by Unknown
Believe me, I know I’m blessed.
I wear my hair long, because it drives men wild. They look at me and see a sexy bitch or a nineteenth-century heroine, whichever is their bag. Strictly speaking, I think my personality would suit a razor-sharp, chin-length bob, but I work in television and ‘give them what they want’ is my war cry.
I ask his name and try to commit it to memory. I ask what he does, and he does something or other. It doesn’t matter. His prospects only matter to women who want a future. I notice he has very large feet and this is exciting. In my experience (wide and varied) the old adage is true. I constantly touch him. Little light touches on his arm and shoulder. I even pick off an imaginary piece of lint from his breast pocket. It always amazes me that men fall for this clichéd crap but they always do. I run my tongue around my lips, my teeth and the olive in his Martini. He is not vulnerable. He knows this routine. He’s played it himself on countless occasions. He’s a little bit taken aback that it’s being played to him but my audacity excites. He tries to regain control of at least the conversation and asks what I do for a living. I tell him that I’m a TV producer for the new terrestrial channel, TV6, and this, if we were in any doubt, clinches it.
My glamorous job has huge pulling power. My job is glamorous, especially in comparison to most people’s jobs. It is an affectation of those who work in TV to continually deny that the job is fun or alluring. It’s a way of neutralizing our guilt at the hideously high salaries we earn. It is undoubtedly more glamorous to sell TV airtime than baked beans at a leading supermarket. It is unquestionably more exciting to spot Des O’Connor in the lifts than Dave Jones from accounts. However, TV is also bloody hard work. I’ve been in the business for twelve years now. I started as a gofer on Wake Up Britain straight after Uni. The pay was a pittance but I was thrilled. I had a job in television. I spent most of my time in a state of perpetual fear. I had no responsibility so the level of misdemeanour that I could aspire to was putting sugar in someone’s coffee when they’d distinctly asked for saccharin. My most constant dread was that my clothes, hair, figure, accent, jokes were unacceptable. I spent all my money on the right clothes (black) and the right hairstyles (long, short, very short, long again, black, blonde, red, black again), happily reinventing myself until I could be myself. It was vital to me to do well. Not just well but best. No job was too small for me to accept it cheerfully. No ambition was too large for me to hold it greedily. I worked obscene hours, even working once on Christmas Day, which wasn’t really a hardship. Holidays bore me. It was worth it. I leapt ahead of my peers and by the time I was twenty-three I was chief researcher. I rushed through the ranks of associate producer and producer, and I reached the dizzy heights of executive producer the week before my thirtieth birthday. It’s who I am. It’s what I am.
‘That must be fascinating,’ Mr Tall, Dark, Handsome with Green Eyes comments.
‘It is. As we are now living in the digital age and there are hundreds of extra channels all fighting for the consumer mind share, it’s extremely tough.’ I don’t bother to tell him that besides the terrestrial channels, BBC 1 and 2, ITV, Channels 4 and 5 and TV6, there are 200 digital satellite channels, 500 digital cable channels and 70 digital terrestrial channels on offer, not to mention interactive television, the Internet and home shopping. Yet viewing time per capita has declined. The more we have to watch, the less often we tune in. So the challenge hasn’t let up; I’m constantly being asked to introduce more demanding or aggressive promotions, programmes or plans. I don’t bother to mention it because even Josh, my most devoted listener, glazes over when I give too much detail. I know I can be boring about my work but it means so much to me. I try to think of an entertaining star story. In the corridors of power I often bump into someone famous, especially those who are famous for being famous – they make themselves very available. I like them the least and admire them the most. It’s much harder than being famous for being talented. I know a story about has-been soap stars won’t interest.
‘I eat my sandwiches in the same canteen as Davina McCall.’ That gets him.
I wake up to birds screeching and a swarm of bees hovering threateningly above me. I fully expect to open my eyes and see a fan whirling from the ceiling. It takes me some seconds to understand that my pounding head is not because I’m on set in Apocalypse Now and Again but that the audibility of feathered friends is due to the fact that the windows of the country-house hotel bedroom are wide open. The night before it had been a good idea. I’d insisted on it. Naturally, as I am paying £170 a night (not on expenses), I wanted my money’s worth. Shortbread biscuits, mini bottles of shampoo, shower cap and fresh air.
The swarm of bees turns out to be a Lone Ranger. This is a relief. I survey the room. The debris suggests I had a really good time last night. I move my head a fraction; the hangover confirms it.
I concentrate on focusing: empty champagne bottle, empty mini bar, horizontal wardrobe and handsome stranger in my bed.
A result.
His name eludes me. This is not a disaster but it is an irritation. It seems rude, even by my standards, to ask a man to leave without addressing him on a first-name basis. Big boy, although an adequate term of endearment last night, seems faintly ridiculous in the harsh light of day. I’m saved from immediately confronting this dilemma as the phone rings.
Tring, trinnnnnng, tring, trinnnnnng. The tone is definitely getting more insistent. I feel around for the handset.
‘Cas?’
‘Issie.’ I pull myself on to my elbow. ‘You OK?’
‘No.’
I try to concentrate on her story. It starts well – scored with one of the ushers. But it gets muddled through her tears. Seemingly she had a passion session last night. Peppered with orgasms, blow jobs and him murmuring, ‘You are amazing.’ This morning she’d woken up to him trying to sneak out of her room. She’d asked for his number. He gave her one but it was made up. It was one digit too many.
‘He called me Zoë,’ she wails. It’s true Zoë isn’t generally the accepted shortening of Isabelle, however familiar the parties involved. ‘How could he forget my name?’
‘I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. What’s your room number?’ I want to stroke her hair, hunt a tissue from my handbag, blow her nose and pour a substantial G&T. I want to make her better. I hurriedly climb out of bed. Momentarily noting the slight strain in my groin. I turn and have a last wistful look at big boy. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of early morning naughtiness. But it is out of the question. Issie needs me. I don’t even have time to wash off the sperm and smell of rubber.
‘Hey big—’ I stop myself. ‘Hey.’ I shake him gently. He opens his eyes and tries to pull me back into bed.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asks with a lazy grin. I manoeuvre away from all his hands, pull a jumper on and throw his shirt at him.
‘My friend called. I’m going round to her room.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he offers.
‘No, that would be’ – I play with the idea of saying tedious and opt for the more polite approach – ‘too kind but unnecessary. She’s very upset; I might be gone all morning. All day.’
‘Should I leave you my card?’
‘Yes, great. Do that.’ I kiss him on his forehead and feel a bit like his mother. How young this guy looks in the daylight. Of course I have no intention of calling him, but I’d like to have his name. I keep immaculate mental records in these matters.
Issie opens the door; she’s wrapped in a sheet.
‘Oh Issie.’ I hug her. Fighting down the swell of irritation that washes over me when I see her tear-stained face. I’m annoyed at him for doing it to her. I’m annoyed at her for doing this to herself. ‘Have you called Josh?’
‘He’s incognito.’
‘Oh, makes sense. I saw him slope off with that woman in the huge navy hat.’
‘Which one?’ asks Issie. ‘There were a dozen navy hats.’
‘The Emu one.’
>
‘Oh.’ She grins, despite herself, and I think, not for the first time, that Issie is too nice to be treated like this.
I put on the mini kettle and throw the biscuits to her. She needs the sugar. She catches them with one hand and this simple gesture makes my heart swell with pride. It is so unfair. There is no way Issie would ever have managed to do something so cool in front of a guy she fancied. Women are always so much nicer, more composed and funnier when blokes aren’t around. Why can’t we be our best selves in front of them?
‘Did you have full sex?’ I ask, trying to establish the level of disappointment.
‘Yes.’ She sounds guilty.
‘Don’t sweat it, forget it. I’m not your mum.’ But I know she’s wracked with shame and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. She’s explained it often enough. I try to cheer her up. ‘I also had full sex and I’m not expecting to see him again either.’
‘But you don’t care. You have no feelings.’ Fair point. I shrug. I’m as hard as nails on the outside. Scratch the surface and I’m as hard as nails on the inside. Impenetrable. Well, emotionally impenetrable, not the other. Not frigid. Technically, I guess, for want of a more user-friendly term, I’m a slapper. I start to run her a bath. I’m overly generous with the bubble bath. Bubbles are so frivolous. They never fail to cheer me up.
‘Was it good sex?’ I shout above the running tap.
‘Not particularly – we hardly know each other.’
So why is she so upset? I walk back into the bedroom and start to drag her towards the bathroom.
‘What did I do wrong?’ she wails. I’ve heard this question so often that I have a stockpile of answers. ‘You did nothing wrong.’ ‘Men are simply incapable of more.’ Etc., etc. None of it helps. She still regularly has her heart stomped upon.
Whilst she’s in the bath I order room service. We require serious comfort food so I order a big, greasy fried breakfast (powerful medicine for hangovers and broken hopes), a pile of pastries and huge steaming mugs of hot chocolate. I quickly shower whilst Issie flicks through the Sunday papers. We eat breakfast lying on the massive bed, wrapped in luxurious, white towelling dressing gowns. I couldn’t be happier. To me this is a perfect Sunday morning. I know Issie would be happier if I were a man.
‘But why does it matter?’ I ask, genuinely confused. ‘You had your servicing and you don’t have to put up with the inane conversation this morning. Best of both worlds.’
Issie sighs. ‘What if the conversation wasn’t inane but stimulating?’
‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’
She sighs again, very deeply this time. I know I am trying her patience.
‘No, it’s not unlikely. Men are people, Cas, and they are capable of relationships.’
It’s not that I think men are any more awful or dishonest than women where such matters are concerned. That’s such an archaic view. But as soon as sex comes into the equation, integrity, candour and decency invariably make a swift exit. Someone is bound to get hurt. I simply prefer it if it’s not me. Or Issie. Or Josh.
I catch sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I can see what other people see, a five-foot-seven, size eight woman, with huge blue eyes and long dark hair. Sexy, cool, flawless. But it still surprises me that they can’t see what I can. The seven-year-old chubby tyke, left behind by her father. Not only was I not pretty enough to make my father stay, I actually suspected it was my fault he’d left. Had I been naughty? Was it something to do with digging up his vegetable plot with Josh? By the time I realized this wasn’t the case at all, and it was actually more to do with Miss Hudley – his buxom, blonde and willing secretary – it was too late. I’d spent a decade blaming myself. Rationale and reason were too tardy. The psychology isn’t difficult to figure out. Intense feelings of betrayal, blah, blah, blah. I have a complex about men not loving me enough to stay and about their general ability to be faithful. My defence is a life awash with cynicism, constraint and calculation. And it’s an extremely effective preclusion to pain. I hurt before I can be harmed. I dump before I’m damaged. I never get involved.
‘The mistake everyone makes is thinking sex and love are at all compatible. Why? No one imagines they are in love because they feel hungry or tired or cold. Why imagine you are if you feel randy?’
‘Oh, you are too clever for me.’ Issie evades my argument. She doesn’t think I’m clever, she thinks I’m cruel, but she’s too polite to say so.
I had planned to spend Sunday afternoon with my mother, and Issie decides to join me, as she can’t face a Sunday afternoon on her own. I’m pleased she’s joining me but frustrated that she thinks there is such a thing as ‘on your own’ when you live in a city with seven million inhabitants, dozens of museums, scores of galleries, hundreds of shops, and millions of bars and restaurants.
When we arrive at my mother’s, she is sitting in the garden reading a romantic novel. I pointedly put down the bag of improving books that I have brought for her. She thanks me, but I doubt she’ll swap the stolen glances and passionate embraces to learn more about the trials of the Irish during the potato famine. My mother is delighted to have both Issie and me to fuss over and immediately scuttles to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
Mum lives in a small, immaculate house in Cockfosters. The house is crammed full of furniture that she rescued from her marriage. My mother brought everything from our five-bedroom detached home and put it into her two-bedroom terraced house. The result is overpowering. It is impossible to walk through a room without banging your hip on a sideboard or stubbing your toe on a chair. In some rooms furniture is literally piled up on top of other bits of furniture. Chair on table, poof on chair. There are two beds in each bedroom, although no one ever stays. I wish she’d throw it all out. I wish she’d start again at Heal’s. The house is stuck in a time warp and so is Mum. When she married my father everyone commented that there was an amazing resemblance between her and Mary Quant. It was a very successful look at the time. She’s never been able to leave it behind. Over thirty-five years later she still wears her hair in a thick dark bob. She applies a home dye kit every three weeks. She wears her skirts too short and a ton of eyeliner. I find her look mildly embarrassing. Not simply because she’s unfashionable and being a trend leader is important to me, but because of what her look signifies. It is a very public statement that she has not been able to move on since my father left her. She’s never said so, but I know that she’s preserving herself in this way. She hopes that one day father will come home and the last twenty-six years will be magically erased. A modern-day Miss Haver-sham.
My mother is a tall, strong-looking woman. The height comes from her thighs, which are slightly longer than average. She’s kept her figure. The only concession to her age is that her tummy is gently rounding, comfortably protruding but certainly not huge. Her back is broad and her shoulders wide. Her body tells of capability. Her face is thin and she has high cheekbones. Her nose is narrow and straight, giving the impression that life’s discomforts slip from her without disturbing her. But her chin is pointy and juts out to catch all pain and atrocity. She has watery blue eyes that punctuate the solidness of her face. And because her eyes are the window to all her delight and disgust she often hides them behind dark glasses, even in the winter. I’ve inherited this from my mother. Whilst I don’t actually wear dark glasses I do see the world as a slightly shady place.
‘Did you get my message on Tuesday?’ Mum asks. I don’t say yes and that it made my day. I say yes but I’ve been too busy to call back. She nods.
‘How was the wedding?’ She knows all about my social life and what I do with myself on a daily basis. It’s a tactic to avoid living a life of her own.
‘Fluffy,’ I reply.
‘Beautiful.’ Issie smiles.
‘What a shame about the rain, especially as today is so beautiful. Isn’t that always the way?’
‘They must have expected rain or at least thought there was a fair p
robability. It is August, it is England.’ I don’t know why I do this. Behave badly. But I always do. My mother always brings out the worst in me. The moment I am in her presence I am incapable of being polite, let alone charming. I become petulant, sulky, churlish and unreasonable. My mother authorizes this appallingly childish behaviour by silently indulging me. The harder she tries to please, the meaner I become. I always leave her house ashamed of myself.
‘Ignore her,’ says Issie.
‘Oh, I do,’ giggles my mum.
‘You know how she hates weddings.’
I pretend to have an overwhelming interest in the yellow patches of grass on the lawn. My mother cuts me a piece of chocolate fudge cake. It was my favourite as a child. I consider telling her I’m dieting but it’s a lie. I’d only be doing it to be pathetic.
‘Did Josh enjoy the wedding?’
‘Seemed to,’ I mutter. I know where this conversation is leading. It’s leading where every conversation my mother ever has about Josh leads. She mistakenly labours under the belief that Josh and I would make a ‘lovely couple’. She insists on deliberately misconstruing his innocent acts of friendship as overtures. Her inference would irritate me, but I comfort myself with the thought that my mother knows absolutely nothing about the male psyche.
‘Didn’t he want to come for tea too?’
‘He was otherwise engaged.’ I haven’t the heart to elaborate – she looks crushed as it is. Rallying herself, my mother turns to Issie.
‘Issie, are you courting at the moment?’ asks Mum as she passes Issie a slice of cake. Issie and I avoid catching each other’s eye because although we are thirty-three years old we still think the word ‘courting’ is hysterical. Hearing it said out loud is enough to send us into peals of helpless giggles.
