‘This new morality that the British public have so inexplicably developed’ – I’m scornful – ‘may work to our advantage.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, as I predicted, they’ve fallen. One after another. We really are living in a faithless society. Fidelity, or the lack of it, knows no boundaries. Indiscriminately it rages and rocks the lives of anyone who dares to trust.’
‘But it is brilliant television,’ adds Fi, not getting my drift.
‘But somewhat depressing,’ I assert.
‘Well, yes, it is,’ she confirms. ‘In fact, we had a letter from a silkworm farm in Ireland today.’
‘Really?’ This trivia momentarily distracts me.
‘Yes. Apparently last year, this farm – I forget its name – won the Queen’s Award for Industry and some other shield thing for their exports. Apparently this year demand has dipped perceptibly.’
‘Honestly.’ I’m delighted. Fi doesn’t catch my drift.
‘I know, it is a huge responsibility, isn’t it?’
‘Responsibility bollocks, it’s a huge story.’ Sometimes Fi lets me down. ‘Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Whilst interviewing next week I want you to actively look for those you think have a chance of resisting.’
‘I thought you said people like that didn’t exist,’ protests Fi.
‘Prove me wrong.’ She looks nervous. I try to be helpful. ‘Pick the under-confident who don’t believe they are attractive to one individual, let alone two. Or pick those who are too driven by public recognition to risk public humiliation.’
‘What, like budding politicians?’
‘Yes, or Freemasons.’
‘You are a sensation! You are a fucking marvel.’
‘Thank you, Nigel.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Believe me, it took some doing.’
‘Your timing is immaculate. We’ve had six shows and just when there was a danger of infidelity becoming a foregone conclusion, you find a couple who resist.’
I smile at him. I’m trying not to look excited but to be honest I’m delighted too. We found a couple who although probably tempted were not stirred, so to speak. These people amazed me. They resisted not simply because the ex turned out to be a Clash bore or knew all the lyrics to every Duran Duran song, not just because they were worried about the chiffon and lace industry, not just because they feared being caught. But because they believed in it. Fidelity.
Loving.
Cherishing. They wanted to be exclusive lovers. For ever.
‘Suckers,’ I comment.
‘Still, it’s brilliant television,’ adds Fi.
This it is. It brings the house down. This is what people want to believe in. It tantalizes. I’ve made it a possibility again, the Happily Ever After. We plan to do a massive follow-up show. By paying for the most OTT wedding. We are investigating the possibility of getting Westminster Abbey. It’s short notice but providing there are no obscure foreign royalty or minor member of the aristocracy booked in I think we’ll pull it off. I’m going to give the public what they want.
‘Next week we can go back to the cheats.’
It’s late and it’s 24 December. I look up from my desk and note that there is no one else left in the office except the cleaner. I note that he is wearing a Santa hat and a red nose. The red nose is real. I close down my PC and decide to lock it away rather than take it home for Christmas. My phone rings.
‘Cas Perry, evening.’
‘Cas, you silly tart. What are you doing in the office on Christmas Eve?’
‘Hi, Josh,’ I sigh, too tired to tell him how pleased I am he’s called. ‘Just finishing off, actually.’
‘Good. We’re in the Goose and Crown. Come and join us.’
‘Who’s there?’
Josh names a number of our friends. I look at my watch. It’s 8.40 p.m. – not too late to join them. I can’t remember the last time I got pissed with genuine mates.
‘I’d love to. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Suddenly I am awash with Christmas cheer and so give the cleaner a bottle of malt whisky that some advertiser sent me. He’s disproportionately pleased. I received about a dozen similar gifts this Christmas and can’t relate to his excitement. I call the lift and experience the unusual sensation of being relieved to leave the building. It is a glass elevator not unlike the one that appears in
‘Jocasta Perry.’ A voice slices across the tranquillity.
I don’t have a chance to reply or to establish where it’s coming from.
‘Do you know what it is like to feel humiliation? Betrayal? Do you understand the pain? I don’t suppose you do with breasts like those.’
The woman who is shouting at me is in her early thirties. She has presumably been sitting in reception waiting for me but I hadn’t noticed her until she’d called out. She has fine, highlighted, shoulder-length hair. It isn’t particularly styled. She’s a comfortable size twelve or fourteen. I don’t think I actively know her and yet she has a vaguely familiar face. She looks a lot like a lot of women. She walks across the foyer and is within a foot of me. She is pointing a plump finger at me: she’s so agitated she is actually shaking and as a result the strap of her handbag keeps slipping down her shoulder. Each time it does this she stops for a second and hitches the strap back on to her shoulder. Smart mac. Gucci bag. Where do I know this woman from?
‘The people who write the letters – do you know what motivates them? Have you the slightest idea?’ I look at the security guard and make it clear that I want him on standby. Whoever this woman is, she is obviously buoyed up by Christmas spirit(s). ‘I don’t suppose you do. You obviously love yourself so much you can’t love anyone else enough to be made vulnerable.’
As I can’t believe I know her, I consider it a near impossibility that she knows me. Even my best friends would be reticent to claim they
Still, she’s right.
She isn’t shouting or threatening, but her powerful anger is obvious. She’s controlling the menace, but only to show me she can. I mentally run through my Filofax and index cards. Finally I place her.
‘I know you. It’s Libby, isn’t it?’ I hold out a hand for her to shake. Libby was on one of our early shows. She’d suspected her fiance still had a thing for his ex. She’d been right. I remember Libby because she had had such lovely taste. I remember her showing me her wedding dress and the brides-maids’ dresses; they’d been exquisite. Yes, lovely taste, except in men, that is.
She nods curtly. ‘I was scared but I was with him. Now I’m scared and alone.’
I touch her arm. She smells of teenage perfume which reminds me of Fairy Liquid. I doubt this is Libby’s because of her impeccable taste. I suspect that she went for a quick one after work and with the combination of gin and Christmas songs on the jukebox she has become maudlin. I imagine her mates geeing her on to come and track me down to tackle me. One or two of her really good friends will have tried to stop her. On noting her determination they’ve done the next best thing – doused her in their perfume.
