Game Over

by Unknown

  There are a number of psychotics. People who said they’d rather see their partner dead than unfaithful. I believe them and pass their letters on to the police.

  We employ a team to trawl through the responses, but Fi and I can’t resist an occasional morbid dip into them. Although the letters are in many ways individual there is a commonality. There is a mustard ripeness of those desperate to confirm their own supremacy in their partner’s affections.

  ‘Do you think they’ll all look hideous?’

  ‘Why do you suppose that, Fi?’

  ‘Well, to be so desperate, so insecure?’

  I throw over to her a picture of one of the letter writers. The woman in question is thirty-two, slim, blonde, elegant. She has enclosed a CV detailing that she has a first from Cambridge and a Ph.D. from Harvard. Fi looks amazed. To shake her further, I pass a photo of the fiancé. He is smart and mediocre. Fi looks bewildered.

  ‘He is so ordinary.’

  ‘Yup, to you. But to her he is a god.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ She shakes her head wearily.

  ‘Nor do I, babe. Maybe it’s a London thing.’ I don’t believe this, but I think it might be a comfort. ‘Anyway, get her on the show.’

  The team is gathering around the mountain of letters, which appear to have a magnetic force. I take advantage of their presence, ‘OK, status. Have you seen the lawyers, Jaki?’

  ‘Yes. We have to be extremely careful, but the terms aren’t impossible. For those who know they are being filmed and are part of the set-up we can use any footage we like, as long as the punter is informed that the tape is running. “Informing” them can be as simple as posting a notice saying cameras are in operation, and to be super-safe, we must get the guests to sign this.’ She waves a weighty document, about the thickness of the Yellow Pages. ‘The fine print will bore the proverbials off most guests and they’ll sign. You can use CCTV footage as long as the local council agrees. I’m working on clearance. Those cameras are everywhere – shops, garages, on street lamps in dark alleys’ – I like the fact that she’s been thinking laterally – ‘libraries, public car parks, hotel foyers.’

  ‘I can’t imagine these public and commercial bodies will agree, though, will they?’ asks Fi.

  ‘As I say, I’m working on clearance but as long as all the correct legal documents are in place no one seems too squeamish about blowing the whistle. Restaurants and hotels see it as free publicity. However, taping the dupe is much more difficult. If someone doesn’t know they are being taped it’s illegal to show footage of them, unless they are committing a criminal act and it’s to help the course of justice.’

  ‘Oh,’ I sigh. This isn’t good news. The whole premiss of the show depends on catching these guys and gals red-handed, so to speak.

  Jaki continues. ‘The only way round it is to conceal their identity. Do it all through implication. So, for example, show stills of the dupe and current fiancé,’ fiancée, which the fiancé,’ fiancée will have released. Then show stills of the “tempting party” and then when filming the actual seduction scene we’ll have to be creative with those black banners that obscure identity or body parts. It will be clear whether the dupe has fallen or not, without having to actually say so.’

  I think about it. As the film will be shown for the first time in front of a live audience and all the parties, it will be impossible for the dupe to deny if he/she is the person committing infidelity. And even if they do, the guaranteed ensuing row will still make great TV. I can’t lose. ‘Sounds manageable. Anything else?’

  ‘In addition, you can’t show any actual lewd acts, even after the watershed. We must bleep out the C word, at a minimum, and other expletives if you want to avoid controversy.’

  ‘Which I don’t.’

  Jaki shrugs. ‘It’s your call. In summary Mr and Ms J. Bloggs have very few legal rights over their privacy.’

  ‘Fantastic. Document everything. Remember the golden rule.’

  Jaki nods. ‘Yes, I have it tattooed on my cranium, “Thou shalt cover thy arse.”

  ‘Precisely. OK, Ricky, what did the scheduler say?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual bollocks that their responsibility is to heighten the built-in tension between random luck and rules in a game structure – between the predictable and inconceivable, the controllable and the frenzy, which creates enjoyment, blah blah. Need I go on?’

  ‘No. What slot do we have?’

  ‘They offered us seven thirty on Saturday night, going out against Cilla.’

  ‘That’s stupid. Blind Date has been running for sixteen years. It still pulls in over seven million viewers. I’d never think of running a head-to-head.’ I pause. ‘Well, at least not until towards the end of the series. What else did they offer? It’s hardly as though we are flush with brilliant programmes.’

  ‘Monday at ten.’

  ‘Take it. Gray, how are the sponsorship and advertising deals coming along?’

  ‘Good. The advertising is all in place. The TV trailers are set up and we’ve optioned press and poster adverts – the exact placement will be confirmed a few weeks before the first show. As for sponsorship, we have a lead. A teenage retail store is interested in sponsoring the show. It would be a cash-and-barter deal. You know the type of thing: the guest would be obliged to wear their gear, etc. The creatives have come up with some suggested break-bumper ideas.’

  Gray cautiously puts the ideas on the table. It’s an unsubtle play on the words ‘top shaft’. The creative team annoy me on a number of counts. They are incapable of accepting a creative brief without whining that they are overworked, which is unlikely to be the case in a channel struggling to come up with programmes; they take long lunches; they switch off their mobiles; they never accept advice, use dictionaries or attend meetings. They proudly admit to reading the Sport and comment on the size of the tits of their female colleagues. And finally, worst of all, their ideas are puerile. Gray reads my face.

  ‘You think they’re puerile, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘It won’t work. The Independent Television Commission won’t touch it. And even if we could get it through, it says the wrong things about the show. Get Mark and Tom to come up with some more up-market directions.’

  I push open the pub door and am hit by the familiar and comforting smell of beer-soaked carpets, cigarette smoke, and salt and vinegar crisps. It’s mid-September and although the sun is weakly trying to battle with the autumnal winds I’m glad Josh has decided to sit inside rather than in the beer garden. I spot him immediately. He is sitting in the corner reading Private Eye, oblivious to the adoring looks he is attracting from the small gaggles of women office workers. I weave my way towards him and kiss him on the cheek. He puts down his reading matter and, grinning, points to the vodka and orange which is waiting for me.

  ‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses. ‘How did you know it was a vodka day?’ I normally drink gin and tonic except when I’m under extreme pressure at work, when I drink vodka and orange. I like to think the orange cordial will somehow compensate for the fact that I haven’t eaten a proper meal for days.

  ‘Well, since you started this Sex with an Ex project, neither Issie nor I have heard from you. I figured if you hadn’t had time to call us in ten days you wouldn’t have had time to eat either.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. Josh shrugs. I don’t have to say much more. I’m still reeling from the ticking off he gave me this morning when he finally got through to me at work. He’d made it quite clear that he was sick of talking to my answering machine. I’d insisted that given a choice, of course, I’d prefer to be drinking with him and Issie, but developing a new show monopolizes my time, whether I like it or not. Josh swept aside my objections and bullied me into coming out for a drink with him. To be honest I was grateful to concede. ‘Where’s Issie tonight?’

  ‘Yoga. She said she might join us later. So in the meantime you’ll just have to put up with me boring you with stories about court.’ />
  ‘Bore away.’ I grin, because Josh is anything but boring. He is a good storyteller. He practises criminal law and is always full of amusing anecdotes about his day-to-day dealings with the dregs of society. We chat about his work and his flat (he wants my advice on bathroom tiles and I agree to go shopping with him next Saturday); he tells me about his latest flirtation, which he doesn’t appear to be that enthusiastic about – although he assures me that she has stunning legs. The chat is comfortable and relaxed. I listen intently and whilst I’m bursting to talk about Sex with an Ex I resist. Josh knows me well enough to know I am practising extreme self-restraint and so finally allows me centre stage.

  ‘And what about you? How’s Sex with an Ex panning out?’

  This is what I’ve been waiting for. I know that I can discuss all aspects of the show with Josh without the reserve I have to employ when talking to anyone else. In the office it is of paramount importance that I appear confident and assured at all times. I can’t express any doubts or misgivings even about small things, like the colour of the set design. With Josh, on the other hand, I can bounce from extreme confidence to misgivings and back again in one easy move, without him thinking any the less of me. I sigh.

  ‘I don’t want this show to be tacky, but I am working against the odds. When we don’t have good ideas we have to employ amazingly expensive actors and construct lavish set designs – it’s an attempt to distract the viewer.’ I explain. ‘Sex with an Ex is a good idea so we are investing sweet FA in the production. I’ve seen the set – it shivers dangerously whenever anyone sneezes or shouts loudly. If only Bale would dig a little deeper into those pockets of his. I know they are not limitless, but they are fathoms deep.’

  ‘Is Bale being tight?’

  ‘He did, at least, agree to a warm-up act – you know, someone to keep the audience amused during the commercial break.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘Yes, the epitome of generosity. He suggested we pick up some act from Covent Garden and pay them thirty quid,’ I bite sarcastically.

  ‘Who are you getting as the presenter?’

  ‘Well, I wanted Zoë Ball, Yasmin Le Bon or Nigella Lawson, but Bale instructed me to go and get “some new totty” straight out of drama school. That way he won’t have to pay her more than a few grand for the series.’

  Josh laughs. ‘Typical Bale.’

  ‘Absolutely. Even so, I’m optimistic. After interviewing for ever we found the perfect presenter. She is busty, with short spiky hair and personality. She wears cropped tops and baggy trousers. She’s young.’ I don’t add that I see this as an advantage because she’s too young to feel particular about the tragedy bus she is if not driving certainly stamping tickets on.

  ‘Have you worked out the detail of the show’s structure?’

  ‘Yup. We advertised and were inundated with responses from the paranoid and jealous. We interview these individuals on tape. We draft in the threatening ex and interview them too. The motivation of the ex is usually revenge or desperation (if they were dumped), curiosity or vanity (if they were the dumpee). We then follow all parties (including the unsuspecting dupe) for a week, intercutting the preparations for the wedding and the possible betrayal. The key to the show is that we bring all the guests back and play the footage live. The unsuspecting dupe thinks they are going to be on Who Wants to be a Billionaire or something similar, right up until the moment they are on stage. It will be on stage that the letterwriter gets to either faint with relief or discover if their worst fears have been founded.’ I stop and check Josh’s reaction. He’s very pale and sweaty-looking. Perhaps he’s been drinking too much. ‘You do think it will work?’

  ‘Yes, sadly I think you’re on to a winner.’

  Pleased, I stand up to get the drinks. Issie calls Josh’s mobile to say that she’s not going to join us because she doesn’t fancy being in a pub after meditating. We stay until last orders and I have a great time.

  As I climb into a cab, Josh wishes me luck with the show and makes me renew my promise to help him shop for bathroom tiles. I nod, blow him a kiss and fall back on to the leather seat. My slightly inebriated state brings with it a sense of well-being and all is right with the world. I really should make more of an effort to see more of my friends.

  I find the interviews with the selected couples obscene and fascinating at once, and have insisted on conducting as many of them as possible myself.

  ‘So, Jenny, you wrote to us in response to the article you saw in Gas. Let’s run through the details of the letter, so you can confirm them for me and I can get them straight in my head.’ I laugh in a jolly oh-silly-me-I-find-it-so-hard-to-retain-information way. I find it gets them onside. ‘Do you mind?’

  Jenny shakes her head. The movement is exaggerated. She is trying to appear confident and assured. However, she is chainsmoking full strength Benson and Hedges, lighting another before the first stops smouldering – not the actions of a confident woman. Jenny is skinny but not the fashionably anorexic skinny that is prevalent in the studio. She’s skinny because she can’t afford to smoke and eat. We all have choices. According to my notes Jenny is twenty-three. She looks forty-five but then I suspect she was born looking forty-five. I suppose the advantage is she’ll still look forty-five when she’s sixty-five. Her face is pinched and reminds me of a balloon the day after the party, all shrivelled and twisted into a knot. She’s had a lifetime of poor school results, no chances and no splendour, which is why she’s here.

  ‘Jenny, you must be very excited by the chance to be on TV?’

  ‘Too right, yeah.’

  ‘And it’s been explained to you exactly how the show works?’ This is code speak for ‘You know the humiliation you are about to undergo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You wrote to me because you think there is a possibility that your fiancé, Brian Parkinson, is being unfaithful. Or at least he would be, given the chance.’ I tilt my head and quietly cluck.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you mention in your letter that you have your suspicions as to who the object of affection is.’

  ‘Too right, yeah. My best friend, Karen.’

  ‘Karen Thompson,’ I read from my notes. She nods again and swaps stub for fresh fag. ‘Can you give me a brief history?’

  ‘Brian was going with Karen when I met him.’

  ‘And that was when?’

  ‘I was seventeen.’

  The story is bleak. Brian has yo-yoed between Karen and Jenny for the past six years. It’s hard to understand what drives the change of allegiance. I think it is something to do with which of the two women is employed at the time and can supply money for his fags and booze. The only cheering thought for humanity is that the women have not allowed Brian’s indecision to come between them. More often than not, all three of them go to their local together. I’m not delicate but I wonder how any of them live, not knowing whom Brian will want to go home with on any given night.

  ‘She’d be better getting it on with Roy, Brian’s brother. After all, she’s my bridesmaid and Roy’s the best man. It’s traditional, ain’t it?’ She slaps my thigh and laughs. But the laugh is tinny and nervous. She stops suddenly and leans close into me. I know from Issie and a number of my other friends that she is about to indulge in a confession. In a more religious age she would be offering up prayers to Mary the virgin mother, saint of desperate cases.

  ‘I really wouldn’t like to lose him, darlin’. I love him. But if I’m going to lose him, it’d better be before the wedding.’

  I back away, disentangling myself from the woman’s cigarette fumes and her earnest stare.

  My interview with Karen is almost identical, except Karen is as fat as Jenny is skinny. Her arms wobble when she raises a glass of beer to her mouth. Her life has been one of steaming hot chips wrapped in newspaper and pastry cakes with custard. She’s wearing a flowered tent. I pull Fi to one side.

  ‘Fi, has she had her clothing allowance
?’ I ask horrified. There are some shows that encourage their guests to wear bright outfits, so that they look like fat sugared almonds. This isn’t supposed to be one of those.

  ‘Ya, but we couldn’t find anything in Harvey Nics to fit her,’ Fi whispers back.

  ‘Well, what about a high-street store?’

  ‘We couldn’t find a researcher who was prepared to go and find out.’

  I sigh and resign myself to the tent. I wonder how the colours will work against the backdrop of the set.

  Karen, the ‘other woman’, explains that she thinks she has as much right to Brian as Jenny has.

  ‘After all, I was with him first.’ But people aren’t like pieces of furniture or clothes; ‘I saw him first’ isn’t exactly a reason to lay claim to someone. I remind Karen that Brian must love Jenny, or else he wouldn’t have proposed. Karen corrects me and points out that it was Jenny who proposed and in fact she bought her own ring too. She admits that she is still sleeping with Brian. She shakes her tits at the camera: ‘He likes something to get hold of.’ I leave the room.

  ‘That is so depressing,’ comments Fi.

  ‘What is?’ I ask.

  ‘The way both of those women want the same man and by this time next week one of them will have been rejected. Don’t you think that’s awful?’

  ‘I think that’s the point of the show. Now, here’s the rest of the schedule. I want you to take a cameraman and stay with Jenny. Get lots of shots of her trying her wedding dress on, interviews with her mum, something to depict their financial struggle to put on the best wedding reception they can afford and a shot of her on her own, preferably in a church.’

  ‘So you are expecting Brian to choose Karen, then?’ asks Fi.