Unknown - Game Over

‘Oh,’ I sigh. This isn’t good news. The whole premiss of the show depends on catching these guys and gals red-handed, so to speak.

Jaki continues. ‘The only way round it is to conceal their identity. Do it all through implication. So, for example, show stills of the dupe and current fiancé,’ fiancée, which the fiancé,’ fiancée will have released. Then show stills of the “tempting party” and then when filming the actual seduction scene we’ll have to be creative with those black banners that obscure identity or body parts. It will be clear whether the dupe has fallen or not, without having to actually say so.’

I think about it. As the film will be shown for the first time in front of a live audience and all the parties, it will be impossible for the dupe to deny if he/she is the person committing infidelity. And even if they do, the guaranteed ensuing row will still make great TV. I can’t lose. ‘Sounds manageable. Anything else?’

‘In addition, you can’t show any actual lewd acts, even after the watershed. We must bleep out the C word, at a minimum, and other expletives if you want to avoid controversy.’

‘Which I don’t.’

Jaki shrugs. ‘It’s your call. In summary Mr and Ms J. Bloggs have very few legal rights over their privacy.’

‘Fantastic. Document everything. Remember the golden rule.’

Jaki nods. ‘Yes, I have it tattooed on my cranium, “Thou shalt cover thy arse.”

‘Precisely. OK, Ricky, what did the scheduler say?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual bollocks that their responsibility is to heighten the built-in tension between random luck and rules in a game structure – between the predictable and inconceivable, the controllable and the frenzy, which creates enjoyment, blah blah. Need I go on?’

‘No. What slot do we have?’

‘They offered us seven thirty on Saturday night, going out against Cilla.’

‘That’s stupid. Blind Date has been running for sixteen years. It still pulls in over seven million viewers. I’d never think of running a head-to-head.’ I pause. ‘Well, at least not until towards the end of the series. What else did they offer? It’s hardly as though we are flush with brilliant programmes.’

‘Monday at ten.’

‘Take it. Gray, how are the sponsorship and advertising deals coming along?’

‘Good. The advertising is all in place. The TV trailers are set up and we’ve optioned press and poster adverts – the exact placement will be confirmed a few weeks before the first show. As for sponsorship, we have a lead. A teenage retail store is interested in sponsoring the show. It would be a cash-and-barter deal. You know the type of thing: the guest would be obliged to wear their gear, etc. The creatives have come up with some suggested break-bumper ideas.’

Gray cautiously puts the ideas on the table. It’s an unsubtle play on the words ‘top shaft’. The creative team annoy me on a number of counts. They are incapable of accepting a creative brief without whining that they are overworked, which is unlikely to be the case in a channel struggling to come up with programmes; they take long lunches; they switch off their mobiles; they never accept advice, use dictionaries or attend meetings. They proudly admit to reading the Sport and comment on the size of the tits of their female colleagues. And finally, worst of all, their ideas are puerile. Gray reads my face.

‘You think they’re puerile, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘It won’t work. The Independent Television Commission won’t touch it. And even if we could get it through, it says the wrong things about the show. Get Mark and Tom to come up with some more up-market directions.’

I push open the pub door and am hit by the familiar and comforting smell of beer-soaked carpets, cigarette smoke, and salt and vinegar crisps. It’s mid-September and although the sun is weakly trying to battle with the autumnal winds I’m glad Josh has decided to sit inside rather than in the beer garden. I spot him immediately. He is sitting in the corner reading Private Eye, oblivious to the adoring looks he is attracting from the small gaggles of women office workers. I weave my way towards him and kiss him on the cheek. He puts down his reading matter and, grinning, points to the vodka and orange which is waiting for me.

‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses. ‘How did you know it was a vodka day?’ I normally drink gin and tonic except when I’m under extreme pressure at work, when I drink vodka and orange. I like to think the orange cordial will somehow compensate for the fact that I haven’t eaten a proper meal for days.

‘Well, since you started this Sex with an Ex project, neither Issie nor I have heard from you. I figured if you hadn’t had time to call us in ten days you wouldn’t have had time to eat either.’

‘Sorry,’ I mumble. Josh shrugs. I don’t have to say much more. I’m still reeling from the ticking off he gave me this morning when he finally got through to me at work. He’d made it quite clear that he was sick of talking to my answering machine. I’d insisted that given a choice, of course, I’d prefer to be drinking with him and Issie, but developing a new show monopolizes my time, whether I like it or not. Josh swept aside my objections and bullied me into coming out for a drink with him. To be honest I was grateful to concede. ‘Where’s Issie tonight?’

‘Yoga. She said she might join us later. So in the meantime you’ll just have to put up with me boring you with stories about court.’

‘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?’