‘You’re sick,’ grins Jaki. She seems to think that part of her job description as production secretary is to tell me how it is.
‘Look, Jaki, football is not a matter of life and death, it’s more important than that. And TV? TV is more important than football.’
She laughs and closes the door behind her.
But I’m not joking.
3
I live on my own, in a spacious pseudo-loft apartment in a trendy part of East London. I say pseudo because it’s not in the loft, it’s on the second floor. But I do have exposed brickwork and genuine iron girders that keep the roof from falling in. My space is the antithesis of both the abandoned family home in Esher and my mother’s two-up-two-down in Cockfosters. It’s modern and light and empty. I only allow things into my flat if they are both useful and beautiful. Except for the men who visit, which would be asking too much. My two favourite possessions are my charcoal-grey B&B Italia couch that seats umpteen and my B&O TV, which is the size of a screen at a small local cinema. I love my flat and Issie hates it, for the same reason: it’s clinical and impersonal. Issie keeps trying to introduce chintz by buying me floral bathmats and tea cosies for Christmas. I return the favour by buying her aluminium, slim-line pasta jars, which she can’t open.
Josh and Issie both have keys to my flat, as I do to their homes. We are Londoners so we don’t literally drop in on one another. But sometimes we make arrangements to go round to each other’s pads for supper, as it’s nice to occasionally come home to the smell of cooking and the clink of someone pouring you a G&T. Tonight I’m delighted we’ve made this plan. I need their company. I push open my door and am hit by delicious cooking smells.
‘You’re late,’ shouts Josh from the kitchen. He’s responsible for the delicious smells. I drop my bags and PC and head straight for the kitchen.
‘What’s cooking?’ I enquire, lifting lids and spooning small amounts of heaven into my mouth.
‘Out,’ he snaps, playfully swiping at my hands and trying to replace the lids. ‘You have to wait.’ But he can’t resist showing off. ‘It’s peperoni con acciughe e capperi.’
‘Chargrilled peppers with anchovy and capers,’ translates Issie, as she hands me a glass of Australian Chardonnay. ‘Mountadam, Eden Valley 1996,’ she assures, knowing it’s important to me.
‘And maiale arrosto con aceto balsamico,’ interrupts Josh.
I turn helplessly to Issie. She fills in, ‘Roast pork with balsamic vinegar.’
‘Fantastic.’ Funny, I’m never irritated by Josh’s pretension of insisting on calling every dish he cooks by its Italian name. ‘Have I got time to shower off my shit day?’
‘Yes, if you are quick.’
Sometimes we chatter non-stop throughout supper and sometimes we watch TV, entertaining ourselves by hurling abuse or a book at the commentary, but tonight we eat in comfortable silence. Or at least I think it is comfortable until Issie asks, ‘What’s up, Cas? You’re really quiet tonight.’ She’s given me authority over the remote control. Normally I love this but tonight, as a diversionary tactic, the remote control is a failure.
I realize I’m grateful to be asked and I slip into child mode, hoping that surrogate Mum and Dad can sort things out for me. There’s only Issie and Josh, in the entire world, who I let see me when I feel vulnerable or down.
‘It’s work,’ I whine.
‘Naturally. We never expect you to say it’s man trouble,’ comments Josh. I don’t have man trouble – that’s the advantage of seeing them as sex objects rather than soul mates.
‘The channel’s viewing figures are down for the twelfth week in a row. It’s serious. Bale’s talking redundancies. Problem is we haven’t got a hero show. We haven’t even got a strong soap.’
‘What about Teddington Crescent?’ Issie is as intimate with my programming schedule as I am.
‘The lives and loves of the inhabitants of Milton Keynes don’t have what it takes to knock Come or Brookie off their spots. We haven’t got a principal game show, or a lead chat show host. Poor ratings – that’s viewership,’ I translate, but it’s unnecessary as they are both educated in my media speak, ‘affect the advertisers we can draw. Without advertising money we can’t invest in cool shows. It’s a vicious circle.’ I pause. They don’t interrupt but allow me to find the words. ‘The worst of it is that Bale has made it into my problem.’ I check to see if they are as pissed off as I am. They both make an admirable job of looking horrified. Satisfied, I continue. ‘Despite his obscene pay cheque he has renounced all responsibility and said I have to come up with a winning idea. He’s—’
‘So rotten. He’s repellent, revolting, ridiculous,’ jokes Josh.
‘A plethora of R words.’ Issie grins and tries to get me to cheer up.
I scowl. ‘He’s a shit.’ I’m not going to allow them to brighten me out of my despair. ‘I’m scared.’
Everyone is silent. They know my job is my world. Josh sits down next to me and puts his arm round me.
‘I’m fucking scared,’ I say with unusual honesty.
‘I don’t see the problem. You’ll come up with the idea,’ he comforts. Normally I love his confidence in me but I shrug, because right now, I don’t think his confidence is founded. My head is aching. Everything’s fuzzy.
‘Maybe.’ I know that it is my problem and neither of them can really offer a solution, so I change the subject. ‘Did I get any post?’
‘Its on the mantelpiece.’
Two bills, council tax and water – marvellous. Three pieces of junk mail, all for pizza delivery services. I spy another heavy white envelope.
‘Hell, another wedding,’ I sigh. ‘It’s nearly September, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t these people any decency? Plaguing me throughout my autumn months as well as the summer.’ I’m only half kidding, but it’s great to see Issie look het up.
‘Who is it this time?’ she asks.
‘Jane Fischer is marrying Marcus Phillips,’ I read. ‘Have we met him?’
‘Yup,’ confirms Josh. ‘He was at Lesley and James’s wedding last week. He was an usher. The blonde one, with the red waistcoat. Jane wasn’t there – some prior commitment, probably another wedding.’
Issie and I freeze.
‘Bastard,’ we assert in unison.
I pass Issie the invite so she can see the betrayal for herself. Issie fingers the white card, caressing the embossing, and sighs. It’s not turning out to be a good day for either of us.
‘That explains the reluctance to give a real telephone number.’
‘Will either of you marry me?’ asks Josh, realizing that Issie’s had a disappointment but not knowing the exact nature.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Issie, ‘but only for the dress.’
We all laugh. We’ve run through this routine zillions of times. When we graduated Josh promised to marry whichever one of us wasn’t married by the time we were twenty-five. Twenty-five came and went. None of us had managed to find a life partner but we were forced to admit that, at that precise moment in time, we didn’t fancy each other. We decided not to go ahead but put the deal back to when we hit thirty, assuming that we’d be so desperate by then we’d all be less fastidious. Thirtieth parties came and went, but Josh said he couldn’t choose between us and as bigamy is an offence, punishable in the highest courts in the land, we all agreed to think about it again in the year 2005. However, Josh does regularly ask us to marry him, just so we feel good about ourselves. He often tries to coincide it with our menstrual cycles, which with the passing of time he has reluctantly become intimate with.