Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  entirely non-sexual in their actions. Anyway, first I told him all about little Cuthbert and how worried I was for George and Melinda. He was quite wonderful about that actually, genuinely concerned and in fact he knew rather a surprising amount about the symptoms.

  ‘The majority of suspected cases turn out to be just that, suspected.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked into his chest.

  ‘I’m an actor,’ he replied. ‘It’s my job to know.’

  Well, even in my highly charged state this was a bit close to luvviedom for me and I think Carl felt the same because he quickly went on to explain.

  ‘I played a junior doctor in three episodes of

  Angels a few years back. Tiny part but that’s never an excuse for not doing the research.’

  He was stroking my hair now, just in a comforting way.

  ‘The symptoms in these cases are quite generalized and sometimes the real cause of the problem is never known, the baby just gets over it. Babies are very tough, you know, and very brave, even though they don’t look it.’

  I must say, he made me feel a lot better about things, although I still scarcely dared hope, but it was just so nice talking to him, such a change from Sam, which I know is a horrible thing to say but it’s how I felt. Anyway, I ended up telling him all about myself, even all my infertility fears. He was a really good listener, which is quite rare in an actor and really seemed concerned. Of course he came up with all the same old stories that everyone comes up with about friends and cousins who tried for years and then had ten, but somehow coming from him they seemed genuinely comforting.

  All right. Here we go.

  Long story short. I can’t put off writing it any longer. I admit it. I kissed him. Yes, I kissed him and it was fantastic. We were talking and talking and talking and then he brushed a tear from my eyelash and then he took my hand and suddenly we were kissing. And proper kissing, too, a genuinely fully charged tongue-twanging passionate clinch.

  Oh my God, I go weak to think of it.

  I suppose it went on for a minute or two (maybe three, no more). Just big kissing. He didn’t try to push his luck, which was damn lucky really. He did slowly clasp me more closely to him but not in a gropey way, although my (ahem) breast did end up pressing rather hard against his. I was braless today and in a soft cashmere poloneck and what with him just being in a cotton shirt I could really feel myself against him and him against me. Christ, my heart was pounding. He must have felt it like a bloody sledgehammer.

  Anyway, in the end I pulled away. Well, it really was either that or progress further, which would have been terrible! My God, what am I even thinking of? He was ever so good and nice about me wanting to stop (not that I

  did want to!). He just got up, kissed my forehead gently and said, ‘If ever you need someone to talk to, I’m one call away. One call’ Then he was gone.

  Well, work was out of the question after that, so I just staggered home and here I am, reflecting on it all. I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time. Of course I feel guilty but also I can’t deny I feel

  very exhilarated. But then I think of Cuthbert and my own infertility and feel completely wretched about being excited by a kiss. I do wish life was easier.

  It’s a little bit later now and I feel worse. I got to thinking about Sam, you see, and obviously started feeling guilty. Not just about the kiss but also about last night. He suggested writing a screenplay about an infertile couple and I absolutely exploded, which I’m not sure was quite fair. I mean I still hate the idea and if he ever did it I’d kill him, but I think I should have been more sympathetic to his point of view. After all, it’s been me that’s been pressing him to explore his emotions further and use his feelings in his work. I mean obviously I did not mean quite such specific emotions. Him exploiting our most private agonies for easy laughs and cheap emotional stings is out of the question, but I still think I should have been a bit more gentle in rejecting the idea.

  By the time he came home I was feeling very loyal to him, in need of his love and in need of showing him mine. I had resolved to demonstrate to him how much I care and to be much closer than I have been of late. Well, it didn’t work, of course. I tried to hold him and to hug him and to bond in both a physical and emotional sense but, surprise, surprise, he just gave me a peck on the cheek and went to his bloody study to brood about his career. If he wants to drive me into the arms of Heathcliff-style Byronic actors then he’s doing a good job.

  He didn’t even ask if I’d heard how Cuthbert was.

  Dear Sam,

  I got home and found Lucy all clingy and wanting to talk about the strengths in our relationship. Well I’m sorry but I just can’t do that stuff at the moment. I don’t think she realizes how much my life has been screwed up recently, or if she does realize she doesn’t care. As far as she’s concerned I’m there to offer either affection or sperm as and when she feels she needs it. My worries, my complete humiliation at work, the ignoble end to a career I’ve worked on since leaving university, she sees these things as selfish and unworthy obsessions. Stuff I ought immediately to thrust aside as unimportant when real stuff like our relationship or not having a child comes up.

  I mean, for God’s sake! The world doesn’t need any more babies!

  Millions and millions starve every year, millions more live in a misery of deprivation and abuse. Why don’t a few people start not having babies? Why don’t a few people start living their own lives, fulfilling their own destinies? That’s what I say. Being childless Lucy and I have a unique opportunity. We’re young(ish); we’re fit; we have a dual income (for now); we could be doing anything! Learn to fly a plane, walk to the source of the Andes, save the rainforests, get completely arseholed in the pub every night, anything. Yet all we do, all Lucy cares about is trying to have a baby.

  I suppose the truth is that I’m lying to myself because I want us to have one too. It may not be all I care about, but it’s what I care about most.

  Poor Lucy. She only wanted me to show her that I love her and my God I do love her. I love her and fancy her so much. That night on Primrose Hill was just magical, even though it didn’t work.

  It’s just that I’m not very expressive, I suppose.

  Bugger everything.

  Dear Penny,

  Melinda rang at seven o’clock this morning. It’s

  meningitis. They don’t know what it is but it’s definitely not meningitis. I’m so happy for her because it would have been almost unbearable. Cuthbert’s going to have to stay in for a while under observation but he’s really rallied and Melinda sounds like the entire universe has been removed from her shoulders.

  I told Sam and he said, ‘Oh great, that’s absolutely brilliant, I mean really wonderful news, fantastic,’ but after a minute he went back to looking at the media appointments section of the

  Guardian.

  Anyway, when I got to the office today Sheila said, ‘What’s happened to Sam? Have you been injecting him with monkey glands or something?’

  I had no idea what she was talking about but I soon found out. On my desk there were a dozen red roses and the card attached said, ‘You’re beautiful and I must have you.’

  That is honestly what it said. ‘You’re beautiful and I must have you.’

  I mean, it was there for all to see. No wonder Sheila presumed it must be Sam. I mean, for someone to leave a message like that, open, for all to see, he’s got to be pretty confident of his ground, hasn’t he? I must have gone a red so deep it would have been visible in Australia. Sheila spotted my confusion, of course.

  ‘Unless it isn’t from Sam,’ she said wickedly.

  ‘Oh no!’ I said, far too loudly. ‘They’re from Sam. We’ve had a row. I expect he’s trying to make up. How embarrassing.’

  I’m so angry I could…Well, I don’t know what I could do, but honestly! I mean all right, yes, I kissed Carl Phipps. In fact it could even possibly be suggested that I snogged him, which was very very
wrong of me, but that does not give him the right to start making public requests for intercourse, does it? Surely not? I mean I’m a married woman! What’s more, it’s the appalling arrogance. I mean the swine is so damn sure of himself. He’s so used to the amorous fantasies of stupid little fans that he just presumes he can get his leg over whoever he likes. It’s horrible.

  I mean yes, I admit it, I fancy him, he’s gorgeous. But this is too much. The moment Sheila went out for her cigarettes (she had four with her first cup of coffee, four, it’s quite incredible), I phoned him at home.

  ‘Yo,’ said his answerphone (yes, ‘Yo’, gruesome), ‘the Phipps man here. I’m either out, busy or too shagged out to pick up the phone. If it’s about work then you can call my people’ (my people! That’s us!), ‘on 0171, etc…Or if it’s about stuff in LA you could talk to Annie on 213, etc…If it’s about New York you could call William Morris on 212, etc…Otherwise, hey, do that message stuff after the beep thing.’

  Well, having sat through that, I’d had plenty of time to prepare myself.

  ‘Carl, it’s Lucy from the office. Just who the hell do you think you are? I think you’re horrible! Do you imagine I’m a slut? Do you think I’m some old slapper who you can just…just…knock off when you choose? Well, let me tell you that just because you’re quite good looking doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you, all right? I’m a married woman so you can just bloody well forget it! Oh, by the way we need an answer on that soap powder ad script we sent you. Goodbye!’

  I felt a lot better after that. Great news about Cuthbert.

  Dear Self,

  Now I really am hurt. I felt so mean this morning about everything that I sent some roses to Lucy at her office. I sent rather a saucy message too. I said she was beautiful and that I must have her. I thought she’d be pleased. I thought when I got home tonight she’d leap on me. But no, nothing. She didn’t mention it! She just carried on writing her book and when she’d finished that all she did was go on and on about how much she hates their new actor, Carl Phipps.

  I think she fancies him.

  Anyway, then I thought perhaps the flowers didn’t arrive, so I asked her if she’d had any surprises on her desk that morning.

  I swear she went white.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘What do you know about it? Who told you?

  Have you been talking to Sheila?’

  ‘I haven’t been talking to anyone,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to know if you got my red roses this morning.’

  Did I say that she went white before? Well, it must have only been pale because now she went white, she actually shook and clutched about herself for support. It’s this bloody baby business, she needs a rest.

  ‘The roses…you sent me?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, with the saucy note. Did you get them?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ and her voice sounded like that of a dying hamster, a hamster dying of a sore throat. ‘I got them.’

  Then she became almost hysterical.

  ‘Why?!’ she shouted. ‘Why did you send them?! My God, and that note! It was stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  Well, that was it. I walked out. I’m actually writing this in the pub. I mean, all the times she’s gone on about me not showing her any affection (‘Show me some affection,’ that’s all she ever seems to say, particularly when I’m trying to watch the telly) and now, now I try to do something sexy and romantic and she screams at me.

  I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to say this. I know I’m not supposed even to think it, but bloody women!

  Dear Penny,

  I want to DIE. I JUST want to DIE.

  Dear Sam,

  My first day in the new job today, which meant a ridiculously early 5 a.m. start. Lucy brought me a cup of tea which was very nice of her although frankly I’m not sure she’d been to sleep. She kissed me and thanked me properly for the flowers. She said she was sorry about last night and it was just the tension of everything what with the looming laparoscopy and all. I told her not to worry and I think that we put the atmosphere behind us, although I can’t say that things feel particularly close at the moment.

  My new office is located at Broadcasting House, which I like. It’s so old and truly BBC. It’s also in town rather than miles out west and very easy for me on the tube.

  My new job is awful. My principal responsibility seems to be the Radio 1 breakfast show. This is because what used to be primarily a pop show is now much more a light entertainment programme with a bit of music thrown in. They have a sensational new signing at the moment, a bloke called Charlie Stone, who is supposed to be the absolute last word in post- modern youth broadcasting, which means he cracks knob gags in places where knob gags were previously considered taboo, i.e. at seven-thirty in the morning on the nation’s number one radio show. He’s actually very good in a completely indefinable way, which is what star quality is, I suppose. He’s both hip and mainstream at the same time, which is a very tough trick to pull off. Of course he gets an enormous amount of complaints. Which I believe the Channel Controller finds very encouraging.

  The Controller’s name is Matt Crowley and I had been emailed to meet him at the studio to ‘check out’ Charlie’s show live.

  ‘He’s at the very cutting edge of post-modern zoo radio,’ my new controller assured me. ‘Satirical, confrontational, anti- establishment and subversive.’

  Which of course as always means knob gags.

  When I arrived Crowley was already there (bad start) and we stood together behind the glass wall watching Charlie and his posse entertain the waking nation. I joined him at the end of a song called ‘Sex My Sex’ from a singer called Brenda, who is incredibly pretty and is always appearing in her bra on the cover of Loaded.

  ‘All right,’ said Charlie, ‘that was another very sexy waxing from the very sexy Brenda. It made me want to reach for the knob…

  To turn up the volume, I mean! Teh, what are you lot like? And what a very sexy lady Brenda is, what a very very sexy and of course talented lady. She makes my tackle taut. How could she not? She makes my luggage leap, my stonker stand, my hand pump hard and she bucks up my old boy. Sorry if that sounds sexist, but I’m sworn to speak only the truth.’

  I was pretty astonished actually. It’s so long since I listened to Radio 1 I hadn’t realized how blokey it had got.

  ‘And speaking of sex,’ Charlie went on, ‘tell me, lovely listeners, when did you first feel sexy? I want to hear about your first bonk.

  Yes, I do, and we know you’re dying to tell. Did the earth move?

  Who ended up on the wet patch? Did you smoke afterwards or just gently steam? Think about it and give us a bell.’

  Matt turned to me with a pleased proprietorial look.

  ‘Brilliant, right?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I assured him.

  ‘So, here’s how it is, mate,’ Crowley continued. ‘I may be your controller, but he’s your boss, OK? The Breakfast Show is the station flagship. It’s his show and you work for him. He’s a radio genius and your job, your number-one occupation, is to stop him getting poached by Virgin or Capital.’

  Later on, alone in my new office, I made a decision.

  A big and terrible decision, a decision I never imagined myself making, a decision I hate myself for even thinking about. But I’ve done it now and deep down even though I know I’m wrong, I know I’m right.

  Dear Penny,

  I’ve taken the week off work. After the way I’ve shamed myself with Carl Phipps I may never leave the house again. I mean, what must he think of me? How must he feel? He kisses a girl, she kisses him back and the next thing he knows he’s being foully abused on his answerphone and told that the girl will not give him one when he hasn’t even asked her to in the first place! My God! Every time I think about it I want to kill myself.

  What am I to do? I’m bound to see him sooner or later. Perhaps I’ll give up my job. After all, now that Sam has been transferred to radio (Sam keeps saying ‘the shame of it
’ but I don’t see what’s so wrong with radio), the threat of our immediate financial ruin seems to have lifted somewhat. If I left the office I’d never have to see Carl again. I must say it’s tempting.

  Cuthbert is out of danger and home, by the way. Melinda brought him round and he projectile vomited all over me and an antique cushion cover. Melinda said that the doctors had warned that this might happen and I wasn’t to worry because Cuthbert was fine. A slightly insensitive thing to say, I thought, as I mopped up the bile. I mean us non-mothers do have lives too and we do care about our cushion covers. Still, I mustn’t be mean. Any mum who’s been through what Melinda has recently been through with Cuthbert is entitled to place him at the centre of the universe and exclude the needs and feelings of all other beings.

  Dear Traitor,

  Well, I’ve done it. If Lucy ever finds out, which in the end she must, I cannot bear to think what her reaction will be. But whatever the harvest, I’ve done it. I’ve pitched my idea about an infertility film to George and Trevor at the BBC. I know it’s terrible and madness and I’m putting at risk everything I hold dear but I am a writer. Writers write about themselves, all artists draw upon their own experiences and emotions. It’s part of the job.

  Reading this back, it all looks a bit like special pleading, but I think it’s fair. Lucy has no right to ban me from the source of my inspiration. It may be her story but it’s my story too. Anyway, I’ll change the names, for God’s sake.

  I spent all last night writing a synopsis. Lucy thought I was doing this book, which I felt pretty guilty about…except in a way I think I’m sort of doing what we originally intended, just in a different form. Anyway, I did it and I must say I thought it looked fantastic. If I was a commissioning editor I’d commission it. The maddening thing of course is that until a few days ago I was a commissioning editor.