Unknown - Game Over

‘I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave it there. I’m taking my mother out for lunch,’ I smile apologetically. The interview has been more demanding than I expected. The journalist and I are playing a very sophisticated game. I know he likes me but he’s pretending not to; it’s a matter of professional pride. I’m pretending that I’m still trying to win him over, although I know he’s eating out of my hand.

He grimaces stiffly, trying to decide if I planned this interruption in the hope that he’ll mention my lunch date with Mum in his article. If I have planned it, he won’t mention it. If I haven’t, he will. It would, after all, provide a human angle, which is notably lacking. In truth, it’s a complete coincidence. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed if Mum wasn’t tyrannically anal about promptness and this journalist wasn’t stereotypical in his tardiness.

‘Just one or two more questions.’ I agree and smile a candy-coated smile. ‘You receive an enormous number of complaint letters about the nature of your lead show Sex with an Ex, from parents, teachers, local governments. Even the Church of England has condemned you—’

‘I’m agnostic,’ I smile my interruption.

He ignores it. ‘How do you feel about the charge that you are advocating adultery?’

‘Quite simply, I’m not. The ratings are just as high if the couple stay together. I see TV as a nationally authorized culture. I don’t force anyone to watch or to participate in the show.’ I parrot my answer, barely suppressing my yawn. It doesn’t sound as convincing, to me, as it used to. I hope it convinces him. I think of a new bit to add. ‘The British public is far too intelligent to be dictated to. Will you write that up as a direct quote?’ He nods shyly. I know he’s annoyed with himself for being acquiescent.

‘Finally, how do you feel about the label that you’re “the voice of your generation”?’

‘I haven’t heard that one before.’ I titter and twitter in a vain attempt to convince him that I’m harmless. ‘Truly? Off record?’ I don’t think I can maintain this syrupy exterior for another minute. It’s such a strain. He nods.

‘I’m not the voice of my generation because I’m far cleverer, far more compassionate and far crueller.’

He mulls over what I’ve just said. I suspect he regrets agreeing to keep that off record. It’s the best quote of the interview.

If only he knew what it meant.

I stand up, indicating that it’s time for him to go. Jaki ushers the journalist out of the office and brings my mum in.

‘I’m sorry, I’m running late.’ I blow her a kiss and my apology as I grab my jacket and handbag off the back of the chair.

‘Jaki, I’m taking Mum to lunch and then we are going to choose her outfit for the wedding. I’ll be out most of the afternoon.’

This isn’t a problem because I do such long hours I feel entitled to take an hour or two off. Other than my team, most TV6 employees don’t arrive until 11.00 a.m.; for many the real work doesn’t begin until after sobering up from lunch. ‘Keep checking my e-mail as I’m expecting an important decision from the executive committee, regarding the budgets for next year. I’ll keep my mobile on but don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Don’t put anyone through except for Darren.’

‘Darren?’ repeats Jaki astounded. About two thousand watts charge through me.

‘Did I say Darren? Oh, I meant Josh.’ I’m scarlet, so I delve into my handbag pretending to be looking for a tissue to blot my lipstick and I’m not even wearing lipstick.

‘Why did you say Darren?’ asks Jaki.

‘Oh, it must have been that journalist. He was asking the same kind of questions that that Darren bloke asked about the show. You know, did I feel responsible for the nation’s adultery? Do I feel guilty for being the catalyst of so much aggro?’

My hands have suddenly got a life of their own. They are scratching my nose, moving my hair behind my ear, itching my leg. They won’t stay steadily on my hips or by my sides. Jaki and Mum are both staring at me very closely. They were a lot alike, the journalist and er, thingy, Darren. They were both unrealistic, misguided, moralistic pricks. Sorry, Mum.’ I’m apologizing for using the word ‘prick’ before she demands that I do.

Sorry, Darren. Somewhere deep inside I feel treacherous.

‘Who’s Darren?’ asks Mum.

‘Nobody. Some guy who didn’t appear on my show.’

‘Sex on legs,’ says Jaki matter-of-factly.

‘Sorry dear?’ My mum’s pretending she doesn’t understand.

‘Very Jude Law, but kind of more dangerous, muckier,’ adds Jaki. My mother still looks bemused. ‘Very Rhett Butler,’ clarifies Jaki.

‘Oh, I see.’

My mother and I collapse gratefully into the chairs in the Selfridges restaurant. We are carrying heavy bags and light purses and therefore truly euphoric. It’s quite an achievement. We’ve managed to buy Mum an outfit for the wedding, which we both like. And the said purchase has been completed without either of us resorting to sulking, glowering, blackmail or tears. We are on a roll, so despite having already had lunch, we now order a traditional tea with scones and sandwiches. I won’t touch the cakes or cream, of course. Fanatical about my food before, now I’m going to be a bride, I am rabid. Still, Mum’s delighted and only worries about the extravagance for the briefest time. She does what she always does nowadays, whenever we are together: she delves into her bag and produces the How to Plan for Your Wedding book.

‘Have you spoken to your hairdresser?’

‘Yes. I’ve made two bookings. One so she can practise putting my hair up and then one for the wedding day. But I’m playing with the idea of getting my hair cut.’

‘Oh, not your lovely hair.’ Mum looks as though I’ve just suggested sacrificing vestal virgins to pagan gods.

‘I’m too old for such long hair. What do you think of a sharp bob or a Zoë Ball crop?’

Evidently not much because my mother simply ticks the box entitled ‘hairdresser’ and moves the conversation on.

‘Have you informed your bank and building society of your name change and ordered new business cards?’

‘I don’t think I’ll change my name.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, it’s one less job,’ I defend, concentrating on sipping my Earl Grey. My mother speaks a million words with her silences. Finally she moves down the list.

‘You have to choose the flowers.’

I instantly know this isn’t going to be as simple as picking out something fragrant and pretty.

‘I was thinking hydrangeas and—’

‘You can’t have hydrangeas.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re unlucky. They represent boastfulness and exposure.’

‘Well, which are the lucky ones?’

‘Roses are always good. They stand for love, innocence and thankfulness, depending on the colour. Or something delicate like heliotropes, which represent devotion and faithfulness, with a bit of lemon blossom. They stand for fidelity in love.’

‘It’s bollocks. What did you have?’

‘Lemon blossom.’

‘There’s my point.’

My mum looks away. And I know I’ve hurt her. I can’t quite say sorry.

‘Oh, OK, heliotrope and lemon blossom it is.’

She smiles, relieved, and I’m embarrassed at how easy it is to please her.

‘Have you thought about your honeymoon?’

‘I’m leaving it to Josh. Which probably isn’t all that wise, but it is traditional. Will you have a discreet word with him, Mum? So that he doesn’t book anything too active. Don’t let him book a trekking holiday to the North Pole or a canoeing safari. Beach and bars will suit me fine.’ My mother makes a note.