles of A4 paper and mountains of clip files (the paperless office is a figment of management consultants’ imaginations). I note dozens of plastic crates that haven’t been unpacked in the twenty-four months that we’ve been here. I wonder if someone knows something that I don’t. As I approach the normally silent log room, where all complaints and compliments are handled, I am struck by a general buzz of activity.
I wake up with an aching back and neck, a furry mouth and a fuzzy brain. Not enough sleep. It’s a huge effort, but I force concentration. I establish the following facts: I’m not in a bed, my own or a stranger’s; I’m not hung over, but there is a glob of saliva on my desk where my head has been. I consider that this is one of the reasons I’m careful about intimacy. Imagine if I had woken up with the man of my dreams, if such a thing existed, and there had been a string of saliva on the pillow. It would certainly put him off. Far too human. However, such speculation is irrelevant, as my pillow last night was a box file, my bed companion a portable computer. I try to think it through. I’m here because—
The phone rings. I reach for it and automatically chant, ‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good…’ – I hesitate and check my watch. It’s 7.15 a.m. – ‘morning,’ I confirm, confident that it is morning, but I’m less sure why anyone would be calling me at this hour.
‘Thank God,’ says Josh.
‘Oh, hi,’ I mutter, reaching for my fag packet. I light up and inhale. The nicotine hits me behind the eyeballs. That’s better.
‘We were so worried. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Hey, don’t come on all marital with me,’ I laugh. ‘I’ve been here all night. Did you see the programme?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’ The tar and bad stuff have helped. I now know why I slept at my desk. ‘We were taking calls all night. I took the last one at 4.45 a.m. The lines were jammed. TV6 has never seen anything like it!’
‘Lots of complaints, then?’ asks Josh sympathetically.
‘Complaints, sure,’ I say dismissively, ‘but compliments too and applications to go on the show.’ I check the latest figures in the log book. ‘Two hundred and forty-seven calls!’ I do some quick mental arithmetic. ‘One hundred and thirty complaints! Can you believe it? I only have to get fifteen before I am obliged to take the programme to the ITC for reappraisal.’
