by Unknown
‘We’d pay for the wedding if it fell through.’
Josh looks at me as though I’ve just crawled out from under the rim of the loo. This surprises me.
‘What?’ I demand, hotly. ‘I’m saving taxes. Your hard-earned taxes.’ I think this will get him. Josh is in the 40 per cent bracket. He has private healthcare and went to public school, so my very reasonable argument that taxes aren’t just for the building and deconstruction of our roads but for the building and reconstruction of our healthcare and future has never washed with him. Now I’m grateful.
‘If these people married, they would sooner or later divorce, dragging their five children through the courts. The children would be emotionally scarred and, no doubt, perpetrate the scenario by re-enacting their parents’ failed marriages. The total legal aid costs could run into hundreds of thousands.’
‘Christ, Cas, you deserve a medal,’ bites Josh sarcastically.
I choose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’
I can hardly sleep with excitement. I fine-tune the details. I consider that perhaps it is too much to expect every couple, weeks away from marriage, to have cracks in their relationships, but I could advertise. I reason that no one is going to come forward and volunteer that they are feeling restless or randy. People lack such emotional honesty or self-awareness. I know – I’ve operated in the so-called adult world for sixteen sexually active years and I’ve yet to find anyone who is prepared to call a spade a shovel. But perhaps there is another way. Perhaps I could attack it from the other side. I’ve seen countless examples of paranoia, jealousy, insecurity and mistrust. Now that is an angle! Maybe I could advertise for people who doubt their partners and want to test them before they make that final commitment. Then all TV6 will have to do is manoeuvre a situation where the mistrusted party comes into contact with the threatening ex and then… And then! I hug myself. Obviously it depends on the mistrusted partner never having a clue that they are being tested. Total secrecy. But that shouldn’t be too hard to achieve. In my experience secrecy between couples is pretty commonplace. I know this is big. I can see it now. The reaction of the duped, the hypocrisy of the rogue partners. All on live TV. It is pure brilliance! It’s so cruel. It’s so honest. I can smell my success and it makes me feel sexy.
I switch on my bedside light and feel under my bed in an attempt to unearth my electronic diary. I hesitate. Problem with repeat performances is that they invariably lead to unnecessary complications. The guy involved thinking I really care, him thinking he does, or his wife finding out and thinking both of us do. Yet, needs must. I really can’t be bothered to get dressed and drag myself to my club to pick up something fresh. The diary beeps at me. Steven Arnold? No, I think he just got married. That would be awful timing. Keith Bevon? No, psycho, stalker tendencies. Phil Bryant? Didn’t he emigrate? George Crompton, or perhaps his brother Jack? Oh no, too late in the day for the complex sibling thing – ‘Why did you ring me rather than my brother?’ ‘Is mine bigger than his?’ Lord, it’s enough to bring on a headache. Miles Dodd? Good idea, not too clingy, not too involved – with me or anyone else. Prepared to hold back until I come. Yes, Miles will do nicely. Disappointingly his line is engaged. Well, at least it’s just his line. Joe Dorward. It takes me a moment to place him. Oh yes, the researcher on that pop quiz show on Channel 4. I met him at a workshop several months ago. I hadn’t found him sexy at first – good-looking, yes, but not clever enough to really turn me on. I figured I could run verbal rings around him, which is rarely attractive. However, after three or four glasses of champagne I was less fastidious. It had panned out quite well. As Josh says, it’s not verbal stimulation you want in bed. I call his number. He picks up.
‘Hey, Joe,’ I murmur.
I wake up and Joe is already up. I can hear him in the kitchen, whistling and fixing breakfast. He brings up a coffee and tells me that he’s been to the 7-11 to buy croissants, that they’ll be ready soon. I tell him I don’t eat breakfast and struggle to sit up.
‘Water?’
He rushes to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water. I’m so dehydrated that I ignore the fact that this glass of water has undoubtedly passed through five other bodies before me. Joe climbs back into bed and starts nibbling my shoulder. In the cold light of day I realize that first impressions are always right. He is dumb. Admittedly, he is extremely handsome and, I suppose, sexy, in an obvious sort of way. But how come I hadn’t noticed those puppy-dog eyes shining with devotion? That overloud laugh that erupts every time I say anything, even unfunny things like my name and that nodding bloody head that agrees with everything I say. It’s nauseating. He still smells good and, thinking about it objectively, he is a shag. But he’s so certainly besotted. I try to think of the things that could put him off me. Perhaps if I showed him my cellulite or my untrimmed bikini line he’d leave the flat (unlikely). Maybe if I insist on watching Oprah, or pick the pubes from between my teeth with my toenails. I can’t think of any antisocial behaviour that is antisocial enough to discourage him. I realize that the only way to get him to lose interest is to pretend to be in love with him. I doubt I have the energy. His large legs, erotic last night, look overwhelming today. I push him away, get out of bed, locate his trousers and throw them at him.
‘Get dressed. I’ve a big day today.’
‘Bale, I have the answer.’ I charge into his office, shooing his secretary away with a single, withering glance. I decline the seat and the cigar he offers. He really is a twat. However, he is my twat boss and I want to impress him.
‘I have the Idea.’
‘I’m all ears,’ he sneers. Actually, he does have jug ears but he’s all teeth, not all ears. I resist the jibe and start to tell him about my idea. Although I’ve stormed into his office at 10.50 a.m. to give the impression of an employee who knows her worth and won’t be bullied, I have actually been in the office since 8.15 a.m. rehearsing this meeting. I have perfected a pitch that guarantees punch but appears spontaneous, that is irresistible and, most of all, assured. Besides the presentation of the pitch, I have paid immaculate attention to the detail of the presentation of the person. I’m wearing a Dries Van Noten white cotton slip dress with heavy boots on bare legs. The look I’ve achieved is naïve charm, but the boots hint at something a whole lot tougher. I’m showing enough cleavage to secure his attention.
‘OK.’ I take a deep breath. The brief was to have a high-profile programme that will attract viewers, advertising budgets and the press.’ Bale nods cautiously. ‘You want notoriety on a shoestring,’ I add for clarity.
‘I never said notoriety.’
‘But you agree we need to be noticed.’ He nods. The nod is fractional. I know this is because if there is ever a debate with the executive committee regarding this programme, Bale will deny he gave consent. Sod him. I tell him my idea.
‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’ says Bale cautiously.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, the premiss you’re working from is that we need couples who are just about to skip towards the altar but are paranoid enough to think that their dearest is not 100 per cent kosher and he fancies a bit of pork with his ex-totty.’
The analogy is repulsive. Offensive to a number of religions, vegetarians and women, but yes, basically Nigel has it. I try to encourage him.
‘Look, I’ve done my research. There are 6.6 marriages per 1,000 population in the UK. Which is roughly 11,000 per week. It’s one of the highest marriage rates in the world, twenty-ninth highest, actually. But we also have one of the highest divorce rates too—’
‘Well, you can’t divorce unless you marry,’ says fucking Einstein. I smile icily.
‘The divorce rate is 3.2 per 1,000 population. Ninth highest in the world.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Do you know in how many cases the ex is cited in court? Thirty-seven per cent. There are countless rekindlings of old flames and remarriages to ex-partners eac
h year. The ex is so compelling. I give you Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, Fergie and Prince Andrew, Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson.’ Bale’s beginning to be interested. He knows a good idea when he sees one.
‘Isn’t that Melanie one with that Banderas one now?’
I sweep his objections away by ignoring them. ‘Bale, we can’t fail.’
‘Would there really be people who would do this?’
I can’t believe Bale is questioning whether there are enough exhibitionist/paranoid/jealous types in the world.
‘We are looking at a pilot series of six episodes. Two couples per episode. We only need twelve couples. We have the entire British population to choose from.’
Bale nods. ‘People are so hideous.’
He should know. I fake cordiality. ‘It makes good television. Think back to 1974, Paul Rogers’ documentary The Family. You know what I’m talking about?’ The show has superstar status in the history of TV. Everyone knows of it. It was the first fly-on-the-wall.
‘Oh, the one where Rogers sat, for months, with a camera in the front room of some family from the commuter belt? The marriage broke down as a consequence.’
‘Yes. I don’t think it was simply to do with Mr Wilkins’s dislike of audio equipment. It was because Mrs Wilkins admitted on national TV that her husband was not the father of her last child.’
‘That’s right.’ Bale is leering and chuckling at the same time. ‘Dirty bitch.’
‘But ask yourself why, Bale. Why would she divulge such a thing to the entire world? Maybe it was simply stress, but she invited that stress into her home. Why would she do that? Maybe she wanted to make the confession? Maybe she wanted to blow apart her sanitized semi? Or was it to guarantee that she didn’t pass from this world to the next without her Andy Warhol requisite fifteen minutes of fame?’
‘Or maybe she wanted to teach him a lesson?’ adds Bale. ‘Hurt him? Or beg his forgiveness in a forum too public to allow him to reject her?’
‘Exactly. We don’t know. There are myriad reasons that motivate people. Think of the radio wedding a few years back. People are prepared to trot down the aisle, with absolute strangers, to get their Warhol fifteen minutes. Although in the Birmingham couple’s case, it wasn’t so much fifteen minutes as seven and a half months, 185 minutes of TV air time, 207 minutes of radio airtime and 58 column inches in the press.’
Bale taps his pen on the desk. He’s getting excited. I go for closure.
‘There are countless fly-on-the-wall programmes about marriage: the run-up to the proposal, the wedding, the first year. I’ve heard that Channel 4 are developing a documentary on consummation.’ I’m making this up, but I want Bale’s budget. I am immoral most of the time and amoral where business is concerned. ‘I’m proposing a twist to a proven formula. The contributors are to be in the studio when the actions of all parties are exposed. The live audience is key. It’s overpowering. The thing about exes is that they never go away. Even those to whom you haven’t given a second thought in over a decade, whom you’ve never seen since you parted, are important. There is always a nagging curiosity about what happened to the one that got away, or the one you threw away.’
Bale, a true businessman, sees the potential. ‘You think it will work.’ He states this as a fact rather than as a question.
‘Yes,’ I enthuse. ‘I admit that it is dependent upon the credulity, stupidity and vanity of the British population.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It can’t fail.’
‘But if it gets as big, as you say it will, how will we keep attracting people on to the show?’
‘We’ll film enough shows for a series before we go live. We’ll have watertight release forms so that the guests can’t retract their permission. Bale, I’ll work out the detail. Don’t you worry.’ I’m desperate, so I gently pat his arm.
Bale nods. ‘OK, Cas. Go to finance and work out a budget.’
I want to punch the air. He senses it. ‘Hey, don’t get carried away. I’m not a millionaire.’
That’s another one of Bale’s relentless lies. But I don’t care. I’ve got a programme and it’s a winner!
4
‘Josh, hi, it’s me. Guess what? Bale went for it! The infidelity with an ex show.’
‘And I’m supposed to think that’s a good thing.’
‘Oh, come on, Josh.’ It’s not like him to be down on me. ‘I’m back on top.’
‘Which is where you most like to be.’ Josh laughs, despite himself.
‘Both literally and metaphorically,’ I add cheekily.
‘Are you flirting with me, Cas?’ Josh asks, but not seriously.
‘I’d be flirting if it was anyone but you,’ I assure him.
‘Cold comfort.’
‘We’re going to call it Sex with an Ex. What do you think?’
‘I’m trying not to think about it.’
I sigh, disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Look, I’ve got to ring off – there’s so much to do. I just wanted to tell you my good news. After all, you more or less gave me the idea.’
‘Oh, horrible thought. Bye now.’
I put the phone down and do my best to push Josh’s reserved response to the back of my mind. Instead I focus on the fact that Bale is as grateful as I could hope. He has offered to pay me a bonus related to the ratings we secure. I’m likely to make a killing. My success has duly subdued Fi and I have decided to be magnanimous. I don’t trust her, but practically speaking she is my assistant and I need her to be closely involved in this project – there is so much to do.
We start with the advert.
Are you about to get married? Do you trust your affianced 100 per cent? Is there an ex in his or her past who could still affect your future? Please write in complete confidentiality to P.O. Box…
Such a simple call to action.
‘Will it work?’ asks Fi.
‘If I know anything about human nature, this will work.’
‘Where should we place the ad?’
‘Initially in the sad, loser magazines, Gas and Gos.’ I throw a couple of mags over to her. I respect Fi enough not to expect her to be familiar with them. She picks up the mags and begins to flick through them.
‘My God, these are obscene. Don’t these people have any self-respect?’
I don’t look up from my budget sheets. ‘No.’
She starts to read the contents page. ‘“I Had Sex with 100 Men in Three Years”, “I had a Threesome with my Mate and his Girlfriend”, “The Crotchless Knickers are by the Booby Drops – Working in a Sex Shop”, “We’re Sex-perts – Women Who Really Rate Themselves in Bed”!’
‘It’s ideal,’ I interrupt. ‘The readers are willing to bare their souls and their bodies for a measly fiver and a couple of column inches on the letters page. These people are looking for platforms. They’re a gift. However, Fi, I don’t want to be another Jerry Springer. I don’t simply want the oddballs of this world. We are going to have to think of an extremely clever incentive to attract normal people.’
Fi groans. ‘But it will be easier to get horrid people on the show. They have no self-awareness and also they’ve had fewer opportunities.’
I glare at her. Easy (unless relating to my sexual morals) is not a word I like in my vocabulary. I know that the success of the show will lie in whether I can make the average viewer feel uncomfortable. There are zillions of fly-on-the-wall and chat show programmes where the guests are modern-day ghouls. Normally the viewer sits back, cushy on their chintz. They comment that the characters on talk shows are priceless, pure escapism. Chat shows do a public service: people watch and thank God that their own lives are better than these are. I want Sex with an Ex to be a different sort of show. I want cosy couples to stiffen in each other’s company. I want them to struggle for conversation in the ad break. I want them to move apart a fraction and doubt each other. This show is their lives, whatever class, age, race or religion they are.
‘So who do you want to attract?’
&nb
sp; ‘Joe and Joanne public. The people we trust. Policemen, nurses, librarians, teachers, the guys at Carphone Warehouse.’ Fi eyes me sceptically.
Eventually we agree to place the advert on the TV6 web page and the internal electronic noticeboard, to send a researcher to gyms and clubs to do some on-the-spot recruiting, and to place a telephone line after our Don’t Try This Alone programme. It does quite well on the early evening slot.
Any reservations Fi had regarding the number of volunteers we’d find are soon swept away. Within days of placing the adverts we are inundated with responses; they arrive by the sackful. The world, it appears, is full of those who are about to pledge love until death do them part but actually fear a much more secular separation. It was as I’d expected. They are the most depressing reads ever.
My girlfriend, Chrissie, is the sweetest, kindest, most loving woman I have ever known. I’m honoured that she accepted my proposal and agreed to he my wife. We are due to marry in four weeks’ time. We are having a big do, no expense spared. After all, you only do it once. We plan to have a large family and one day live by the sea. I love her and she loves me. She says so all the time.
Do you think she’d ever be unfaithful?
I only ask because my best mate reckons he saw her in a pub with an ex-boyfriend of hers. I’m sure it was innocent but when I asked her about it, she said he must have made a mistake…
I get married in seven weeks’ time. I love my fiancé so much and I’m sure that he loves me, pretty sure. But not absolutely certain. There was a girl he went to college with. She ditched him for an American rower. My best friend got very drunk at a dinner party last night and said some really mean things. She said that I caught him on the rebound, that he’s out of my league. I wonder-if he had the choice, would he choose me?
… I found letters, you see. Why would she keep his letters?
… When you marry you give up your past. You have to. I’m ready for it. But is he? He’s always been a bit of a one for the ladies. Nothing serious. He’s just a flirt. He can’t help himself. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It doesn’t bother me. Too much. It’s just that my mum says that men like him never change. It’s not that there is an individual ex that I’m threatened by. To be frank there are dozens…