‘I hoped you’d be pleased. Now tell me what really went on. I want details.’
Fi pulls up a chair and we huddle around my PC. It is not my usual style to indulge in girly confidences but I haven’t said Darren’s name aloud for hours. If I don’t say it soon I’ll erupt. I tell her some of the things that I told Issie. I tell her about the train journey, his family, the swimming baths, the walks and the ‘restaurants’. I’ve been talking for about twenty minutes solid and I’ve only just caught Fi’s expression. She looks bewildered.
‘What?’
‘Cut the foreplay, get to the shagging.’
I stare through her and think of the lovemaking. I can’t tell her. For one thing, some of the language is potentially shocking, even for a Scand. And two, it’s private. It’s Darren’s and mine. I can’t turn him into a character in a short story. The phone rings and Fi reaches for it.
‘Jocasta Perry’s line, Fi Spencer speaking.’ I turn to my e-mail and let Fi deal with the call. I note that she’s blushing. Then she giggles. Finally she says, ‘I’ll just check.’ She covers the hand set and behaves like a pantomime dame.
‘It’s himmmmm,’ she mouths.
‘Whoooo?’ I mouth back; it appears it’s contagious.
Fi flaps her arms up and down and rolls her eyes. In less enlightened eras she’d have been consigned to the ducking chair for less.
‘Darren.’
‘I’m not here.’
Fi looks perplexed. She makes excuses to Darren and then carefully copies down all his contact numbers. As she hangs up she passes me the note with the numbers on.
‘So you did sleep with him.’ Her tone has changed considerably from before the call. I don’t deny it; I just shrug. ‘And now you’ve lost all interest,’ she concludes. I wonder if this is what Darren has surmised. ‘Christ, Cas, you are such a love-them-and-leave-them merchant that I’m beginning to think that you were born a man and had a sex change. How can you resist him?’
I take the numbers from her and put them in the bin. ‘If he calls again, tell him I’ve left the company.’
Because of the bishop’s letter, Bale and I spend the entire day working side by side. The directors are metaphorically urinating all over the leather chairs in the executive suite. It’s not that any of them are particularly godly – far from it. But one or two of them are hoping to be mentioned in the Queen’s next honours list. Offending the Church is only one stop away from offending the government. Bale and I talk to the duty officers who work in the log room and fully analyse the complaints and compliments that the show has received since its conception. The duty officers are loyal and pragmatic and go some way to reassuring Bale that everything is cool. I suspect the loyalty is inspired by George, the duty office manager, who talks to my breasts.
‘People are always more likely to complain than praise. The Great British Public complains about everything.’ George shrugs; my breasts don’t comment but let him continue. ‘This bishop thing, don’t sweat it. It’s always the mad ones who complain. I’ve had letters saying that we are biased against smokers, that they don’t like the colour of the dress that the newscaster is wearing.’ I don’t interrupt to say I have some sympathy – our newscasters are sartorially challenged. ‘During the Rugby World Cup we received complaints about the TV angles, that the Union Jack was upside down.’
‘Was it?’
‘I don’t know. They said Shirley Bassey was miming, which was definitely a lie. That the action was too much for epileptics and migraine sufferers. We are no longer a nation of shop-keepers but a nation of whiners.’
I’m pleased – these examples discredit the people who complain, they seem petty and small-minded. I thank George for his time, with my special smile. It’s wasted because as wide as it stretches it doesn’t stretch to my breasts.
Bale and I also meet the scheduling and marketing departments. By midday we have a convincing response for the executive committee and, although we have the entire afternoon scheduled for debate, I know it won’t be longer than an hour before the meeting breaks down and someone walks out. It’s inevitable, with so many egos in the room. I’m delighted when my prediction comes true. The only director who really does object to my show is bullied and humiliated sufficiently for him to leave in disgust within an hour. We agree to take our response to
‘Well done, girl.’ I smile. He nods enthusiastically and his mop of blond curly hair bounces up and down, putting me in mind of a cherub. It strikes me that I wouldn’t have drawn this comparison before my foray into sentimentality. I’m disgusted with myself. I try to concentrate on what he’s saying.
‘Buoyant term one. Going gangbusters. Twelve up. First stab, six up. The star performer in the quadrangle. Product categories are all up. Deal credit no deal debt. All thanks to ambitious penises. Well done, girl.’
I haven’t a clue what any of this means. The language is deliberately ambiguous. But Gary smiles at me and as I have only ever seen him smile when he talks about football, I figure that the commercial director is happy.
Next I plough through my mountain of e-mail. It’s hard to concentrate, because although I’ve instructed Jaki to divert all my calls through to her, I still jump every time my line rings. Which it does about every four minutes. At the end of the day Jaki relays the messages she’s taken. Despite my instructions Darren has rung twice.
I spend the early evening running through interview tapes in the editing suites. I need the best available material for next week’s show. I’m not leaving it to the editor. I’m being conscientious plus to make up for going AWOL.
And to avoid thinking about Darren. It should be easier not to think of his gut-churning smile if I’m busy.
‘You’ve quite a way with these stooges,’ comments Ed the editor.
‘You think so, do you?’ I don’t take my eyes off the monitors.
‘Yeah, you resist being patronizing, talking in short sentences and in single syllables. Quite a gift – the common touch.’
‘No one’s ever accused me of that before,’ I comment drily.
‘No one would guess how terrifying you are.’ Ed looks at me. Nervous, never sure how I’ll take his jokes. I smile mildly and we both concentrate on the interview.
The monitor is showing the film I made the day before I met Darren. The case is one where some bloke left his wife for some girl. The girl is now unsure if she can keep him, even though they plan to marry in a month. She thinks he wants to go back to his wife. This, I suppose, disproves the theory that one wife is as good as the next. I’m interviewing the wife. She’s a rare breed, a shy Scottish woman. Her abrasive vowels rasp, ‘If I were famous it wouldn’t bother me so much – the stained carpet and chipped skirting board. I’d accept that he chose her.’
‘I might be able to give you both.’
That’s my voice on the monitor, offering her false hope. At the time I had thought that a bit of fame and glamour would make her happier. And there was a chance that he’d choose her. But rewatching the tape, just two weeks on, leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Is it right to—? I stop the thought as it’s forming, and for the zillionth time today, I curse Darren.
‘They hate my accent,’ she’s wailing.
‘No, they hate your long legs and massive tits. That’s their motivation. Objecting to your accent is a diversionary tactic,’ I assure.
‘You are a true pro,’ says Ed. ‘Dishing out that sort of compliment is certain to get them on side. She’ll get your man for you now.’
‘Actually, Ed, I just meant it,’ I say as I close the door behind me.
Unusually I decide to take a bus home. I don’t want to be alone in a cab. I don’t want to be alone with me. I don’t want to be me. I’ve never felt so confused and miserable in my life. And yet I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. That’s the worst of it.
I look at my watch and allow myself two minutes thinking about Darren. Twenty minutes later the bus arrives. There is a huge advert for aftershave painted on the side of the bus. The model has a look of Darren. Similar eyes but not as beautiful.
The bus is a mistake because the driver won’t accept my ?50 note and laughs when I explain that I don’t carry loose change as it ruins the shape of your pockets. In the end some skinny guy behind me offers up the ?1. It’s embarrassing. I am about to glare at him for his impertinence but as I catch his eye I notice that he also looks tired. Maybe he isn’t paying my ride in hope of one in return. Perhaps he just wants the queue to move along.
