Game Over

‘So that’s good news?’ Josh asks hesitantly. He simply doesn’t get it. ‘All those complaints are good news?’

‘It’s caused a national outcry. It’s huge. It’s fantastic. It’s – look I can’t chat. I need to call PR – we’ll have to put out a press release. I wonder if any of the papers have picked anything up yet.’

‘It’s a shame you didn’t make it to Issie’s last night. We had ricotta and basil risotto, as planned.’ Josh slices through my euphoria. I suddenly remember that I had promised to go straight to Issie’s after the show. In fact, I’d begged them to meet up. I’d insisted that Issie miss her pottery class and that Josh skip his rugby practice. I’d worried that the show would be a disaster. We’d all known that if that was the case Issie and Josh would be the only people I’d be able to face.

‘Oh, shit. Josh, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. I just got caught up here on the telephone lines. Shit. I’m sorry.’ This is genuine. I feel awful. There have been occasions when Issie and Josh have let me down, always due to circumstances they couldn’t control. I’ve sat endlessly staring at the clock wondering where they were. Why they didn’t call? My irritation that their supper is ruined has turned to fear as I imagine they’ve been abducted or murdered or involved in a road accident. Worse, that they are dating someone unsuitable. I know that standing each other up is a bishop sin.

‘I should have called,’ I add meekly.

‘Yes, you should have. We were worried.’ Josh can’t stay angry with me for long. ‘The risotto was ruined. I’ve had to soak the dish but the stubborn bits of cheese won’t come off.’

I know I’m off the hook. ‘Try Fairy Liquid extra concentrated king-strength,’ I laugh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tonight.’

‘You’d better.’

I can see my reflection in my computer screen. By rights I should be looking rough. Last night I secured just a few hours’ sleep. Over the past eight weeks I’ve been averaging six hours a night at best, even at weekends. I haven’t had a night out in all that time. I’ve existed largely on sandwiches from the staff canteen and double espressos from the Italian deli round the corner. I can’t remember when I last saw natural daylight or a vitamin. Either boxed or first-generation.

And yet I look fantastic.

Well, there is no point in my being falsely modest. I look keen and lithe and sharp and I’m glowing. I know I look like a woman who’s just fallen in love. And the reason for this, the little beauty secret, tip for the top, is that the show is a success. I rattle around in my desk drawer looking for a toothbrush and all the other necessary toiletries. I open my stationery cupboard. I keep a full wardrobe at work for all events. A few basics: trousers from Jigsaw, T-shirts from Gap, white cotton knickers from M&S. Plus a couple of Nicole Farhi trouser suits and shirts from Pink, in case I’m unexpectedly called into a big meeting. Some Agent Provocateur underwear and a number of garments that vary in their size and transparency but are reassuringly, constantly black. These are for when I get lucky. None of this is appropriate for today. I see what’s lurking behind the plastic file dividers. Eventually I select Miu Miu trousers, a slash-neck Cristina Ortiz wool jumper and Bally boots. I find a pair of clean knickers and a tiny lacy bra in my filing cabinet. I know today is my day and it’s important to look the part. I go for a brisk workout and then shower in the office gym. By 8.45 a.m. I’m back at my desk.

Fi is in too. It looks like my budget was thrashed at Bibendum.

‘You look crap,’ I tell her, as I generously offer a can of Red Bull.

‘Thank you. You look as fresh as a daisy.’

I graciously accept the compliment. After all, I do. ‘Was it worth it?’ I ask.

She grins. ‘Yeah, I had a fantastic time. Or at least I think I did.’ She holds her head steady for a moment trying, no doubt, to chase a faint memory. She gives up.

‘Well, that’s the main thing,’ I assure.

‘We went on to the Leopard Lounge. I didn’t go home – I’ve come straight in.’

I’m impressed by her dedication. I try to ignore the brewery smells she’s exhaling and fill her in on the excitement of the night in the log room.

‘Sounds a gas.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘I’m glad it went so well.’ She starts to tell me some funny tale about Di getting off with Gray, and Ricky trying to pull a transvestite. I’m glad they’ve had a good time. But I’m not interested. I know I’ll lose most of today. The team’s productivity will be severely depleted because of the necessary administration of Alka Seltzer and intravenously dripped black coffee. They’ll spend hours discussing the pros and cons of the various hair of the dog cures. Choices being Bloody Mary, a pint of Guinness, fried eggs with gin. Most importantly they will all be extremely ashamed of themselves and so tomorrow I’ll get commitment overdrive.

My phone rings again.

‘Cas Perry, TV6. Good morning.’

‘Jocasta?’

‘Mum.’

‘How are you, dear?’

‘Brilliant. Mum, did you ring about the show?’ I’m thrilled.

‘Show?’

‘My show. You did watch it, didn’t you?’ I’m devastated. I can’t believe that my mother has forgotten about the show. Even when things were really hairy and busy around here, in the penultimate couple of weeks before the show went live, I’d religiously visited my mum on Sundays. I had been there in body, although, I admit, not always in spirit. I’d had to spend a lot of time on my mobile. But when I wasn’t on my mobile I had taken time to tell her all about the show. Now my mother is acting as though she’s never heard of it.

‘Oh yes. Erm, Best with an Ex.’ She demurely avoids the S word. Actually, I’m quite impressed with her title. I should have consulted her before the show went out. Best with an Ex is so much more subtle than Sex with an Ex. I wonder if there is any chance of a name change at this stage. My train of thought is interrupted as Mum mithers on.

‘I did watch the first ten minutes but then Bob, from across the road, popped over to fix that drawer that’s been sticking. You know, the third one down in the kitchen.’

Bob, one of a small number of names that my mother floats past me on a regular basis. ‘Mrs Cooper said that there’s a buy two and get one free offer on shampoo at Boots at the moment’; ‘It’s Albert and Dorothy’s fortieth wedding anniversary on Saturday – they are having a supper’; ‘Dr Dean was asking after you’. It’s tedious keeping up with the comings and goings of these tiresome people.

‘I couldn’t have the television running whilst he was in the house,’ comments my mother.

I’m disappointed, so move quickly to get her off the line. A non-offensive exit demands a certain amount of self-sacrifice. I agree to go shopping with her on Saturday. I regret the offer almost the moment the words are out of my mouth. It will be a disaster: it always is. For a start she will want to find a bargain in the Army and Navy store, whilst I will want to spend obscene amounts in Bond Street. If we do go to Bond Street, her face will settle into one of the expressions I can only assume she most favours, shocked or cross. Shocked at the prices and cross at life. I can’t bear her sudden outbursts in small boutiques. ‘That’s how much? There’s nothing to it! Look at the hemming. I could run you one up on the sewing machine.’ Which is odd, as she has never sewn in her life. Worse than her audible disgust will be her silent condemnations of my frivolity, the incessant tutting at the cashpoint as I hand over one of my magic pieces of plastic. Therefore we usually shop at the Army and Navy store, where I destroy her pleasure by continually pointing out ‘nice’ things and adding for clarity, ‘Nice for you, Mum.’ Revenge is always hers as she buys whichever monstrosity I’ve picked out and gives it to me for Christmas or my birthday. All this accepted, we regularly put ourselves through this purgatory on earth. What else can I do? She’s my mum. I wonder if I can get Issie or Josh to meet us for lunch.

By the time I put the phone down most of the team have arrived. Except for Tom and Mark. Their status as creatives excludes them from having to appear at work at all if they are hung over. The scene is as I’d predicted: I am in an office with the walking dead. They are pale and unshaven, and they smell of booze, sweat and sex. There is a certain amount of squabbling, the excuse being that the vending machine is all out of non-dairy creamer, the real reason being the bad heads. However, the atmosphere is immediately dissolved when Ricky bursts into the office.

‘Have you seen the ratings?’ he screams.

Shit, the ratings. I must have been affected by the booze fumes to allow the ratings figures to slip my mind.