Unknown - Game Over

‘Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?’ This is the question Issie has been waiting to be asked all her life.

‘Well, if it were me, I’d want it to be sit-down and with a seating plan. I wouldn’t try to mix oldies and youngies – because that only works in books. I’d allow the people with things in common to sit together. I’d want tuna carpaccio, followed by tempura fish with chilli salad and Parmesan polenta and then summer berries, which I’d have stacked in huge mounds as table centrepieces. I wouldn’t have a traditional cake but I’d have a bitter chocolate profiterole mound instead.’

I’m left stranded somewhere between horrified and admiring. When has Issie had time to think of all this? Then I remember she does this imaginary wedding thing instead of t’ai chi.

‘Er, sounds good. Let’s have that.’

‘You can’t have that! That’s what I’m having!’

I don’t point out that Issie isn’t even seeing anyone on a regular basis. It doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do.

‘Well, erm…’ I’m unsure what to say next. ‘I don’t really mind and I’m pretty sure Josh is relaxed about it too. Let’s ask my mum. She’ll love getting involved. Planning my wedding will cheer up her drab little life.’

‘I’m not sure she thinks it’s drab.’

‘Oh, come on, Issie, she must! Before she married she lived an exemplary life of purity and chastity – which can hardly be a barrel of laughs. Then she fell uncontrollably in love with her husband, he exited stage left and ever since she’s put her life on hold by refusing to get over him.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘Is there any other way?’ I’m already dialling my mother’s number, so I can’t be sure, but I think I hear Issie say something about three sins I’m clear of. I watch as she moves her finger down the magazine page as she reads, which I find quaint and touching. The finger stops and hesitates.

‘What about insurance?’ asks Issie.

‘Insurance? What will I need insurance for?’

‘Theft of pressies, damage to the dress, damage to the marquee.’

‘It’s a wedding, not a rave.’

‘The loss of deposits due to the cancellation of the wedding.’

We both pause.

‘Well, let’s get an estimate.’

My mother picks up the mantle. She works steadily throughout the summer and does a marvellous job of knocking the day into shape. Full of zeal, she organizes everything from the church to the caterers, tactfully asking Josh’s mum’s opinion every step of the way. The wedding has a profound effect on everyone. Josh’s mum has become more animated than I’ve ever seen her before, drinking less and smiling more. As I don’t have a father to do the traditional patriarchal stuff, Josh’s father happily adopts the role. He invites everyone he’s ever met to the wedding, talks about the ‘forthcoming happy event’ and, I swear, he’s even taken to swaggering. This would be infuriating behaviour except, a more happy consequence, he has decided that keeping a mistress is incongruous with his current self-image. For the time being at least, he has given up his philandering. Josh is delirious. Issie hasn’t actually voiced any objections. Everyone is as happy as pigs in mud. I’m relieved to be freed up from the hassle, as I can now turn back to concentrating on my work. With vengeance.

I have returned to my routine of five trips to the gym a week, cycling into the office by 8.30 a.m. and working through lunch. However, I don’t often stay late now because Mum organizes imperative meetings with the dressmaker/vicar/caterers/videographer/photographer/florist, etc., on a more or less continuous basis. But then I like to be busy. I exist in a huge waft of tissue paper and ribbons with a sprinkling of rose petals.

‘Someone has parked their bike in my space. Deal with it,’ I bark at Jaki. ‘Ricky, do you have the runs for last night’s shows? Di, Debs, have either of you seen the papers today? We are mentioned in the Guardian for our storyline in Teddington Crescent and in the Sun for the documentary on stars’ babies and in the Star for Sex with an Ex. Pretty good crop for one day, I’m sure you’ll agree. Get a response out to all three editors by 10 a.m.’

Jaki puts a double espresso on my desk.

‘What did you watch on TV last night?’ she asks.

‘No time, I was at a tiara fitting.’ We take a moment to smirk at each other.

‘Morning, darling,’ shouts Tom generally to no one in particular.

‘Afternoon,’ we chorus as it’s 8.45 a.m. Tom looks wounded – he’s probably never been in the office so early before.

The status meeting runs exactly to plan. Gray tells me that we have received two complaints from the ITC about offensive language, but, or indeed therefore, the ratings achieved for most of our shows are as expected. The entire team negotiates with him over the predicted ratings for next season’s schedule. As the advertising and sponsorship director, it is in his interest to put in ‘stretch predictions’. The rest of the team see this as setting unfeasible targets. I settle the matter by diplomatically choosing a number mid-distance between the two extremes. Ricky updates me on scheduling. I’m only half listening because I notice Debs isn’t listening at all but instead staring at her Screensaver of George Clooney. I’m irritated by her lack of commitment. I tune back in to Ricky.

‘… So net net what they are suggesting is to push back Sex with an Ex. I’ll say OK, shall I?’ If he hadn’t closed his file quite so swiftly and tried to walk away faster than Road Runner, I mightn’t have noticed.

‘What did you say?’

Ricky sighs when he realizes he’s stuck with my undivided attention. He has no choice other than to tell me the full tale.

Ironically, because of the success of Sex with an Ex TV6 is a bit flush with cash, which we’ve invested in big box hit movies, a move that I’d sanctioned. Now the Strategy and Scheduling Department are suggesting we take on the other commercial channels by showing the blockbuster films at a time which will necessitate Sex with an Ex being pushed out of peak hour. Why didn’t I see that coming?

‘There’s not much we can do,’ shrugs Ricky apologetically. ‘Their case is watertight. The Sex with an Ex viewership has stabilized; we can pull more viewers in with an Arnie Schwarnie film. There’s more violence.’

He’s right. I sigh and nod.

‘OK. Say we agree.’

‘What, just like that?’ asks Fi, amazed. ‘Aren’t you even going to try to think of a way to make Sex with an Ex bigger?’

‘Look, Fi, you’ve got to learn which battles to fight. See the bigger picture. We are responsible for the channel, not individual shows.’

‘But the show was your idea.’

‘Fi, I have loads of ideas. Ten million viewers is an excellent achievement for a show of this nature. Far beyond anything we expected when we set out. Let’s not get greedy. We’ll pull in 12 million with the right films. And besides which, it’s not as if they are suggesting we ditch Sex with an Ex – we’re just moving it out of peak.’

‘Well, if it were my show I’d be fighting tooth and nail to keep it in peak,’ spits Fi, with far more passion than I’d ever seen her display before.

‘It’s not your show.’

As part of my self-protection campaign against Bale sidelining me, I have started to increase my own public profile. In interviews with the national press I make it clear that my personal contribution to the channel is colossal. I also make the most of my less cerebral attributes. I figure that Bale will be keener to keep me sweet if I am a public sweetheart. I’m mid-interview with a journalist from one of the big women’s glossies, when Jaki announces that my mother is in reception.