could be myself. It was vital to me to do well. Not just well but best. No job was too small for me to accept it cheerfully. No ambition was too large for me to hold it greedily. I worked obscene hours, even working once on Christmas Day, which wasn’t really a hardship. Holidays bore me. It was worth it. I leapt ahead of my peers and by the time I was twenty-three I was chief researcher. I rushed through the ranks of associate producer and producer, and I reached the dizzy heights of executive producer the week before my thirtieth birthday. It’s who I am. It’s what I am.
‘That must be fascinating,’ Mr Tall, Dark, Handsome with Green Eyes comments.
‘It is. As we are now living in the digital age and there are hundreds of extra channels all fighting for the consumer mind share, it’s extremely tough.’ I don’t bother to tell him that besides the terrestrial channels, BBC 1 and 2, ITV, Channels 4 and 5 and TV6, there are 200 digital satellite channels, 500 digital cable channels and 70 digital terrestrial channels on offer, not to mention interactive television, the Internet and home shopping. Yet viewing time per capita has declined. The more we have to watch, the less often we tune in. So the challenge hasn’t let up; I’m constantly being asked to introduce more demanding or aggressive promotions, programmes or plans. I don’t bother to mention it because even Josh, my most devoted listener, glazes over when I give too much detail. I know I can be boring about my work but it means so much to me. I try to think of an entertaining star story. In the corridors of power I often bump into someone famous, especially those who are famous for being famous – they make themselves very available. I like them the least and admire them the most. It’s much harder than being famous for being talented. I know a story about has-been soap stars won’t interest.
‘I eat my sandwiches in the same canteen as Davina McCall.’ That gets him.
I wake up to birds screeching and a swarm of bees hovering threateningly above me. I fully expect to open my eyes and see a fan whirling from the ceiling. It takes me some seconds to understand that my pounding head is not because I’m on set in
The swarm of bees turns out to be a Lone Ranger. This is a relief. I survey the room. The debris suggests I had a really good time last night. I move my head a fraction; the hangover confirms it.
I concentrate on focusing: empty champagne bottle, empty mini bar, horizontal wardrobe and handsome stranger in my bed.
A result.
His name eludes me. This is not a disaster but it is an irritation. It seems rude, even by my standards, to ask a man to leave without addressing him on a first-name basis. Big boy, although an adequate term of endearment last night, seems faintly ridiculous in the harsh light of day. I’m saved from immediately confronting this dilemma as the phone rings.
Tring, trinnnnnng, tring, trinnnnnng. The tone is definitely getting more insistent. I feel around for the handset.
‘Cas?’
‘Issie.’ I pull myself on to my elbow. ‘You OK?’
‘No.’
I try to concentrate on her story. It starts well – scored with one of the ushers. But it gets muddled through her tears. Seemingly she had a passion session last night. Peppered with orgasms, blow jobs and him murmuring, ‘You are amazing.’ This morning she’d woken up to him trying to sneak out of her room. She’d asked for his number. He gave her one but it was made up. It was one digit too many.
‘He called me Zoe,’ she wails. It’s true Zoe isn’t generally the accepted shortening of Isabelle, however familiar the parties involved. ‘How could he forget my name?’
‘I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. What’s your room number?’ I want to stroke her hair, hunt a tissue from my handbag, blow her nose and pour a substantial G&T. I want to make her better. I hurriedly climb out of bed. Momentarily noting the slight strain in my groin. I turn and have a last wistful look at big boy. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of early morning naughtiness. But it is out of the question. Issie needs me. I don’t even have time to wash off the sperm and smell of rubber.
‘Hey big—’ I stop myself. ‘Hey.’ I shake him gently. He opens his eyes and tries to pull me back into bed.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asks with a lazy grin. I manoeuvre away from all his hands, pull a jumper on and throw his shirt at him.
‘My friend called. I’m going round to her room.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he offers.
‘No, that would be’ – I play with the idea of saying tedious and opt for the more polite approach – ‘too kind but unnecessary. She’s very upset; I might be gone all morning. All day.’
‘Should I leave you my card?’
‘Yes, great. Do that.’ I kiss him on his forehead and feel a bit like his mother. How young this guy looks in the daylight. Of course I have no intention of calling him, but I’d like to have his name. I keep immaculate mental records in these matters.
Issie opens the door; she’s wrapped in a sheet.
‘Oh Issie.’ I hug her. Fighting down the swell of irritation that washes over me when I see her tear-stained face. I’m annoyed at him for doing it to her. I’m annoyed at her for doing this to herself. ‘Have you called Josh?’
‘He’s incognito.’
‘Oh, makes sense. I saw him slope off with that woman in the huge navy hat.’
‘Which one?’ asks Issie. ‘There were a dozen navy hats.’
‘The Emu one.’
‘Oh.’ She grins, despite herself, and I think, not for the first time, that Issie is too nice to be treated like this.
I put on the mini kettle and throw the biscuits to her. She needs the sugar. She catches them with one hand and this simple gesture makes my heart swell with pride. It is so unfair. There is no way Issie would ever have managed to do something so cool in front of a guy she fancied. Women are always so much nicer, more composed and funnier when blokes aren’t around. Why can’t we be our best selves in front of them?
‘Did you have full sex?’ I ask, trying to establish the level of disappointment.
‘Yes.’ She sounds guilty.
‘Don’t sweat it, forget it. I’m not your mum.’ But I know she’s wracked with shame and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. She’s explained it often enough. I try to cheer her up. ‘I also had full sex and I’m not expecting to see him again either.’
‘But you don’t care. You have no feelings.’ Fair point. I shrug. I’m as hard as nails on the outside. Scratch the surface and I’m as hard as nails on the inside. Impenetrable. Well, emotionally impenetrable, not the other. Not frigid. Technically, I guess, for want of a more user-friendly term, I’m a slapper. I start to run her a bath. I’m overly generous with the bubble bath. Bubbles are so frivolous. They never fail to cheer me up.
‘Was it good sex?’ I shout above the running tap.
‘Not particularly – we hardly know each other.’
So why is she so upset? I walk back into the bedroom and start to drag her towards the bathroom.
‘What did I do wrong?’ she wails. I’ve heard this question so often that I have a stockpile of answers.
Whilst she’s in the bath I order room service. We require serious comfort food so I order a big, greasy fried breakfast (powerful medicine for hangovers and broken hopes), a pile of pastries and huge steaming mugs of hot chocolate. I quickly shower whilst Issie flicks through the Sunday papers. We eat breakfast lying on the massive bed, wrapped in luxurious, white towelling dressing gowns. I couldn’t be happier. To me this is a perfect Sunday morning. I know Issie would be happier if I were a man.
‘But why does it matter?’ I ask, genuinely confused. ‘You had your servicing and you don’t have to put up with the inane conversation this morning. Best of both worlds.’
Issie sighs. ‘What if the conversation wasn’t inane but stimulating?’
‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’
