Unknown - Game Over

‘I’m generalizing,’ he explains. ‘Normal women. Everyone wants a final fling but a safe final fling. The ex is that. It’s worked for me on several occasions. One last night of unbridled passion but without the complications that Marcus risked by starting up a new liaison.’ Issie scowls. Josh shrugs apologetically. But what can he do? He’s spent years apologizing to Issie for his half of the human race, but really it’s not his fault. Now he simply shrugs off her disappointments.

‘That’s it! That’s it! Genius,’ I congratulate. ‘You are a genius.’ I cry and hug Josh. Josh happily accepts my hugs but he hasn’t got a clue why I’m so excited. ‘That’s the idea for the fucking amazing ratings-rocketing programme. A Blind Date meets The Truman Show.’

‘What?’ asks Josh. Issie simply stares; she rarely expects to follow my devious mind.

‘A fly-on-the-wall plus. We get couples, the week before their wedding, to come on to the show and tell us all about why they are getting married.’ I rush to explain but my tongue can’t keep up with my grey matter and I doubt I’m making sense. ‘Loads of sucker stuff about how they knew from the moment they saw each other and how there could never be anyone else for them. Then we find out which one of them is gagging for a bit of extra-curricular—’

‘But—’ Issie tries to interrupt me.

‘There will be one,’ assure forcefully. ‘Then we manoeuvre a meeting between that party and an ex. Then we let nature take its course.’

‘Will it work?’

‘Of course it will work. There is nothing more seductive than an ex.’

Issie eyes me sceptically.

‘Except perhaps Gucci,’ I concede. I’m thrilled.’ It has everything! Voyeurism, trivialization of sex, manipulation.’

‘It’s a terrible idea,’ shouts Issie.

I’m genuinely bewildered. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘It’s the principle I object to,’ she adds.

‘I don’t deal in principles – they are no longer legal tender.’

‘More is the pity.’

I start to imagine the marketing and PR. ‘He’s put on a pound or two, maybe lost a bit of hair, but otherwise he’s unchanged. He was the love of your life when you were twenty-one and ten years have gone by. Yet he has that same boyish grin, he still calls you by your nickname and he remembers that you bought your hair gel in goldfish bowls at Superdrug. How can you resist?’ I’m warming to my theme.

‘Flirting with nostalgia is perilous,’ warns Issie.

‘That’s its selling point,’ I confirm.

‘You could wreck lives. Be responsible for cancelled weddings,’ she squeals.

‘We’d pay for the wedding if it fell through.’

Josh looks at me as though I’ve just crawled out from under the rim of the loo. This surprises me.

‘What?’ I demand, hotly. ‘I’m saving taxes. Your hard-earned taxes.’ I think this will get him. Josh is in the 40 per cent bracket. He has private healthcare and went to public school, so my very reasonable argument that taxes aren’t just for the building and deconstruction of our roads but for the building and reconstruction of our healthcare and future has never washed with him. Now I’m grateful.

‘If these people married, they would sooner or later divorce, dragging their five children through the courts. The children would be emotionally scarred and, no doubt, perpetrate the scenario by re-enacting their parents’ failed marriages. The total legal aid costs could run into hundreds of thousands.’

‘Christ, Cas, you deserve a medal,’ bites Josh sarcastically.

I choose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’

I can hardly sleep with excitement. I fine-tune the details. I consider that perhaps it is too much to expect every couple, weeks away from marriage, to have cracks in their relationships, but I could advertise. I reason that no one is going to come forward and volunteer that they are feeling restless or randy. People lack such emotional honesty or self-awareness. I know – I’ve operated in the so-called adult world for sixteen sexually active years and I’ve yet to find anyone who is prepared to call a spade a shovel. But perhaps there is another way. Perhaps I could attack it from the other side. I’ve seen countless examples of paranoia, jealousy, insecurity and mistrust. Now that is an angle! Maybe I could advertise for people who doubt their partners and want to test them before they make that final commitment. Then all TV6 will have to do is manoeuvre a situation where the mistrusted party comes into contact with the threatening ex and then… And then! I hug myself. Obviously it depends on the mistrusted partner never having a clue that they are being tested. Total secrecy. But that shouldn’t be too hard to achieve. In my experience secrecy between couples is pretty commonplace. I know this is big. I can see it now. The reaction of the duped, the hypocrisy of the rogue partners. All on live TV. It is pure brilliance! It’s so cruel. It’s so honest. I can smell my success and it makes me feel sexy.

I switch on my bedside light and feel under my bed in an attempt to unearth my electronic diary. I hesitate. Problem with repeat performances is that they invariably lead to unnecessary complications. The guy involved thinking I really care, him thinking he does, or his wife finding out and thinking both of us do. Yet, needs must. I really can’t be bothered to get dressed and drag myself to my club to pick up something fresh. The diary beeps at me. Steven Arnold? No, I think he just got married. That would be awful timing. Keith Bevon? No, psycho, stalker tendencies. Phil Bryant? Didn’t he emigrate? George Crompton, or perhaps his brother Jack? Oh no, too late in the day for the complex sibling thing – ‘Why did you ring me rather than my brother?’ ‘Is mine bigger than his?’ Lord, it’s enough to bring on a headache. Miles Dodd? Good idea, not too clingy, not too involved – with me or anyone else. Prepared to hold back until I come. Yes, Miles will do nicely. Disappointingly his line is engaged. Well, at least it’s just his line. Joe Dorward. It takes me a moment to place him. Oh yes, the researcher on that pop quiz show on Channel 4. I met him at a workshop several months ago. I hadn’t found him sexy at first – good-looking, yes, but not clever enough to really turn me on. I figured I could run verbal rings around him, which is rarely attractive. However, after three or four glasses of champagne I was less fastidious. It had panned out quite well. As Josh says, it’s not verbal stimulation you want in bed. I call his number. He picks up.

‘Hey, Joe,’ I murmur.

I wake up and Joe is already up. I can hear him in the kitchen, whistling and fixing breakfast. He brings up a coffee and tells me that he’s been to the 7-11 to buy croissants, that they’ll be ready soon. I tell him I don’t eat breakfast and struggle to sit up.

‘Water?’

He rushes to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water. I’m so dehydrated that I ignore the fact that this glass of water has undoubtedly passed through five other bodies before me. Joe climbs back into bed and starts nibbling my shoulder. In the cold light of day I realize that first impressions are always right. He is dumb. Admittedly, he is extremely handsome and, I suppose, sexy, in an obvious sort of way. But how come I hadn’t noticed those puppy-dog eyes shining with devotion? That overloud laugh that erupts every time I say anything, even unfunny things like my name and that nodding bloody head that agrees with everything I say. It’s nauseating. He still smells good and, thinking about it objectively, he is a shag. But he’s so certainly besotted. I try to think of the things that could put him off me. Perhaps if I showed him my cellulite or my untrimmed bikini line he’d leave the flat (unlikely). Maybe if I insist on watching Oprah, or pick the pubes from between my teeth with my toenails. I can’t think of any antisocial behaviour that is antisocial enough to discourage him. I realize that the only way to get him to lose interest is to pretend to be in love with him. I doubt I have the energy. His large legs, erotic last night, look overwhelming today. I push him away, get out of bed, locate his trousers and throw them at him.