Game Over

But only because I need a show. I think his moralistic approach is misplaced.

Quite attractive.

Bloody irritating.

‘Fi?’

‘Yes.’

‘What should I wear?’

We arrange to meet at the Oxo tower. Trixxie has booked the restaurant rather than the brasserie. Good work. He can’t fail to be impressed by the spongy leather tub chairs, the complicated wine list, the blue-white linen tablecloths, the huge, elegant wine goblets which are designed so that even Ten-ton Tessie would feel delicately petite – or maybe that’s an exclusively girl thing.

I arrive before him. I survey the restaurant. It is 9.00 p.m. and the restaurant is full of people cheerfully initiating voyages of the heart. By 2.00 a.m. the streets will be littered with the grieving casualties. This is true of every restaurant in London. I am wearing a black roll-neck jumper and an on-the-knee black wool skirt. Heavy biker boots that are so chunky my legs look matchstick-thin. I have a hunch that this is more Darren’s cup of Typhoo than low necklines and high hemlines. This is currently my sexiest outfit, albeit understated sexy. I keep it in the office, if not for this exact occasion, then certainly for something similar. Issue is I’m not sure what the exact nature of this occasion is. I’m clear that I want him in line, on board, part of the family. I do need a show.

But.

Or rather and. And, whilst I’m not sure why, I am sure that I want to see him again.

I see him arrive and I’m gratified to notice he’s changed clothes too. He’s wearing a light grey suit and a wide-collar, open, white shirt. It shows off his olive skin brilliantly. He looks gorgeous. He walks confidently to my table and leans in to kiss me.

Kiss me.

On the cheek.

I nearly knock over the bottle of mineral water that I’ve ordered, which by anyone’s standards would be uncool. His kiss scorches my face. I’m sure I’m branded like an animal. It takes every ounce of courage, sense and control I have to stop myself snogging him on the spot. I feel an overwhelming pull internally. It starts in my thighs and moves upward, enveloping my lungs, intestines and throat. What is wrong with me? I have experienced sexual attraction before. Keen sexual attraction, but this… This is something new.

I’m not threatened.

I know I’m cool as long as he’s either tediously dull or arrogant.

I already know he’s neither.

He sits down and smiles at the waitress. I notice that she nearly keels over on the spot. He orders the wine, giving me a cursory opportunity to offer up a preference, but he has taken control.

‘I’m really pleased that you suggested this dinner, Cas. And somewhat surprised. I didn’t expect you to take my views so well. Anyway your “runner” ‘– he manages to say the term using inverted commas, which is exactly how I describe Trixxie – ‘your runner informed me that you’d like to take me for dinner. Well, that’s daft. I’m very aware that I must have inconvenienced you and I insist this is my treat.’

‘But I can get this on expenses,’ I offer weakly. My being weak surprises me. I rarely am. In fact, the last recorded example of my being weak was pre-toilet training. But Darren is breaking all the rules. He’s not overwhelmed or intimidated by me, nor is he excessively combative. Every other man I’ve ever met has fallen into one of these categories.

‘I know that but, really, I’d hate to profit from your show in any way and’ – he pauses and raises one of his eyebrows – ‘I’d really like to buy you dinner.’ He has a soft, velvet voice, so I have to lean close to him to hear him. As I lean close I note that he smells amazing. If I hadn’t met him in these circumstances I’d think of fucking him.

No. I wouldn’t have to think.

But the thought is irrelevant, as the business I have to concentrate on is not funny business. It’s not funny at all. I have four days to get the next show in the can.

I think he’s wearing Issey Miyake.

I am extremely aware that the balance of power is definitely not in my favour. I remind myself again: the primary reason for my being here is that I must persuade him to be on the show. And even if he is drop-dead gorgeous, so what?

He’s drop-dead gorgeous, that’s what.

I stare at the menu, pretending to be interested; a toss-up between wood-roasted squid stuffed with chilli, or red mullet in white wine, parsley and garlic sauce. No, not garlic. Really I need to broach the subject of the show.

‘Why would you want to buy me dinner?’

He blushes and then drags his eyes to meet mine. ‘Any man would want to take you for dinner. You’re stunning.’

Bang.

I am delighted, thrilled to my core. Yes, I’ve heard it before. Yes, I’ll hear it again but really it’s never been quite so thrilling. Or terrifying. His up-front approach propels me into a unique position. I’m honest in return.

‘Look, Darren. Cards on the table, I’m not here to be social. I’m here to try to persuade you to be on the show. I need you. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I need a show and you’re it.’ I stop and take a deep breath. The bread arrives. He doesn’t comment for a while. Instead he chooses his bread. He selects the walnut one. In an effort to ingratiate myself I do the same.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t want to have dinner with me.’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘I’m not going to be on your show.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I couldn’t face myself in the mirror every morning if I did so. Myself or my parents or siblings, friends, nieces, nephew.’

No girlfriend. He didn’t mention a girlfriend.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are peddling the destabilization of family values.’

I sigh. I’ve heard it all before. Somehow the general public has convinced itself that TV is responsible for the disintegration of the family unit. It’s a way of avoiding responsibility. It’s not fair.

‘The family unit is under pressure for myriad reasons. Television is only one, ‘I argue. ‘There have been countless surveys that have tried to assess the effect television has on modern society but net net, bottom line, psychologists, educationalists and moralists have failed to agree that there has been any effect at all. How can you expect little old me to have all the answers?’ I’m trying to appear girlish and agreeable.

‘You are endorsing the gradual deconstruction of decency. You are encouraging the trivialization of love and sex.’ He butters his bread ferociously. He has magnificent hands. Very strong-looking. I reach for my wine.

‘Darren, no one needed me to do that. There were Blackpool postcards long before TV.’

‘So you accept your show is in poor taste, indecent and a contributor to the erosion of public standards?’

The waitress interrupts to take our order.

‘Taste is arbitrary, it changes according to fashion. Good taste is revised with every issue of Vogue. Decency I understand – a regard for cultural and religious issues, i.e. sending sympathy cards when some old dear pops her Patrick Cox.’ I fall back on familiar territory, sarcasm. ‘But standards, are they somewhere between the two? Like giving up your seat to a pregnant woman when travelling by tube, or more emphatically not travelling on public transport at all. And who is the standard setter? The law? The Independent Television Commission? The public? You? Are you the judge and jury in this, Darren?’ I’m raising my voice. He’s got me riled. The seating is tight; there’s no room for hysteria. I lower my voice in an effort to regain control. ‘I’ve always avoided racism. I don’t patronize people with disabilities. There’s no violence, we beep out the bad language and we don’t show actual penetration.’

‘How magnanimous of you.’