The number of calls we have received that have been duly logged suggests we have a stonking success on our hands. However, I can’t count my poultry just yet. Ratings are the accurate measure of exactly how many people watched the show. This is the acid test.
Ricky is breathless. I know it is good news.
‘Well?’
He grins. Enjoying his moment.
I humour him and extend my grin a fraction wider. ‘Well?’ He hesitates again. This time I consider firing him. A girl can only be so patient.
‘1.4 million viewers tuned in at 10.00 p.m.’ There is a whoop. The team throw off their hangovers to cheer and shout and clap and generally behave like delinquents on E, which is not so far from the fact. I stay calm.
‘Well done to marketing.’ I smile across to Di and Debs. I know that the number of viewers we draw in as the initial credits roll is 95 per cent down to the marketing. Keeping the viewers for longer than five minutes is down to the quality of the programme. I am at the mercy of the remote control. It’s so undignified.
‘And what were the numbers after the centre break?’ I ask.
‘1.6 million!’
Now I scream.
Really loudly.
5
‘Can you believe it?’ I ask Fi for the fourteenth time. The ratings went up. That means people actually called their friends and told them to tune in!’
‘Or something good finished on the other side,’ adds Fi.
I scowl. ‘I’ve thought of that and checked the schedules. It wasn’t the case. Not unless you count a documentary on the hibernation habits of bugs on hedgehogs as good TV.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Not really.’ Fi grins. I glare and she corrects herself. ‘Well, obviously it is a brilliant idea. We all knew that it would be a fantastic show. But the public isn’t always as perceptive as we’d like to imagine. There’s always a risk.’
I’m mollified by her obvious flattery. ‘Very true. Exactly my point. Want another drink?’ I survey the debris in front of us. It’s roughly half past seven. I’m not certain. The hands on my watch have shrunk and they are randomly bending. We’ve been in this pub since four thirty. Celebrating. We have drunk my week’s calorie allowance and smoked an entire tobacco field. I’m beginning to see Fi’s more sympathetic side. In fact, I’ll definitely be buying her a Christmas pressie.
‘I shouldn’t, but OK then. A gin and tonic. Go easy on the tonic. Best make it slim-line, ‘says Fi as she reaches for the bowl of cashew nuts. She offers them to me but I decline.
‘I’m allergic.’
This isn’t true. I’m very thin and very fit. Whenever anyone asks me how I manage this I smile and say it’s genetic and effortless. This is, of course, bollocks, but I know that if there is anything more annoying than a thin woman, it’s a thin woman who professes that she never diets. There’s no such thing as effortlessly thin. It comes as a direct result of one or more of the following: dedication to a relentless fitness regime, being a slave to the calorie counter, drugs or an unreliable bastard of a boyfriend. I work out at the gym five times a week – minimum. I’m also an expert kick boxer, although I don’t enter competitions; it’s just for fun. I own a Z3 series BMW but cycle to work, six miles there and back every day. I club once a week and I never touch any saturated fat. In addition I indulge in every detox programme known to womankind. I can regularly be found swathed in seaweed or mud at Champney’s or the Sanctuary.
I place the double G & (slim-line) Ts on the wooden table. Fi is chewing an ice cube thoughtfully.
‘Is there anything you haven’t tried?’
I think she has telepathically understood that I’m concentrating on detox programmes. But before I tell her that I’ve never done colonic irrigation – I just can’t stand the idea of a hosepipe up my bum – she puts me on the right track.
‘I mean with men?’
This is easier to answer.
‘I never do three in a bed.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I think everyone’s entitled to some exclusive devotion, even if it’s between twenty minutes and a few hours.’ Not much of a moral, I admit, but one I’m faithful to.
‘Is there an ex in your past, then, Cas?’
‘No,’ I say without hesitating.
‘Then again you’re not on the cusp of marriage.’
‘Nor am I ever likely to be.’
‘Then how did you know the show was going to be such a success? How did you know both Brian Parkinson and Abbie would fall? And, for that matter, all the other couples that we’ve already recorded?’
‘I didn’t
‘You are so cynical.’
We have fast become confidantes. This is entirely due to the copious amounts of alcohol we’ve consumed; still, I am quite unable to resist the illusion of companionable intimacy. Whilst I talk about work Fi is more keen to discuss her dearth of men in relation to my plethora. On one hand it is odd; after all, she is an extreme beauty. She’s also got that exotic twist of a Scandinavian parentage. If I were male I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. The matter is cleared up when she admits to me that secretly all she desires is a large family and a log cabin. Men can smell women who want commitment further away than they can smell those who wear Poison perfume. The odour is just as overpowering and off-putting.
Fi is looking through
‘I’d stick to the methods which are proven,’ I advise.
‘Like what?’ asks Fi grumpily.
‘Supermarkets or the company telephone directory. I don’t know. I never have any trouble meeting men.’
‘Yeah, you’d get lucky in a convent.’ She throws the guide to one side. ‘But it’s such a waste. You are never even grateful.’
I stare at her. Surely that is the point.
‘Why are you so eternally unimpressed?’ she asks. It is the drink that has given her the confidence to ask this. ‘Your first!’ She’s fallen on some inspiration. ‘Tell me about that.’
She’s looking for insight. I don’t normally indulge. But a bottle of Merlot has magically appeared from nowhere and we’ll have to talk about something as we drink it. Fi’s stories have dried up pretty quickly. I feel obliged to entertain.
‘My first.’ I cast my mind back through the numerous tangled sheets and emotions I’ve shagged my way through. ‘Maybe if he’d been faithful I could have believed in fidelity, even after my father’s rather poor attempt as a role model.’
‘He wasn’t, then?’
‘What do you think?’
