Game Over

Sex with an Ex. Pretty good crop for one day, I’m sure you’ll agree. Get a response out to all three editors by 10 a.m.’

Jaki puts a double espresso on my desk.

‘What did you watch on TV last night?’ she asks.

‘No time, I was at a tiara fitting.’ We take a moment to smirk at each other.

‘Morning, darling,’ shouts Tom generally to no one in particular.

‘Afternoon,’ we chorus as it’s 8.45 a.m. Tom looks wounded – he’s probably never been in the office so early before.

The status meeting runs exactly to plan. Gray tells me that we have received two complaints from the ITC about offensive language, but, or indeed therefore, the ratings achieved for most of our shows are as expected. The entire team negotiates with him over the predicted ratings for next season’s schedule. As the advertising and sponsorship director, it is in his interest to put in ‘stretch predictions’. The rest of the team see this as setting unfeasible targets. I settle the matter by diplomatically choosing a number mid-distance between the two extremes. Ricky updates me on scheduling. I’m only half listening because I notice Debs isn’t listening at all but instead staring at her Screensaver of George Clooney. I’m irritated by her lack of commitment. I tune back in to Ricky.

‘… So net net what they are suggesting is to push back Sex with an Ex. I’ll say OK, shall I?’ If he hadn’t closed his file quite so swiftly and tried to walk away faster than Road Runner, I mightn’t have noticed.

‘What did you say?’

Ricky sighs when he realizes he’s stuck with my undivided attention. He has no choice other than to tell me the full tale.

Ironically, because of the success of Sex with an Ex TV6 is a bit flush with cash, which we’ve invested in big box hit movies, a move that I’d sanctioned. Now the Strategy and Scheduling Department are suggesting we take on the other commercial channels by showing the blockbuster films at a time which will necessitate Sex with an Ex being pushed out of peak hour. Why didn’t I see that coming?

‘There’s not much we can do,’ shrugs Ricky apologetically. ‘Their case is watertight. The Sex with an Ex viewership has stabilized; we can pull more viewers in with an Arnie Schwarnie film. There’s more violence.’

He’s right. I sigh and nod.

‘OK. Say we agree.’

‘What, just like that?’ asks Fi, amazed. ‘Aren’t you even going to try to think of a way to make Sex with an Ex bigger?’

‘Look, Fi, you’ve got to learn which battles to fight. See the bigger picture. We are responsible for the channel, not individual shows.’

‘But the show was your idea.’

‘Fi, I have loads of ideas. Ten million viewers is an excellent achievement for a show of this nature. Far beyond anything we expected when we set out. Let’s not get greedy. We’ll pull in 12 million with the right films. And besides which, it’s not as if they are suggesting we ditch Sex with an Ex – we’re just moving it out of peak.’

‘Well, if it were my show I’d be fighting tooth and nail to keep it in peak,’ spits Fi, with far more passion than I’d ever seen her display before.

‘It’s not your show.’

As part of my self-protection campaign against Bale sidelining me, I have started to increase my own public profile. In interviews with the national press I make it clear that my personal contribution to the channel is colossal. I also make the most of my less cerebral attributes. I figure that Bale will be keener to keep me sweet if I am a public sweetheart. I’m mid-interview with a journalist from one of the big women’s glossies, when Jaki announces that my mother is in reception.

‘I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave it there. I’m taking my mother out for lunch,’ I smile apologetically. The interview has been more demanding than I expected. The journalist and I are playing a very sophisticated game. I know he likes me but he’s pretending not to; it’s a matter of professional pride. I’m pretending that I’m still trying to win him over, although I know he’s eating out of my hand.

He grimaces stiffly, trying to decide if I planned this interruption in the hope that he’ll mention my lunch date with Mum in his article. If I have planned it, he won’t mention it. If I haven’t, he will. It would, after all, provide a human angle, which is notably lacking. In truth, it’s a complete coincidence. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed if Mum wasn’t tyrannically anal about promptness and this journalist wasn’t stereotypical in his tardiness.

‘Just one or two more questions.’ I agree and smile a candy-coated smile. ‘You receive an enormous number of complaint letters about the nature of your lead show Sex with an Ex, from parents, teachers, local governments. Even the Church of England has condemned you—’

‘I’m agnostic,’ I smile my interruption.

He ignores it. ‘How do you feel about the charge that you are advocating adultery?’

‘Quite simply, I’m not. The ratings are just as high if the couple stay together. I see TV as a nationally authorized culture. I don’t force anyone to watch or to participate in the show.’ I parrot my answer, barely suppressing my yawn. It doesn’t sound as convincing, to me, as it used to. I hope it convinces him. I think of a new bit to add. ‘The British public is far too intelligent to be dictated to. Will you write that up as a direct quote?’ He nods shyly. I know he’s annoyed with himself for being acquiescent.

‘Finally, how do you feel about the label that you’re “the voice of your generation”?’

‘I haven’t heard that one before.’ I titter and twitter in a vain attempt to convince him that I’m harmless. ‘Truly? Off record?’ I don’t think I can maintain this syrupy exterior for another minute. It’s such a strain. He nods.

‘I’m not the voice of my generation because I’m far cleverer, far more compassionate and far crueller.’

He mulls over what I’ve just said. I suspect he regrets agreeing to keep that off record. It’s the best quote of the interview.

If only he knew what it meant.

I stand up, indicating that it’s time for him to go. Jaki ushers the journalist out of the office and brings my mum in.

‘I’m sorry, I’m running late.’ I blow her a kiss and my apology as I grab my jacket and handbag off the back of the chair.

‘Jaki, I’m taking Mum to lunch and then we are going to choose her outfit for the wedding. I’ll be out most of the afternoon.’

This isn’t a problem because I do such long hours I feel entitled to take an hour or two off. Other than my team, most TV6 employees don’t arrive until 11.00 a.m.; for many the real work doesn’t begin until after sobering up from lunch. ‘Keep checking my e-mail as I’m expecting an important decision from the executive committee, regarding the budgets for next year. I’ll keep my mobile on but don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Don’t put anyone through except for Darren.’

‘Darren?’ repeats Jaki astounded. About two thousand watts charge through me.

‘Did I say Darren? Oh, I meant Josh.’ I’m scarlet, so I delve into my handbag pretending to be looking for a tissue to blot my lipstick and I’m not even wearing lipstick.

‘Why did you say Darren?’ asks Jaki.

‘Oh, it must have been that journalist. He was asking the same kind of questions that that Darren bloke asked about the show. You know, did I feel responsible for the nation’s adultery? Do I feel guilty for being the catalyst of so much aggro?’

My hands have suddenly got a life of their own. They are scratching my nose, moving my hair behind my ear, itching my leg. They won’t stay steadily on my hips or by my sides. Jaki and Mum are both staring at me very closely. They were a lot alike, the journalist and er, thingy, Darren. They were both unrealistic, misguided, moralistic pricks. Sorry, Mum.’ I’m apologizing for using the word ‘prick’ before she demands that I do.

Sorry, Darren. Somewhere deep inside I feel treacherous.

‘Who’s Darren?’ asks Mum.