‘I did watch the first ten minutes but then Bob, from across the road, popped over to fix that drawer that’s been sticking. You know, the third one down in the kitchen.’
Bob, one of a small number of names that my mother floats past me on a regular basis. ‘Mrs Cooper said that there’s a buy two and get one free offer on shampoo at Boots at the moment’; ‘It’s Albert and Dorothy’s fortieth wedding anniversary on Saturday – they are having a supper’; ‘Dr Dean was asking after you’. It’s tedious keeping up with the comings and goings of these tiresome people.
‘I couldn’t have the television running whilst he was in the house,’ comments my mother.
I’m disappointed, so move quickly to get her off the line. A non-offensive exit demands a certain amount of self-sacrifice. I agree to go shopping with her on Saturday. I regret the offer almost the moment the words are out of my mouth. It will be a disaster: it always is. For a start she will want to find a bargain in the Army and Navy store, whilst I will want to spend obscene amounts in Bond Street. If we do go to Bond Street, her face will settle into one of the expressions I can only assume she most favours, shocked or cross. Shocked at the prices and cross at life. I can’t bear her sudden outbursts in small boutiques. ‘That’s how much? There’s nothing to it! Look at the hemming. I could run you one up on the sewing machine.’ Which is odd, as she has never sewn in her life. Worse than her audible disgust will be her silent condemnations of my frivolity, the incessant tutting at the cashpoint as I hand over one of my magic pieces of plastic. Therefore we usually shop at the Army and Navy store, where I destroy her pleasure by continually pointing out ‘nice’ things and adding for clarity, ‘Nice for you, Mum.’ Revenge is always hers as she buys whichever monstrosity I’ve picked out and gives it to me for Christmas or my birthday. All this accepted, we regularly put ourselves through this purgatory on earth. What else can I do? She’s my mum. I wonder if I can get Issie or Josh to meet us for lunch.
By the time I put the phone down most of the team have arrived. Except for Tom and Mark. Their status as creatives excludes them from having to appear at work at all if they are hung over. The scene is as I’d predicted: I am in an office with the walking dead. They are pale and unshaven, and they smell of booze, sweat and sex. There is a certain amount of squabbling, the excuse being that the vending machine is all out of non-dairy creamer, the real reason being the bad heads. However, the atmosphere is immediately dissolved when Ricky bursts into the office.
‘Have you seen the ratings?’ he screams.
Shit, the ratings. I must have been affected by the booze fumes to allow the ratings figures to slip my mind. The number of calls we have received that have been duly logged suggests we have a stonking success on our hands. However, I can’t count my poultry just yet. Ratings are the accurate measure of exactly how many people watched the show. This is the acid test.
Ricky is breathless. I know it is good news.
‘Well?’
He grins. Enjoying his moment.
I humour him and extend my grin a fraction wider. ‘Well?’ He hesitates again. This time I consider firing him. A girl can only be so patient.
‘1.4 million viewers tuned in at 10.00 p.m.’ There is a whoop. The team throw off their hangovers to cheer and shout and clap and generally behave like delinquents on E, which is not so far from the fact. I stay calm.
‘Well done to marketing.’ I smile across to Di and Debs. I know that the number of viewers we draw in as the initial credits roll is 95 per cent down to the marketing. Keeping the viewers for longer than five minutes is down to the quality of the programme. I am at the mercy of the remote control. It’s so undignified.
‘And what were the numbers after the centre break?’ I ask.
‘1.6 million!’
Now I scream.
Really loudly.
5
‘Can you believe it?’ I ask Fi for the fourteenth time. The ratings went up. That means people actually called their friends and told them to tune in!’
‘Or something good finished on the other side,’ adds Fi.
I scowl. ‘I’ve thought of that and checked the schedules. It wasn’t the case. Not unless you count a documentary on the hibernation habits of bugs on hedgehogs as good TV.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Can you believe it? A follow-up interview with Declan in the Sun. I’ve got to hand it to him: he’s a natural the way he worked the tabloids. And now they are begging us for the names of the people in the next shows. We’ll have to work really hard to keep the can on the interviews we’ve already got. The trick is going to be in continually surprising the mark.’ The ‘mark’ is the official name for the person we are tempting. We also call them Grouchos, stooges and victims. ‘Can you believe it’s such a success?’ I complete my circular diatribe.
‘Not really.’ Fi grins. I glare and she corrects herself. ‘Well, obviously it is a brilliant idea. We all knew that it would be a fantastic show. But the public isn’t always as perceptive as we’d like to imagine. There’s always a risk.’
I’m mollified by her obvious flattery. ‘Very true. Exactly my point. Want another drink?’ I survey the debris in front of us. It’s roughly half past seven. I’m not certain. The hands on my watch have shrunk and they are randomly bending. We’ve been in this pub since four thirty. Celebrating. We have drunk my week’s calorie allowance and smoked an entire tobacco field. I’m beginning to see Fi’s more sympathetic side. In fact, I’ll definitely be buying her a Christmas pressie.
‘I shouldn’t, but OK then. A gin and tonic. Go easy on the tonic. Best make it slim-line, ‘says Fi as she reaches for the bowl of cashew nuts. She offers them to me but I decline.
‘I’m allergic.’
This isn’t true. I’m very thin and very fit. Whenever anyone asks me how I manage this I smile and say it’s genetic and effortless. This is, of course, bollocks, but I know that if there is anything more annoying than a thin woman, it’s a thin woman who professes that she never diets. There’s no such thing as effortlessly thin. It comes as a direct result of one or more of the following: dedication to a relentless fitness regime, being a slave to the calorie counter, drugs or an unreliable bastard of a boyfriend. I work out at the gym five times a week – minimum. I’m also an expert kick boxer, although I don’t enter competitions; it’s just for fun. I own a Z3 series BMW but cycle to work, six miles there and back every day. I club once a week and I never touch any saturated fat. In addition I indulge in every detox programme known to womankind. I can regularly be found swathed in seaweed or mud at Champney’s or the Sanctuary.
I place the double G & (slim-line) Ts on the wooden table. Fi is chewing an ice cube thoughtfully.
‘Is there anything you haven’t tried?’
I think she has telepathically understood that I’m concentrating on detox programmes. But before I tell her that I’ve never done colonic irrigation – I just can’t stand the idea of a hosepipe up my bum – she puts me on the right track.
‘I mean with men?’
This is easier to answer.
‘I never do three in a bed.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I think everyone’s entitled to some exclusive devotion, even if it’s between twenty minutes and a few hours.’ Not much of a moral, I admit, but one I’m faithful to.