Game Over

‘What’s making you grin so much?’ I ask Jaki, looking up from the letters commenting on the show. ‘Have you been promoted and they’ve failed to tell me?’

Jaki laughs. ‘No, but they should.’ I admire her; she never misses a trick. ‘No, it’s something else. I was at a dinner party on Saturday night.’

‘Oh yeah, what did you eat?’

She perches on my desk and Fi stops working on her laptop. There is nothing we like better than a good conversation about food. Conversations about food have an advantage over actually eating. You can take an avid interest without jeopardizing your waistline. Conversations about food are better than conversations about sex, which are often mildly pervy or frustrating. I’m not sure how to rank conversations about food and actually having sex. It’s close.

Jaki details her menu comprehensively, taking an inordinate amount of time to describe the chocolate souffle. We hungrily hang on her descriptions of double cream and blackberry sauce. When she’s told us that the mints were Benedict, I drag her back to her original point.

‘So what’s nearly as exciting as a promotion?’

‘Well, after dinner we usually play games. So that the boys can get competitive legitimately.’

‘And the girls whip their arses openly,’ adds Fi enthusiastically.

‘Exactly. Sometimes we play Outburst or Trivial Pursuit but more often than not we prefer the more revealing Truth or Dare. This week someone, not me, suggested playing Sex with an Ex.’

‘Nooooo,’ Fi and I chorus. We both immediately understand the importance of being absorbed into real-life popular culture. And so damn quickly!

‘It was brilliant. Everyone had to name the ex in their past. You were right, Cas: there is always one who can send a thrill through the groin or heart. Then they had to say whether they would risk an uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, one-for-old-times’-sake bonk.’

‘But wasn’t it all couples at that dinner party?’ I protest. We are a small team; the stuff we don’t know about each other’s private lives isn’t worth knowing. Believe me.

‘Yup. Ellie and James, Daisy and Simon, Nige and Ali and Toby and me. That was the attraction. A public outing.’

‘So what happened?’ asks Fi, excitedly playing with a staple gun. I take it from her before she causes serious bodily harm.

‘Well, to start with everyone lied through their teeth. Those who I reckoned would do it became extremely demure. Those who wouldn’t tried to pretend they had an experimental streak – which they blatantly don’t have. But as the alcohol flowed the truth began to emerge.’

‘And?’ Fi and I chorus. We both know the result we want.

‘Huge rows. Ali walked out, Ellie burst into tears, Daisy and Simon’s party was ruined.’

‘Wheeeey heeeeey,’ squeals Fi. ‘Our first row.’

‘But think,’ adds Jaki, ‘if we were having this row in Clapham, how many similar rows must be taking place both north and south of the river, up and down the country! It’s become a matter of national debate.’

‘Jaki, go to marketing and tell them to slap a copyright on the board game, if they haven’t already. They should be talking to game manufacturers before anyone else does. I wonder if we could get it out before Christmas?’

‘That’s only four weeks away,’ Jaki protests. I silence her with a glance. She rushes off. Her dark Afro hair and pert bum sway jauntily.

‘Did you notice, Fi, Jaki never said how her evening panned out with Toby?’

By the end of November, on week four, the ratings rip through the 4.5 million viewers’ mark, and Bale insists I start interviewing again for a second series. The initial pilot series was scheduled to run six episodes. I have enough material to go to ten.

‘Ten,’ yells Bale. ‘You are far too conservative. Interview enough couples for twenty shows.’ I try to object and explain that the show will only work whilst we can surprise the stooges – that’s why we filmed so many shows in advance.

Bale glowers away my objections. ‘Cas, have you seen last night’s ratings?’ I shrug. I hope my shrug implies that I am far too busy having a fabulous social life, juggling several other projects at work and actively contributing to society by doing charity work to have checked the ratings. The reality is I checked the ratings this morning, before I went to the gym. I have worked out my related bonus and mentally spent it half a dozen times.

‘Have you any idea how big this is? It’s more ratings than this channel has ever had on a single show. It’s the same number as ITV gets for—’ – he names one or two really big shows that ITV has as staples on their schedule. ‘It’s more ratings than—’ – he names one of our competitors – ‘has ever had.’ He’s not telling me anything new. I know this. ‘I’ve had offers from other channels to buy us out.’

I startle. I didn’t know this.

He reassures me, ‘Of course I’m not going to take them. Our lawyers are selling the idea to networks in the States, Australia and Asia. Murdoch wants to meet me!’

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ I reply coolly as I help myself to tissues from his desk and wipe his heinous spittle off my face. ‘Yeah, it’s good. I think we were helped by Melvin Bragg and Sue Lawley both condemning the show.’

‘It’s good. You’re good.’ Bale smiles. He’s genuinely pleased with me. And why not? I’ve just saved his channel. More, I’ve probably made his career. I smile back and hand Bale the latest draft of my terms and conditions. It’s not at all eighties in its scale. I’m not looking for a Boxster convertible or a six-figure salary. Although I’m confident that the bonuses will take me there. Bale picks up the paper and holds it at a distance. He eyes me suspiciously. He doesn’t need to be afraid. The most demanding perk I’ve requested is that my mum gets to meet Tom Jones when we do The Audience with Tom Jones show on Christmas Eve. I’ve also suggested that Issie’s younger brother gets a temporary placement as a cameraman during his university vacation and that Josh can have half a dozen tickets for the Cup Final. Bale doesn’t know this and naturally assumes the worst. He feels compelled to be nasty.

‘Yes, you are good. It is relatively easy to reach the dizzy heights of your chosen profession if you’re not hampered by morals and squeamish sentimentality.’

‘You’d know best, Bale,’ I reply and leave his office. I’ll give him some privacy to review the T&Cs.

Kirsty had thought long and hard about this after the private detective contacted her. At first it’d seemed ridiculous. She thought some of her mates were winding her up. But then she began to understand. A new show. Something to do with confidence in fidelity. To be specific, Eva Brooks had contacted the TV station to say that she had some doubts about her fiance Martin McMahon. Did any of those names mean anything to Kirsty? They did. They meant the taste of metal and bile in her mouth.

The private detective was not wearing a long raincoat and a beret. In fact, she looked rather more like one of those women who stop you in shopping centres and ask if you’ll spare a few minutes for market research. The private detective, Sue, liked her tea strong with two sugars.

Kirsty considered the proposition for two days solid. She was unable to keep her mind on her job and kept irritating the doctors by giving them the wrong patient notes. They nagged and grumbled at her. Ironically it was their irritation that coerced her into accepting the role, rather than a wish to wreak revenge on Martin. Well, why shouldn’t she be on TV? It had to be more glamorous than her job here as a receptionist, in the dowdy little practice, in her small town. The same small town she’d been born and bred in, and if she wasn’t careful would be buried in too. Sue promised that Kirsty would get a complimentary haircut and makeover, an allowance for her outfit for the show and some publicity photos afterwards. Sue thought Kirsty had a great chance as a model but she warned time was of the essence.

Kirsty didn’t care for Martin at all any more. She was surprised to hear that Eva thought of her as a threat. He’d chosen Eva over her before, hadn’t he? Oh shit he had. What made Kirsty think he’d choose her over Eva this time? Her knees nearly buckle under her. The humiliation was painful last time – the stinging, scorching disappointment as he explained that Kirsty was a really fun girl but absolutely not marrying material. Whereas Eva, with her posh university qualifications and green Wellingtons, was. Kirsty had tried to comfort herself with the thought that their kids would look like horses. But the thought didn’t really keep her warm at night. Still, it was a long time ago and she was far too sensible not to move on. In the last ten months she’d only thought of Martin occasionally, like when her sister had a baby, her birthday or when one of the patients did something hilarious at