Unknown - Game Over

It’s useful advice.

6

I couldn’t have wished for a better outcome. Declan enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame so much that he ached for more. He has a talent for the kiss-and-tell. Which arguably isn’t a nice characteristic, but it is commonplace. And commercially admirable. Within a week of the first show he has appeared in most tabloids, giving sordid details of various aspects of his and Abbie’s relationship, immediate and distant past. Some of it is undoubtedly true. He has been interviewed on local radio and TV stations, he has an agent and rumour has it that he is reading a couple of screenplays. There’s no truth to this rumour. I know. My PR team initiated it.

Lawrence has asked his boss for an overseas posting but this has not shaken off the rat pack. It simply means he has become the Pied Piper for the European paparazzi as they maniacally search for him.

Abbie has gone underground. However, her actual presence isn’t such a loss, as a number of her friends, family and associates are available to make comment. The woman who sold her the wedding dress offered extraordinary insight, as did the vicar who should have married them, three or four of Abbie’s other ex-boyfriends and perhaps, most questionably, her hairdresser.

‘Fi, can you believe her hairdresser betrayed her?’ I ask, aghast.

Jenny, Brian and Karen have gone one step further. They’ve happily handed over letters they’ve written each other, posed for photographs with their families and finally invited OK to cover their wedding, although we are still unsure whose wedding it will be.

We have created a real live soap opera. By week two we have secured ratings of 1.8 million. By week three there’ve been two articles in the serious press discussing the nature and motivation of betrayal. The ratings tip 2 million.

‘What’s making you grin so much?’ I ask Jaki, looking up from the letters commenting on the show. ‘Have you been promoted and they’ve failed to tell me?’

Jaki laughs. ‘No, but they should.’ I admire her; she never misses a trick. ‘No, it’s something else. I was at a dinner party on Saturday night.’

‘Oh yeah, what did you eat?’

She perches on my desk and Fi stops working on her laptop. There is nothing we like better than a good conversation about food. Conversations about food have an advantage over actually eating. You can take an avid interest without jeopardizing your waistline. Conversations about food are better than conversations about sex, which are often mildly pervy or frustrating. I’m not sure how to rank conversations about food and actually having sex. It’s close.

Jaki details her menu comprehensively, taking an inordinate amount of time to describe the chocolate soufflé. We hungrily hang on her descriptions of double cream and blackberry sauce. When she’s told us that the mints were Benedict, I drag her back to her original point.

‘So what’s nearly as exciting as a promotion?’

‘Well, after dinner we usually play games. So that the boys can get competitive legitimately.’

‘And the girls whip their arses openly,’ adds Fi enthusiastically.

‘Exactly. Sometimes we play Outburst or Trivial Pursuit but more often than not we prefer the more revealing Truth or Dare. This week someone, not me, suggested playing Sex with an Ex.’

‘Nooooo,’ Fi and I chorus. We both immediately understand the importance of being absorbed into real-life popular culture. And so damn quickly!

‘It was brilliant. Everyone had to name the ex in their past. You were right, Cas: there is always one who can send a thrill through the groin or heart. Then they had to say whether they would risk an uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, one-for-old-times’-sake bonk.’

‘But wasn’t it all couples at that dinner party?’ I protest. We are a small team; the stuff we don’t know about each other’s private lives isn’t worth knowing. Believe me.

‘Yup. Ellie and James, Daisy and Simon, Nige and Ali and Toby and me. That was the attraction. A public outing.’

‘So what happened?’ asks Fi, excitedly playing with a staple gun. I take it from her before she causes serious bodily harm.

‘Well, to start with everyone lied through their teeth. Those who I reckoned would do it became extremely demure. Those who wouldn’t tried to pretend they had an experimental streak – which they blatantly don’t have. But as the alcohol flowed the truth began to emerge.’

‘And?’ Fi and I chorus. We both know the result we want.

‘Huge rows. Ali walked out, Ellie burst into tears, Daisy and Simon’s party was ruined.’

‘Wheeeey heeeeey,’ squeals Fi. ‘Our first row.’

‘But think,’ adds Jaki, ‘if we were having this row in Clapham, how many similar rows must be taking place both north and south of the river, up and down the country! It’s become a matter of national debate.’

‘Jaki, go to marketing and tell them to slap a copyright on the board game, if they haven’t already. They should be talking to game manufacturers before anyone else does. I wonder if we could get it out before Christmas?’

‘That’s only four weeks away,’ Jaki protests. I silence her with a glance. She rushes off. Her dark Afro hair and pert bum sway jauntily.

‘Did you notice, Fi, Jaki never said how her evening panned out with Toby?’

By the end of November, on week four, the ratings rip through the 4.5 million viewers’ mark, and Bale insists I start interviewing again for a second series. The initial pilot series was scheduled to run six episodes. I have enough material to go to ten.

‘Ten,’ yells Bale. ‘You are far too conservative. Interview enough couples for twenty shows.’ I try to object and explain that the show will only work whilst we can surprise the stooges – that’s why we filmed so many shows in advance.

Bale glowers away my objections. ‘Cas, have you seen last night’s ratings?’ I shrug. I hope my shrug implies that I am far too busy having a fabulous social life, juggling several other projects at work and actively contributing to society by doing charity work to have checked the ratings. The reality is I checked the ratings this morning, before I went to the gym. I have worked out my related bonus and mentally spent it half a dozen times.

‘Have you any idea how big this is? It’s more ratings than this channel has ever had on a single show. It’s the same number as ITV gets for—’ – he names one or two really big shows that ITV has as staples on their schedule. ‘It’s more ratings than—’ – he names one of our competitors – ‘has ever had.’ He’s not telling me anything new. I know this. ‘I’ve had offers from other channels to buy us out.’

I startle. I didn’t know this.

He reassures me, ‘Of course I’m not going to take them. Our lawyers are selling the idea to networks in the States, Australia and Asia. Murdoch wants to meet me!’

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ I reply coolly as I help myself to tissues from his desk and wipe his heinous spittle off my face. ‘Yeah, it’s good. I think we were helped by Melvin Bragg and Sue Lawley both condemning the show.’

‘It’s good. You’re good.’ Bale smiles. He’s genuinely pleased with me. And why not? I’ve just saved his channel. More, I’ve probably made his career. I smile back and hand Bale the latest draft of my terms and conditions. It’s not at all eighties in its scale. I’m not looking for a Boxster convertible or a six-figure salary. Although I’m confident that the bonuses will take me there. Bale picks up the paper and holds it at a distance. He eyes me suspiciously. He doesn’t need to be afraid. The most demanding perk I’ve requested is that my mum gets to meet Tom Jones when we do The Audience with Tom Jones show on Christmas Eve. I’ve also suggested that Issie’s younger brother gets a temporary placement as a cameraman during his university vacation and that Josh can have half a dozen tickets for the Cup Final. Bale doesn’t know this and naturally assumes the worst. He feels compelled to be nasty.