Game Over

She hands me a clipboard.’ Interviews for next week’s show.’

I walk towards the interview room, ushering away a few giggling research girls who are cluttering the doorway. ‘What’s up with them?’ I ask Fi.

‘Haven’t you heard? Your thinking man, he’s a Greek god.’

‘Not very tall, then, and with several heads?’ I quip. But my sarcasm is whipped out of me as I open the door and see Darren. I can understand why Marcus is insecure. I met Marcus this morning. He is fine. He is bright enough, more interesting than most, average-looking and extremely wealthy. He obviously adores Claire. Claire realizes this is not a bad deal and I figure she adores him back. However, besides my personal belief that everyone will have an affair given the opportunity, Darren is breathtaking.

He’s tall, about six foot two, with long, gypsy hair touching his chin. I don’t normally go for long hair. Because, more often than not, it is accessorized with an entirely denim wardrobe and a Meatloaf album collection. But, right now, all I want to do is lose my fingers in his locks. More, I want to lose him in my Conran bateau wooden bed. He has wide shoulders that taper to slim hips and the cutest bum. He is wearing a pale grey sweater and some old Levis. Just the right amount of effort, without suggesting he is conceited. His eyes are huge, deep brown and framed with the most stunning Bambi lashes. And best of all is his smile. He has the cheekiest smile that provokes his entire face. His eyes, his cheeks, his laugh lines.

He’s a babe.

For a moment I am at a complete loss. I don’t know what to say, what to do or how to stand. I am absolutely dispossessed of common sense, thirty-three years of precedent, or even a simple grasp at etiquette. I can no more think of the correct words than I could bungy jump from… God I can’t even think where people bungy jump. My mind is blank. He smiles and I think I can hear music, which is such a cliche that I’m ready to shoot myself. My nipples are getting hard, which I think is a filthy betrayal. Can he tell? I’m literally salivating. Get a fucking grip, I instruct myself.

‘Jocasta Perry,’ I say in a confident, don’t-think-I’m-going-to-be – impressed-by-your – stunning – good- looks-I’m-impenetrable voice. It’s entirely fictional.

‘Jocasta, how Oedipal.’ He smiles, taking my hand and shaking it very firmly. I’m amazed not at the firmness of the handshake but at the reference. ‘Jocasta or Ca—’

‘Cas,’ I confirm. Is this man psychic?

‘Darren Smith.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I indicate the clipboard, which has all his personal details. Telephone number, address, date of birth. I wonder if we should start including some more intimate questions in the briefing session. Like favourite sexual position, which side of the bed he sleeps on. Mentally I pinch myself. He’s just a man. I quickly draw attention to his short-comings. We both need to be aware of them.

‘Daz or Dazza?’ I smile icily.

‘Darren,’ he confirms without the slightest hint that he’s taken offence. I wonder if he realizes that I am trying to be rude. He doesn’t seem stupid. He grins at me. Exposing a row of teeth which the Osmonds would be proud of. How can anyone be this gorgeous?

‘Well, Darren, to business.’ I sit next to him and accidentally bang my knee against his. His touch blisters through my Joseph trousers. I actually flinch. Shaking, I reach for a glass of water.

‘You OK?’ He moves quickly, reaching the water before I do. Genuinely concerned, he hands me the glass. I’m incapable of telling him I’m OK. The glass slips an inch. He thinks I’m going to drop it and so guides it to my lips, watching me the whole time. His eyes bore right into me. Is he reading my mind? Does he know my knickers are in flames? I take a gulp of the water. And place the glass back on the coffee table. ‘It is hot in here,’ he comments and springs up to play with the air conditioning switch. He is so confident. So in control. And I’m…? I’m so lost. Maybe I’m sick. I glance at Fi. She’s grinning. This brings me back to my senses with a jolt.

‘Something funny, Fi?’ I glare at her. She shakes her head and retreats to a corner of the room. I force myself back to my guest notes and back to Darren. Only one of those actions presents a problem. ‘As you know, Marcus Ailsebury is about to marry your ex-girlfriend, Claire Thomson, on Valentine’s Day. Just over two weeks’ time. Marcus wrote to us to tell us that he feels’ – I correct myself – ‘fears that Claire may still hold a torch for you.’ I blush. This script, normally adequate, suddenly appears to be exactly what it is. Bloody awful. I hope Darren doesn’t think I’d normally use an expression like ‘hold a torch’. Regardless, I carry on. ‘Marcus needs to know whether his fears are founded. Now are you familiar with the format of Sex with an Ex?’ I look up at him.

‘Sex with an Ex? Sadly, yes.’ He nods seriously. His hair falls over his left eye. I can’t think of anything more attractive. He blows out of the side of his mouth. Except that. The hair almost magically falls back into place.

‘Good, well, what we need you to do is—’

‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have.’ I smile, quite happy to engage in a conversation with him. Answer questions and queries. He can have all evening. I want to hear everything he has to say.

‘I’m not going to do this.’

Except that.

‘I don’t want to be on your show.’

I stare at him, amazed. Arsehole.

‘I feel terrible that I’m letting you down and that I’ve probably inconvenienced a lot of people, but I had no idea, when your studio invited me here, it was for Sex with an Ex.’ He spits out the title with undisguised contempt.

‘Didn’t the private detective explain it all to you?’ I ask bitterly.

‘No. She just said that Marcus needed some help with the wedding preparations. I thought I was being invited on to a show similar to Surprise Surprise.’

I consider this. It is possible that our researchers and detective deliberately misled Darren. Or at the very least kept him in the dark. They too must have recognized that Darren would be great for ratings.

‘Nothing on this earth would induce me to be on Sex with an Ex.’

‘Why not?’ Frankly, I’m stunned. He’s saying no. No to the opportunity of being on TV. No to the opportunity of seducing an ex. No to me.

‘Because you are undermining everything I hold dear. Love, marriage, fidelity, constancy. I can’t do it.’

I’m amazed. A man who owns up to feeling these things must be gay. But I know he’s not. I mentally shake myself. Fuck. Twat. I haven’t got time for this. I’m busy. I don’t need some half-average-looking bloke, who has too high an opinion of himself, screwing things up for me now. I glare at him. I breathe deeply.

‘But Darren, why not? Marcus wants this,’ I say reasonably.

Then Marcus is wrong.’

‘He wants to test her.’

‘He’d do better to trust her.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Deadly serious.’

I check my watch. I have to speed this along. I still have the other guests to meet. First interview of the New Year and I run into a hitch immediately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d think it was an omen. But I’m not.

‘Look, Darren, is this a question of money? You see we can’t offer our guests hard cash, our lawyers won’t let us. But we can make this worth your while in expenses. Clothes, travel, entertainment, etc.’ I mentally calculate what I can up the budget to. We normally expect an outlay of up to ?600 per guest.

‘It’s nothing to do with money.’ Darren rests his head in his hands and leans back against the sofa.

‘We can go up to eight hundred pounds.’

‘I just think it’s ignoble.’

‘Fifteen hundred.’

He shakes his head fractionally. And casually crosses his legs. They are extremely long. I take a deep breath.

‘Two thousand.’

He doesn’t acknowledge my offer. I make a quick calculation. This man is extremely intelligent, sensitive, stunningly good-looking. Even I, fleetingly, had found him attractive. Until he started