by Unknown
‘Of course he’s godly, Issie. He went to a posh school which had obligatory Mass. Look, I’ll discuss it with him.’
‘Well, if you are hoping for a July wedding you’d better discuss it pretty damn quickly. It’s April now. I take it you mean this July?’ She’s doodling hearts and bells on the corner of the list.
‘Yes, I mean this July.’
We move on and begin to draw up a list of costs. I’m somewhat perturbed to discover that tradition has it that the bride’s parents are supposed to pay for just about everything; the groom’s parents get off with the odd bunch of flowers and the rings. I doubt very much that my mother has had a secret trust fund that magically matures as I meet Prince Charming. I think her budgeting for my wedding would truly have been a leap of faith; I’d hardly indicated that I was marrying material. Unless I want to give my guests sausages on sticks and cheese and pineapple chunks, Josh and I will have to pay for the wedding. I hope that won’t offend anyone. People have been acting rather strangely recently. Indeed, if I’d had a pound for every time anyone had said the words ‘traditional’, ‘the done thing’ and ‘expected’, I’d be a millionaire. I’m surprised that these words have been showered on me with such frequency because I’d never heard them previously in my entire life.
‘OK, so what else needs to be included in this project plan?’ I ask.
‘No one could ever accuse you of being overly romantic, could they, Cas?’ grins Issie wryly.
‘I just want to be well organized.’
She shrugs and then reverts to the bridal magazine; I revert to the wine bottle.
‘Well, for the service, civil or church, you need wedding rings and a form of service. You need to select music and readings. You’ll have to consider cars, photographers and guest accommodation. There is a lot to think about. You’ll need a guest list, and an acceptance list, lists of menus, lists of drink, gift lists. There are caterers to consider. You need to book a photographer and videographer. If I were you I’d decline my dad’s kind offer to bring his cinecamera along. It’s older than I am. What type of reception do you want?’
There’s only one type, isn’t there? The after-ceremony type.’
Issie rolls her eyes. ‘Sit-down meal, buffet, melon balls and chicken or something a little less traditional, Asian, sushi, Italian, Mexican? What about your silverware, napkins, menu design, flowers? Are you going to invite children? And if so, you should consider their menu and an entertainer. What about the favours, the balloons, the seating plan? Round tables or square ? Who’s going to sit in the seat that is traditionally saved for the father of the bride? Will you have speeches? Will you make one?’ She finally draws to a halt.
‘Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?’ This is the question Issie has been waiting to be asked all her life.
‘Well, if it were me, I’d want it to be sit-down and with a seating plan. I wouldn’t try to mix oldies and youngies – because that only works in books. I’d allow the people with things in common to sit together. I’d want tuna carpaccio, followed by tempura fish with chilli salad and Parmesan polenta and then summer berries, which I’d have stacked in huge mounds as table centrepieces. I wouldn’t have a traditional cake but I’d have a bitter chocolate profiterole mound instead.’
I’m left stranded somewhere between horrified and admiring. When has Issie had time to think of all this? Then I remember she does this imaginary wedding thing instead of t’ai chi.
‘Er, sounds good. Let’s have that.’
‘You can’t have that! That’s what I’m having!’
I don’t point out that Issie isn’t even seeing anyone on a regular basis. It doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do.
‘Well, erm…’ I’m unsure what to say next. ‘I don’t really mind and I’m pretty sure Josh is relaxed about it too. Let’s ask my mum. She’ll love getting involved. Planning my wedding will cheer up her drab little life.’
‘I’m not sure she thinks it’s drab.’
‘Oh, come on, Issie, she must! Before she married she lived an exemplary life of purity and chastity – which can hardly be a barrel of laughs. Then she fell uncontrollably in love with her husband, he exited stage left and ever since she’s put her life on hold by refusing to get over him.’
‘Is that how you see it?’
‘Is there any other way?’ I’m already dialling my mother’s number, so I can’t be sure, but I think I hear Issie say something about three sins I’m clear of. I watch as she moves her finger down the magazine page as she reads, which I find quaint and touching. The finger stops and hesitates.
‘What about insurance?’ asks Issie.
‘Insurance? What will I need insurance for?’
‘Theft of pressies, damage to the dress, damage to the marquee.’
‘It’s a wedding, not a rave.’
‘The loss of deposits due to the cancellation of the wedding.’
We both pause.
‘Well, let’s get an estimate.’
My mother picks up the mantle. She works steadily throughout the summer and does a marvellous job of knocking the day into shape. Full of zeal, she organizes everything from the church to the caterers, tactfully asking Josh’s mum’s opinion every step of the way. The wedding has a profound effect on everyone. Josh’s mum has become more animated than I’ve ever seen her before, drinking less and smiling more. As I don’t have a father to do the traditional patriarchal stuff, Josh’s father happily adopts the role. He invites everyone he’s ever met to the wedding, talks about the ‘forthcoming happy event’ and, I swear, he’s even taken to swaggering. This would be infuriating behaviour except, a more happy consequence, he has decided that keeping a mistress is incongruous with his current self-image. For the time being at least, he has given up his philandering. Josh is delirious. Issie hasn’t actually voiced any objections. Everyone is as happy as pigs in mud. I’m relieved to be freed up from the hassle, as I can now turn back to concentrating on my work. With vengeance.
I have returned to my routine of five trips to the gym a week, cycling into the office by 8.30 a.m. and working through lunch. However, I don’t often stay late now because Mum organizes imperative meetings with the dressmaker/vicar/caterers/videographer/photographer/florist, etc., on a more or less continuous basis. But then I like to be busy. I exist in a huge waft of tissue paper and ribbons with a sprinkling of rose petals.
‘Someone has parked their bike in my space. Deal with it,’ I bark at Jaki. ‘Ricky, do you have the runs for last night’s shows? Di, Debs, have either of you seen the papers today? We are mentioned in the Guardian for our storyline in Teddington Crescent and in the Sun for the documentary on stars’ babies and in the Star for Sex with an Ex. Pretty good crop for one day, I’m sure you’ll agree. Get a response out to all three editors by 10 a.m.’
Jaki puts a double espresso on my desk.
‘What did you watch on TV last night?’ she asks.
‘No time, I was at a tiara fitting.’ We take a moment to smirk at each other.
‘Morning, darling,’ shouts Tom generally to no one in particular.
‘Afternoon,’ we chorus as it’s 8.45 a.m. Tom looks wounded – he’s probably never been in the office so early before.
The status meeting runs exactly to plan. Gray tells me that we have received two complaints from the ITC about offensive language, but, or indeed therefore, the ratings achieved for most of our shows are as expected. The entire team negotiates with him over the predicted ratings for next season’s schedule. As the advertising and sponsorship director, it is in his interest to put in ‘stretch predictions’. The rest of the team see this as setting unfeasible targets. I settle the matter by diplomatically choosing a number mid-distance between the two extremes. Ricky updates me on scheduling. I’m only half listening because I notice Debs isn’t listening at all but instead staring at her Screensaver of George Clooney. I’m irritated by her lack of commitment. I tune back in to Ricky.
‘… So net net
what they are suggesting is to push back Sex with an Ex. I’ll say OK, shall I?’ If he hadn’t closed his file quite so swiftly and tried to walk away faster than Road Runner, I mightn’t have noticed.
‘What did you say?’
Ricky sighs when he realizes he’s stuck with my undivided attention. He has no choice other than to tell me the full tale.
Ironically, because of the success of Sex with an Ex TV6 is a bit flush with cash, which we’ve invested in big box hit movies, a move that I’d sanctioned. Now the Strategy and Scheduling Department are suggesting we take on the other commercial channels by showing the blockbuster films at a time which will necessitate Sex with an Ex being pushed out of peak hour. Why didn’t I see that coming?
‘There’s not much we can do,’ shrugs Ricky apologetically. ‘Their case is watertight. The Sex with an Ex viewership has stabilized; we can pull more viewers in with an Arnie Schwarnie film. There’s more violence.’
He’s right. I sigh and nod.
‘OK. Say we agree.’
‘What, just like that?’ asks Fi, amazed. ‘Aren’t you even going to try to think of a way to make Sex with an Ex bigger?’
‘Look, Fi, you’ve got to learn which battles to fight. See the bigger picture. We are responsible for the channel, not individual shows.’
‘But the show was your idea.’
‘Fi, I have loads of ideas. Ten million viewers is an excellent achievement for a show of this nature. Far beyond anything we expected when we set out. Let’s not get greedy. We’ll pull in 12 million with the right films. And besides which, it’s not as if they are suggesting we ditch Sex with an Ex – we’re just moving it out of peak.’
‘Well, if it were my show I’d be fighting tooth and nail to keep it in peak,’ spits Fi, with far more passion than I’d ever seen her display before.
‘It’s not your show.’
As part of my self-protection campaign against Bale sidelining me, I have started to increase my own public profile. In interviews with the national press I make it clear that my personal contribution to the channel is colossal. I also make the most of my less cerebral attributes. I figure that Bale will be keener to keep me sweet if I am a public sweetheart. I’m mid-interview with a journalist from one of the big women’s glossies, when Jaki announces that my mother is in reception.
‘I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave it there. I’m taking my mother out for lunch,’ I smile apologetically. The interview has been more demanding than I expected. The journalist and I are playing a very sophisticated game. I know he likes me but he’s pretending not to; it’s a matter of professional pride. I’m pretending that I’m still trying to win him over, although I know he’s eating out of my hand.
He grimaces stiffly, trying to decide if I planned this interruption in the hope that he’ll mention my lunch date with Mum in his article. If I have planned it, he won’t mention it. If I haven’t, he will. It would, after all, provide a human angle, which is notably lacking. In truth, it’s a complete coincidence. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed if Mum wasn’t tyrannically anal about promptness and this journalist wasn’t stereotypical in his tardiness.
‘Just one or two more questions.’ I agree and smile a candy-coated smile. ‘You receive an enormous number of complaint letters about the nature of your lead show Sex with an Ex, from parents, teachers, local governments. Even the Church of England has condemned you—’
‘I’m agnostic,’ I smile my interruption.
He ignores it. ‘How do you feel about the charge that you are advocating adultery?’
‘Quite simply, I’m not. The ratings are just as high if the couple stay together. I see TV as a nationally authorized culture. I don’t force anyone to watch or to participate in the show.’ I parrot my answer, barely suppressing my yawn. It doesn’t sound as convincing, to me, as it used to. I hope it convinces him. I think of a new bit to add. ‘The British public is far too intelligent to be dictated to. Will you write that up as a direct quote?’ He nods shyly. I know he’s annoyed with himself for being acquiescent.
‘Finally, how do you feel about the label that you’re “the voice of your generation”?’
‘I haven’t heard that one before.’ I titter and twitter in a vain attempt to convince him that I’m harmless. ‘Truly? Off record?’ I don’t think I can maintain this syrupy exterior for another minute. It’s such a strain. He nods.
‘I’m not the voice of my generation because I’m far cleverer, far more compassionate and far crueller.’
He mulls over what I’ve just said. I suspect he regrets agreeing to keep that off record. It’s the best quote of the interview.
If only he knew what it meant.
I stand up, indicating that it’s time for him to go. Jaki ushers the journalist out of the office and brings my mum in.
‘I’m sorry, I’m running late.’ I blow her a kiss and my apology as I grab my jacket and handbag off the back of the chair.
‘Jaki, I’m taking Mum to lunch and then we are going to choose her outfit for the wedding. I’ll be out most of the afternoon.’
This isn’t a problem because I do such long hours I feel entitled to take an hour or two off. Other than my team, most TV6 employees don’t arrive until 11.00 a.m.; for many the real work doesn’t begin until after sobering up from lunch. ‘Keep checking my e-mail as I’m expecting an important decision from the executive committee, regarding the budgets for next year. I’ll keep my mobile on but don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Don’t put anyone through except for Darren.’
‘Darren?’ repeats Jaki astounded. About two thousand watts charge through me.
‘Did I say Darren? Oh, I meant Josh.’ I’m scarlet, so I delve into my handbag pretending to be looking for a tissue to blot my lipstick and I’m not even wearing lipstick.
‘Why did you say Darren?’ asks Jaki.
‘Oh, it must have been that journalist. He was asking the same kind of questions that that Darren bloke asked about the show. You know, did I feel responsible for the nation’s adultery? Do I feel guilty for being the catalyst of so much aggro?’
My hands have suddenly got a life of their own. They are scratching my nose, moving my hair behind my ear, itching my leg. They won’t stay steadily on my hips or by my sides. Jaki and Mum are both staring at me very closely. They were a lot alike, the journalist and er, thingy, Darren. They were both unrealistic, misguided, moralistic pricks. Sorry, Mum.’ I’m apologizing for using the word ‘prick’ before she demands that I do.
Sorry, Darren. Somewhere deep inside I feel treacherous.
‘Who’s Darren?’ asks Mum.
‘Nobody. Some guy who didn’t appear on my show.’
‘Sex on legs,’ says Jaki matter-of-factly.
‘Sorry dear?’ My mum’s pretending she doesn’t understand.
‘Very Jude Law, but kind of more dangerous, muckier,’ adds Jaki. My mother still looks bemused. ‘Very Rhett Butler,’ clarifies Jaki.
‘Oh, I see.’
My mother and I collapse gratefully into the chairs in the Selfridges restaurant. We are carrying heavy bags and light purses and therefore truly euphoric. It’s quite an achievement. We’ve managed to buy Mum an outfit for the wedding, which we both like. And the said purchase has been completed without either of us resorting to sulking, glowering, blackmail or tears. We are on a roll, so despite having already had lunch, we now order a traditional tea with scones and sandwiches. I won’t touch the cakes or cream, of course. Fanatical about my food before, now I’m going to be a bride, I am rabid. Still, Mum’s delighted and only worries about the extravagance for the briefest time. She does what she always does nowadays, whenever we are together: she delves into her bag and produces the How to Plan for Your Wedding book.
‘Have you spoken to your hairdresser?’
‘Yes. I’ve made two bookings. One so she can practise putting my hair up and then one for the wedding day. But I’m playing with the idea of getting my hair
cut.’
‘Oh, not your lovely hair.’ Mum looks as though I’ve just suggested sacrificing vestal virgins to pagan gods.
‘I’m too old for such long hair. What do you think of a sharp bob or a Zoë Ball crop?’
Evidently not much because my mother simply ticks the box entitled ‘hairdresser’ and moves the conversation on.
‘Have you informed your bank and building society of your name change and ordered new business cards?’
‘I don’t think I’ll change my name.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, it’s one less job,’ I defend, concentrating on sipping my Earl Grey. My mother speaks a million words with her silences. Finally she moves down the list.
‘You have to choose the flowers.’
I instantly know this isn’t going to be as simple as picking out something fragrant and pretty.
‘I was thinking hydrangeas and—’
‘You can’t have hydrangeas.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re unlucky. They represent boastfulness and exposure.’
‘Well, which are the lucky ones?’
‘Roses are always good. They stand for love, innocence and thankfulness, depending on the colour. Or something delicate like heliotropes, which represent devotion and faithfulness, with a bit of lemon blossom. They stand for fidelity in love.’
‘It’s bollocks. What did you have?’
‘Lemon blossom.’
‘There’s my point.’
My mum looks away. And I know I’ve hurt her. I can’t quite say sorry.
‘Oh, OK, heliotrope and lemon blossom it is.’
She smiles, relieved, and I’m embarrassed at how easy it is to please her.
‘Have you thought about your honeymoon?’
‘I’m leaving it to Josh. Which probably isn’t all that wise, but it is traditional. Will you have a discreet word with him, Mum? So that he doesn’t book anything too active. Don’t let him book a trekking holiday to the North Pole or a canoeing safari. Beach and bars will suit me fine.’ My mother makes a note.
