Unknown - Game Over

All this points to the fact that the show only has a shelf life of one or two episodes. It is becoming almost impossible to lure people on to the show, as the entire nation appears to be on infidelity alert. The plan is to use the kudos from this show to launch other programmes. My phone rings, interrupting Debs’s newspaper review.

‘Hi, stranger.’

‘Hi, Issie.’ I wait for her justified complaints. I never ring her, or Josh. I’m totally absorbed in my work. Have I visited my mum recently? It’s a relief that she skips it.

‘Fancy a night out?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s just that I’m still interviewing. Bale’s keen to commission another series.’

‘Then what? Another and another?’

‘He seems to think so. I’m sceptical. I mean how gullible does he think the general public is?’

‘Well, you may as well have a night out. You can’t continue working at this rate ad infinitum.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ I ask.

‘A drink? Grab some pasta? Somewhere where we can talk and catch up. I feel I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

I wonder if this is code for ‘I’ve been ditched.’

‘OK, let’s try Papa Bianchi’s,’ I suggest. ‘The food’s fine, not exactly Michelin star, but it’s cheap and cheerful and most importantly the waiters understand the importance of having a laugh and getting lashed.’ I don’t mention that it is also in spitting distance of the studio and I’ll be able to return to work after we’ve dined, but when I give her the address she’ll guess.

‘OK, hold the line until I get a pen.’

I can hear the music from Issie’s radio drift through the telephone line. I hear her scrabble around for a pen. I know where she’s looking. She’ll be starting in the telephone table drawer – futile. She’ll progress to the kitchen drawers, the jamjar on the windowsill and then behind the cushions on the settee. She’ll find a number of pens but none of them will work, the pencils will be blunt. For a scientist Issie is extremely disorganized. She’s back on the line.

‘Couldn’t find a pen. An odd earring that I’ve been looking for, a telephone number and a recipe but no pen.’

‘Try your handbag.’

‘Good idea.’ She leaves the line again and this time the hunt is successful.

Issie takes down the details of where and when we are going to meet and I put down the phone. I’m pleased to have averted the inevitable disaster of her arriving late because she’s lost or going to the wrong place and not arriving at all. My life is made up of a series of these small services which make other people’s lives more comfortable. If only people realized.

I turn back to Fi and the problem of an increasingly moral nation. I know this squeamishness is hypocrisy and I don’t expect it to be sustained, but it is an irritation.

‘You know what, Fi?’

‘What?’

‘This new morality that the British public have so inexplicably developed’ – I’m scornful – ‘may work to our advantage.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, as I predicted, they’ve fallen. One after another. We really are living in a faithless society. Fidelity, or the lack of it, knows no boundaries. Indiscriminately it rages and rocks the lives of anyone who dares to trust.’

‘But it is brilliant television,’ adds Fi, not getting my drift.

‘But somewhat depressing,’ I assert.

‘Well, yes, it is,’ she confirms. ‘In fact, we had a letter from a silkworm farm in Ireland today.’

‘Really?’ This trivia momentarily distracts me.

‘Yes. Apparently last year, this farm – I forget its name – won the Queen’s Award for Industry and some other shield thing for their exports. Apparently this year demand has dipped perceptibly.’

‘Honestly.’ I’m delighted. Fi doesn’t catch my drift.

‘I know, it is a huge responsibility, isn’t it?’

‘Responsibility bollocks, it’s a huge story.’ Sometimes Fi lets me down. ‘Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Whilst interviewing next week I want you to actively look for those you think have a chance of resisting.’

‘I thought you said people like that didn’t exist,’ protests Fi.

‘Prove me wrong.’ She looks nervous. I try to be helpful. ‘Pick the under-confident who don’t believe they are attractive to one individual, let alone two. Or pick those who are too driven by public recognition to risk public humiliation.’

‘What, like budding politicians?’

‘Yes, or Freemasons.’

‘You are a sensation! You are a fucking marvel.’

‘Thank you, Nigel.’

‘Where did you find them?’

‘Believe me, it took some doing.’

‘Your timing is immaculate. We’ve had six shows and just when there was a danger of infidelity becoming a foregone conclusion, you find a couple who resist.’

I smile at him. I’m trying not to look excited but to be honest I’m delighted too. We found a couple who although probably tempted were not stirred, so to speak. These people amazed me. They resisted not simply because the ex turned out to be a Clash bore or knew all the lyrics to every Duran Duran song, not just because they were worried about the chiffon and lace industry, not just because they feared being caught. But because they believed in it. Fidelity.

Loving.

Cherishing. They wanted to be exclusive lovers. For ever.

‘Suckers,’ I comment.

‘Still, it’s brilliant television,’ adds Fi.

This it is. It brings the house down. This is what people want to believe in. It tantalizes. I’ve made it a possibility again, the Happily Ever After. We plan to do a massive follow-up show. By paying for the most OTT wedding. We are investigating the possibility of getting Westminster Abbey. It’s short notice but providing there are no obscure foreign royalty or minor member of the aristocracy booked in I think we’ll pull it off. I’m going to give the public what they want.

‘Next week we can go back to the cheats.’

It’s late and it’s 24 December. I look up from my desk and note that there is no one else left in the office except the cleaner. I note that he is wearing a Santa hat and a red nose. The red nose is real. I close down my PC and decide to lock it away rather than take it home for Christmas. My phone rings.

‘Cas Perry, evening.’

‘Cas, you silly tart. What are you doing in the office on Christmas Eve?’

‘Hi, Josh,’ I sigh, too tired to tell him how pleased I am he’s called. ‘Just finishing off, actually.’

‘Good. We’re in the Goose and Crown. Come and join us.’

‘Who’s there?’

Josh names a number of our friends. I look at my watch. It’s 8.40 p.m. – not too late to join them. I can’t remember the last time I got pissed with genuine mates.

‘I’d love to. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Suddenly I am awash with Christmas cheer and so give the cleaner a bottle of malt whisky that some advertiser sent me. He’s disproportionately pleased. I received about a dozen similar gifts this Christmas and can’t relate to his excitement. I call the lift and experience the unusual sensation of being relieved to leave the building. It is a glass elevator not unlike the one that appears in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; it glides up and down in a graceful, effortless movement. As the lift takes me to the ground floor I mentally checklist the next show. This is the hundredth time I’ve done this – I know everything is fine but I do it anyway. It’s habit. The building is dark, only illuminated by fairy lights. I pass the meeting areas. One has a photocopier in it and is always empty. The other has a Mars bar dispenser and a coffee machine. The latter room is always heaving. It’s a good place to catch up on conversations about the male menopause. No one is there now. They’ve all gone home to start basting turkey or stuffing their wives. I pass a few words with the receptionist, which I do every Christmas. We comment on how quickly it’s come around again. This time, however, I mean it. I’ve been so busy that I’ve completely missed autumn. Which is a shame because, if I was pushed to comment, I’d say that autumn is my favourite season. I nod to the security guard and then head towards the huge glass rotating doors. I’m already imagining downing my first vodka and orange.