‘Bore away.’ I grin, because Josh is anything but boring. He is a good storyteller. He practises criminal law and is always full of amusing anecdotes about his day-to-day dealings with the dregs of society. We chat about his work and his flat (he wants my advice on bathroom tiles and I agree to go shopping with him next Saturday); he tells me about his latest flirtation, which he doesn’t appear to be that enthusiastic about – although he assures me that she has stunning legs. The chat is comfortable and relaxed. I listen intently and whilst I’m bursting to talk about Sex with an Ex I resist. Josh knows me well enough to know I am practising extreme self-restraint and so finally allows me centre stage.
‘And what about you? How’s Sex with an Ex panning out?’
This is what I’ve been waiting for. I know that I can discuss all aspects of the show with Josh without the reserve I have to employ when talking to anyone else. In the office it is of paramount importance that I appear confident and assured at all times. I can’t express any doubts or misgivings even about small things, like the colour of the set design. With Josh, on the other hand, I can bounce from extreme confidence to misgivings and back again in one easy move, without him thinking any the less of me. I sigh.
‘I don’t want this show to be tacky, but I am working against the odds. When we don’t have good ideas we have to employ amazingly expensive actors and construct lavish set designs – it’s an attempt to distract the viewer.’ I explain. ‘Sex with an Ex is a good idea so we are investing sweet FA in the production. I’ve seen the set – it shivers dangerously whenever anyone sneezes or shouts loudly. If only Bale would dig a little deeper into those pockets of his. I know they are not limitless, but they are fathoms deep.’
‘Is Bale being tight?’
‘He did, at least, agree to a warm-up act – you know, someone to keep the audience amused during the commercial break.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘Yes, the epitome of generosity. He suggested we pick up some act from Covent Garden and pay them thirty quid,’ I bite sarcastically.
‘Who are you getting as the presenter?’
‘Well, I wanted Zoë Ball, Yasmin Le Bon or Nigella Lawson, but Bale instructed me to go and get “some new totty” straight out of drama school. That way he won’t have to pay her more than a few grand for the series.’
Josh laughs. ‘Typical Bale.’
‘Absolutely. Even so, I’m optimistic. After interviewing for ever we found the perfect presenter. She is busty, with short spiky hair and personality. She wears cropped tops and baggy trousers. She’s young.’ I don’t add that I see this as an advantage because she’s too young to feel particular about the tragedy bus she is if not driving certainly stamping tickets on.
‘Have you worked out the detail of the show’s structure?’
‘Yup. We advertised and were inundated with responses from the paranoid and jealous. We interview these individuals on tape. We draft in the threatening ex and interview them too. The motivation of the ex is usually revenge or desperation (if they were dumped), curiosity or vanity (if they were the dumpee). We then follow all parties (including the unsuspecting dupe) for a week, intercutting the preparations for the wedding and the possible betrayal. The key to the show is that we bring all the guests back and play the footage live. The unsuspecting dupe thinks they are going to be on Who Wants to be a Billionaire or something similar, right up until the moment they are on stage. It will be on stage that the letterwriter gets to either faint with relief or discover if their worst fears have been founded.’ I stop and check Josh’s reaction. He’s very pale and sweaty-looking. Perhaps he’s been drinking too much. ‘You do think it will work?’
‘Yes, sadly I think you’re on to a winner.’
Pleased, I stand up to get the drinks. Issie calls Josh’s mobile to say that she’s not going to join us because she doesn’t fancy being in a pub after meditating. We stay until last orders and I have a great time.
As I climb into a cab, Josh wishes me luck with the show and makes me renew my promise to help him shop for bathroom tiles. I nod, blow him a kiss and fall back on to the leather seat. My slightly inebriated state brings with it a sense of well-being and all is right with the world. I really should make more of an effort to see more of my friends.
I find the interviews with the selected couples obscene and fascinating at once, and have insisted on conducting as many of them as possible myself.
‘So, Jenny, you wrote to us in response to the article you saw in Gas. Let’s run through the details of the letter, so you can confirm them for me and I can get them straight in my head.’ I laugh in a jolly oh-silly-me-I-find-it-so-hard-to-retain-information way. I find it gets them onside. ‘Do you mind?’
Jenny shakes her head. The movement is exaggerated. She is trying to appear confident and assured. However, she is chainsmoking full strength Benson and Hedges, lighting another before the first stops smouldering – not the actions of a confident woman. Jenny is skinny but not the fashionably anorexic skinny that is prevalent in the studio. She’s skinny because she can’t afford to smoke and eat. We all have choices. According to my notes Jenny is twenty-three. She looks forty-five but then I suspect she was born looking forty-five. I suppose the advantage is she’ll still look forty-five when she’s sixty-five. Her face is pinched and reminds me of a balloon the day after the party, all shrivelled and twisted into a knot. She’s had a lifetime of poor school results, no chances and no splendour, which is why she’s here.
‘Jenny, you must be very excited by the chance to be on TV?’
‘Too right, yeah.’
‘And it’s been explained to you exactly how the show works?’ This is code speak for ‘You know the humiliation you are about to undergo?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You wrote to me because you think there is a possibility that your fiancé, Brian Parkinson, is being unfaithful. Or at least he would be, given the chance.’ I tilt my head and quietly cluck.
‘Yeah.’
‘And you mention in your letter that you have your suspicions as to who the object of affection is.’
‘Too right, yeah. My best friend, Karen.’
‘Karen Thompson,’ I read from my notes. She nods again and swaps stub for fresh fag. ‘Can you give me a brief history?’
‘Brian was going with Karen when I met him.’
‘And that was when?’
‘I was seventeen.’
The story is bleak. Brian has yo-yoed between Karen and Jenny for the past six years. It’s hard to understand what drives the change of allegiance. I think it is something to do with which of the two women is employed at the time and can supply money for his fags and booze. The only cheering thought for humanity is that the women have not allowed Brian’s indecision to come between them. More often than not, all three of them go to their local together. I’m not delicate but I wonder how any of them live, not knowing whom Brian will want to go home with on any given night.
‘She’d be better getting it on with Roy, Brian’s brother. After all, she’s my bridesmaid and Roy’s the best man. It’s traditional, ain’t it?’ She slaps my thigh and laughs. But the laugh is tinny and nervous. She stops suddenly and leans close into me. I know from Issie and a number of my other friends that she is about to indulge in a confession. In a more religious age she would be offering up prayers to Mary the virgin mother, saint of desperate cases.
‘I really wouldn’t like to lose him, darlin’. I love him. But if I’m going to lose him, it’d better be before the wedding.’