work. But that was natural – that wasn’t hankering. Christ, what if he rejected her again? Still, the channel didn’t want her to get him to propose, just to have some fun. To compromise himself. She figures it will be easy.
Kirsty waits for Martin outside the high-street bank where he is assistant manager. She doesn’t often come into London. It’s busy and cold and she remembers why.
‘Martin.’ She steps through the throng. He is with a couple of colleagues. They are all dressed identically, even the women.
‘Kirsty, my goodness. What are you doing here? God, it’s nice to see you.’
And Kirsty knows him well enough to know that he is being genuine. She sighs, relieved, not just because the channel will get what they want but because something, somewhere very deep inside her, melts. He cares. Not enough. Not consistently. But he does care. Martin nods his colleagues away, assuring them he’ll catch them up in the pub.
‘Erm, I came up to meet a friend for lunch. I heard you got engaged so I thought I’d pop by and drop off a congratulations card.’ She holds out the card and beams, ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ He reaches for the card and their fingers bump.
‘I’m really pleased for you.’ Kirsty stretches her amazing smile a fraction wider.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ Martin seems quite embarrassed and quickly thrusts the card into his suit pocket without reading it. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’
He’s not wasting any time.
‘Should we catch up with your friends?’ offers Kirsty.
‘No. I know the bar they are going to; it’s really loud. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, let alone talk. Let’s go somewhere quieter.’
‘I know just the place,’ says Kirsty.
It surprises Martin that Kirsty knows a local pub, which turns out to be absolutely perfect, because she doesn’t come up to town that much. Then Martin sighs to himself. Maybe she does come into town now. He doesn’t know much about her life. He always felt it pointless to keep in touch with old flames, especially ones who obviously have such different ambitions and expectations in life. Besides which, Eva wouldn’t hear of it.
He only expected to have a quick one, but this is their third round. It is good to be out with a bird who drinks pints again. Instead of the obligatory gin and tonic. Nice that she gets a round in, too, and isn’t above going to the bar herself. Christ, Kirsty has fantastic tits. He’d forgotten how magnificent they are. She’s still very chatty, too. She still makes little sense. She keeps wittering on about cameras. There again he’s not being that rational either. Psychologists rate getting married as equally stressful as bereavement; people do odd things under stress. For example, right now all he wants to do is snog the lips off Kirsty.
With every day a new triumph emerges. The Evening Standard runs a story on the weddings that have been cancelled by couples who have appeared on the show and the financial implications for the industries involved. The Express picks up the lead and runs a story on how many weddings, up and down the country, have been cancelled since the show began.
‘A 120 per cent increase on the exact same period last year!’ cries Debbie. We are ecstatic. The Express hasn’t said that Sex with an Ex is responsible, but the implication is there. If the show is responsible we are creating a national reaction. It’s big. It’s bigger than the ‘Free Deirdre Campaign’ that ITV ran in reaction to a Coronation Street storyline.
The Mail spots the same potential story as we do. They track down a couple who have called off their wedding recently to ask them why. People quite unconnected with the show, people who’ve never appeared, had no desire to appear and would probably be horrified at the idea of appearing, admit that frank discussions on the sex appeal of an ex-lover have led to a discovery of ‘fundamental disagreements, which can’t be ignored’.
Debs is reading from the morning paper. ‘This is it. This is the quote we need to use for our latest press release.’ She is literally jumping up and down.
‘What does it say?’ I ask.
‘“I am regretful,” says the would-be-groom. “I believe our parting of the ways was a direct result of staying in to watch TV on Monday.’” Debs stops reading and asks, ‘Why do people use such ridiculous and pompous vocabulary when talking to the press? I’m sure he doesn’t normally say such stupid things as “parting of the ways”.’
‘Very astute, Debs. What else did he say?’ I ask, trying to keep her on track.
‘“I wish we’d gone to the pub as we’d originally planned. But you see we were saving up. I wish I’d never heard of the show Sex with an Ex.” ‘Debs puts the paper down with a satisfied flourish.
‘Ah well, he sounds like a prick. By the way, Kirsty is doing well. I saw her in B Magazine the other day and I understand she has a contract with some modelling agency.’
All this points to the fact that the show only has a shelf life of one or two episodes. It is becoming almost impossible to lure people on to the show, as the entire nation appears to be on infidelity alert. The plan is to use the kudos from this show to launch other programmes. My phone rings, interrupting Debs’s newspaper review.
‘Hi, stranger.’
‘Hi, Issie.’ I wait for her justified complaints. I never ring her, or Josh. I’m totally absorbed in my work. Have I visited my mum recently? It’s a relief that she skips it.
‘Fancy a night out?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s just that I’m still interviewing. Bale’s keen to commission another series.’
‘Then what? Another and another?’
‘He seems to think so. I’m sceptical. I mean how gullible does he think the general public is?’
‘Well, you may as well have a night out. You can’t continue working at this rate ad infinitum.’
‘What have you got in mind?’ I ask.
‘A drink? Grab some pasta? Somewhere where we can talk and catch up. I feel I haven’t seen you for weeks.’
I wonder if this is code for ‘I’ve been ditched.’
‘OK, let’s try Papa Bianchi’s,’ I suggest. ‘The food’s fine, not exactly Michelin star, but it’s cheap and cheerful and most importantly the waiters understand the importance of having a laugh and getting lashed.’ I don’t mention that it is also in spitting distance of the studio and I’ll be able to return to work after we’ve dined, but when I give her the address she’ll guess.
‘OK, hold the line until I get a pen.’
I can hear the music from Issie’s radio drift through the telephone line. I hear her scrabble around for a pen. I know where she’s looking. She’ll be starting in the telephone table drawer – futile. She’ll progress to the kitchen drawers, the jamjar on the windowsill and then behind the cushions on the settee. She’ll find a number of pens but none of them will work, the pencils will be blunt. For a scientist Issie is extremely disorganized. She’s back on the line.
‘Couldn’t find a pen. An odd earring that I’ve been looking for, a telephone number and a recipe but no pen.’
‘Try your handbag.’
‘Good idea.’ She leaves the line again and this time the hunt is successful.
Issie takes down the details of where and when we are going to meet and I put down the phone. I’m pleased to have averted the inevitable disaster of her arriving late because she’s lost or going to the wrong place and not arriving at all. My life is made up of a series of these small services which make other people’s lives more comfortable. If only people realized.
I turn back to Fi and the problem of an increasingly moral nation. I know this squeamishness is hypocrisy and I don’t expect it to be sustained, but it is an irritation.
‘You know what, Fi?’
‘What?’
