by Unknown
‘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.
‘Jocasta Perry.’ A voice slices across the tranquillity.
I don’t have a chance to reply or to establish where it’s coming from.
‘Do you know what it is like to feel humiliation? Betrayal? Do you understand the pain? I don’t suppose you do with breasts like those.’
The woman who is shouting at me is in her early thirties. She has presumably been sitting in reception waiting for me but I hadn’t noticed her until she’d called out. She has fine, highlighted, shoulder-length hair. It isn’t particularly styled. She’s a comfortable size twelve or fourteen. I don’t think I actively know her and yet she has a vaguely familiar face. She looks a lot like a lot of women. She walks across the foyer and is within a foot of me. She is pointing a plump finger at me: she’s so agitated she is actually shaking and as a result the strap of her handbag keeps slipping down her shoulder. Each time it does this she stops for a second and hitches the strap back on to her shoulder. Smart mac. Gucci bag. Where do I know this woman from?
‘The people who write the letters – do you know what motivates them? Have you the slightest idea?’ I look at the security guard and make it clear that I want him on standby. Whoever this woman is, she is obviously buoyed up by Christmas spirit(s). ‘I don’t suppose you do. You obviously love yourself so much you can’t love anyone else enough to be made vulnerable.’
As I can’t believe I know her, I consider it a near impossibility that she knows me. Even my best friends would be reticent to claim they know me. So what right does she have to draw such conclusions? Cast such aspersions?
Still, she’s right.
She isn’t shouting or threatening, but her powerful anger is obvious. She’s controlling the menace, but only to show me she can. I mentally run through my Filofax and index cards. Finally I place her.
‘I know you. It’s Libby, isn’t it?’ I hold out a hand for her to shake. Libby was on one of our early shows. She’d suspected her fiancé still had a thing for his ex. She’d been right. I remember Libby because she had had such lovely taste. I remember her showing me her wedding dress and the brides-maids’ dresses; they’d been exquisite. Yes, lovely taste, except in men, that is.
She nods curtly. ‘I was scared but I was with him. Now I’m scared and alone.’
I touch her arm. She smells of teenage perfume which reminds me of Fairy Liquid. I doubt this is Libby’s because of her impeccable taste. I suspect that she went for a quick one after work and with the combination of gin and Christmas songs on the jukebox she has become maudlin. I imagine her mates geeing her on to come and track me down to tackle me. One or two of her really good friends will have tried to stop her. On noting her determination they’ve done the next best thing – doused her in their perfume.
‘He’d have left anyhow,’ I comfort.
She starts to sob. ‘Would he? Would he?’
The receptionist gives her a cup of tea and the security guard leads her to the settee. She’s telling them h
ow lonely she is. I think she should be evicted from the building, but as it is Christmas I won’t report the lax approach of the receptionist or the guard. I head towards the door.
‘Merry Christmas, Libby,’ I shout. I pause, waiting for her to wish me a Happy New Year.
She doesn’t. Instead she grips my arm and asks, ‘Have you ever looked in the mirror and been disappointed with your reflection?’ I turn to face her and she meets my gaze. ‘Well, I loathe mine.’
7
It’s New Year’s Eve. I have two things to celebrate this evening. One, Christmas is over. I’ve watched The Sound of Music with my mum and I’m now Julie-Andrews-free for another year. And two, it’s not the millennium. That was hell. The horrible expectancy of it all. I started planning my millennium New Year’s Eve in February 1997, as I was terrified that I’d choose the wrong option for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I couldn’t decide. Cottage in the Cotswolds? Black tie in Vegas? Beach in Mauritius? There was just too much choice and every one of them with its advantages. It wasn’t simply a question of enjoying myself. I presumed that I’d manage to pull that off just about anywhere, but I soon came to realize that wherever I chose said something about me. Did I want to say Vegas or Cotswolds? Did I want glitz or serenity? In the end Josh, Issie and I had a posh dinner at Issie’s house. Josh cooked, I provided the champagne. Issie’s contribution, besides the venue, was that she managed not to have her heart broken. A first for a New Year’s Eve, at least in my memory. We then drunkenly walked up and down the River Thames, getting crushed by the crowds and watching the fireworks and the backs of several million revellers. It was great. Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s New Year’s Eve again. With all its hellish accessories. Not only does the thought of the little black dress ruin Christmas indulgence, but this year I’m not spending it with Issie and Josh. Issie is going to her parents’ party in Marlow and Josh is in Scotland with the family of his latest girlfriend.
On the up side, I am going to a glitzy industry party and if I’m not going to be with Issie and Josh, this is my second choice. Everyone who is anyone in TV will be at the Gloucester Hotel in Mayfair tonight. I have to be there. Especially this year, as I’m riding high. Perhaps the highest I’ve ever been. My show is the talk of the industry. I also consider that it is actually impossible not to score at these events. And I’m ready for it. Thinking about it, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry patch of late. There was Joe, in late August. And then the botched attempt with Ivor, which doesn’t count. I thrust these disconcerting thoughts aside, comforting myself with the fact that the combination of my current success, the fact that it is New Year’s Eve and the loose morals of those who work in the media industry mean I’m guaranteed great sex tonight. You can smell the testosterone as soon as you walk into the hotel foyer. I bristle. We have tried to disguise it with Calvin Klein perfume and aftershave, bow ties and posh frocks, but lust is tangible. A thick tension is staining the air. And although this may sound lairy, it’s not. It’s exciting. It’s fun. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.
Literally.
My targets fall into two categories: victim or sparring partner. I prefer the latter but hey, a time and a place. I see him by the time we sit down to dinner. He’s on the next table. He’s glittering in the candlelight. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. After a few discreet enquiries I discover that he has a long-term girlfriend but she’s not here tonight. The very best combination – challenging but not insurmountable. I want this to be a one-night thing and really I can’t be arsed to put in weeks of prep. Chances are he’ll be going through a rough patch. They always are. He’ll tell me that this is because his girlfriend doesn’t understand him. Of course the opposite is true.
The dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne. Bale is as pompous as hell, but at least I don’t get caught under the mistletoe with him, as Di does. Fi, Ricky and I have a huge giggle, spreading gossip, spiking drinks and strutting our stuff on the dance floor. I’m having so much fun that I almost forget that I plan to score. But as the clocks strike midnight and Fi and Ricky both disappear to snog their chosen boys, I look around for my target. Of course it’s not a coincidence that he is standing just a few feet away from me. He wasn’t oblivious to the smouldering glances I threw across the melon balls; nor was he averse to returning them.
I don’t kiss him on the dance floor because he does have a girlfriend. I can do without the gossip and uproar which would ensue after such an obvious display of our intentions. Instead I lean very closely in to him so that my lips are a fraction from his lobe. His hairs stand up and brush my lips. I move an almost indiscernible bit closer, letting my tit scrape against his arm. He trembles. My groin flinches.
‘Have you got a room?’ He nods. The atmosphere is damp with lust. ‘What number?’ He tells me immediately. I feel so powerful. ‘Walk to your room. Don’t walk too fast because I need to leave a respectable interval between you leaving and me following, but I don’t want to lose you.’ I give his arm a squeeze. We both understand. He nods a drunken nod, happy to follow my instructions to the letter.
I keep a safe distance and then I catch him up in his corridor. I’m quite tired so I don’t bother with anything too athletic against the wall, which I could have done to politely fill the embarrassing gap as he fumbles with the key, desperate to get it in the lock. I’m not sure if this is drink, nerves or excitement, but it doesn’t bode well. Eventually he opens the door. Unaccountably my mood changes. I think I’m bored by his inability. I’m no longer looking forward to this. Still, I’m here. He’s on a promise and I think it is dishonest to pull out at this stage. It wouldn’t be polite. I’m many things but a prick teaser isn’t one of them. I make the decision to get it over with as quickly as possible. I really am tired and it would have been wiser to have had an early night.
I shrug away his attempt to offer me something from the mini bar.
‘You go ahead.’
He pours himself a whisky. He then tries to light a cigarette but fails and spills the matches on the floor. He’s very nervous and I feel almost maternal. Is he too young for this? Am I too old? I take pity and decide to encourage him. Delicate thing, the male ego. I’ve often thought of those soapy bubbles that you make by blowing a lot of hot air through a little plastic device. Easy to inflate, easy to pop and easy to grow again.
‘Hey, tiger.’ I prize the whisky tumbler out of his hand and kiss him. Fine. Quite good really. But then, it is just kissing. He lunges for my zip and tugs at it. The dress is Versace and cost me nearly a thousand quid. I play a tactful manoeuvre where I shimmy out of it doing a little mini striptease. He loves it. And I save my dress. To be fair, he is trying – he just lacks subtlety. He’s kneading my breasts as though he’s trying to massage a muscle out of spasm. We are lying on the bed and suddenly his fingers are deep inside me. Better. OK one, two is fine. Jesus, I hope he knows fisting is just an expression.
‘Would you like me to go down on you?’ he asks. That’s novel – I’ve never been called upon to have an opinion before.
‘Would you like to?’ I ask, grinning.
‘Well, I don’t mind, if it’s really what you want. It’s not actually my favourite. But I’m happy to oblige if it will make you come.’ I guess this is sweet, in a way. But sweet is not sexy. I now seriously wonder if anything he can think of will make me come. Being called a prick teaser seems like an attractive option.
I disengage and go to the bathroom. When I emerge I’m wearing a towelling robe and I’ve cleaned my teeth. The vibes I’m giving off are Mary Ellen à la Walton family rather than Sue Ellen, Ewing family temptress.
‘Goodnight.’ I smile, pecking him on the cheek. I pull the dressing gown tightly around me, turn the light out and deliberately roll away from him. I don’t even care that he doesn’t seem too disappointed.
I scramble for my mobile, which slices through my dreamless sleep. It’s Issie.
‘Happy New Year! Where are you?’ Her voice is a unique b
lend of excitement, frustration, anger and concern.
‘In a hotel in’ – I scrabble around for the note pad next to the telephone – ‘Mayfair.’
‘Who with?’
I look at the empty bed. I feel the sheets next to me. They are still warm. They smell of male sweat. I can hear the shower running.
‘His name’s Ben.’ I hear her tut. I know the conclusion she has naturally drawn and I haven’t the energy to correct her diagnosis of events. Instead I confirm it. ‘It was New Year’s Eve. It was just physical.’
‘It’s always just physical. That’s the problem,’ she sighs. She doesn’t seem impressed. ‘You are heading for trouble. You’re on overdrive. You’ve been working too hard. When did you last go home?’
‘Not sure. What day is it?’
It turns out to be Sunday. I haven’t slept or bathed in my flat since Christmas morning and before that a week last Tuesday. I did stay at my mum’s on Boxing Day, but besides that I’ve been using the facilities at the gym and work.
‘You need a rest,’ says Issie. But she’s wrong – I thrive on activity. I’m at my creative best when I’m hyper. Ordinary people may need to rest after such intensive work periods but I’m strong. I’m fine.
I think I’m going to cry.
‘I’m so tired,’ I wail. ‘It was awful. In fact, I can’t remember when I last had good sex. I’m so tense. I’m going straight from here to my masseur. My neck is so tight I can barely move.’
‘You can’t go to your masseur, it’s New Year’s Day. They’ll be closed. Look, Josh’s called. He’s missing us. He’s on a flight back down here. I’m going to the airport to pick him up. I’ll swing by your flat first. Then we can all go for a walk, clear the hangovers.’
Thanks, Issie. What a darling.
It is so bloody cold that the stag that are, allegedly, in Richmond Park are nowhere to be seen.