The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy)

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  Why wasn’t he on a plane to New York yet?

  Those were questions he couldn’t really answer.

  He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

  A nice stuffed-crust Hawaiian pizza for the road, that’s what was needed. It was amazing how much better one felt after a massive infusion of cheese and dough.

  ‘I’ll check flight times after my snack,’ Peter promised the empty flat.

  It was 10:20 the next morning, and the meeting had begun 20 minutes earlier.

  The three executives from MNC and Henri sat in silence on the top floor of the corporation’s New York headquarters.

  Finally, after looking pointedly at his watch at least 40 times, Carson Abramson, Managing Director of Radio Programming, stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Prime, but we really need to get down to the studio. We’ve only got 60 minutes for the test show, and we can’t miss our slot.’

  ‘But we haven’t discussed the show, yet.’ Henri had her eyes locked on the glass doors to the office, willing them to open and reveal her errant and irresponsible brother.

  Death, Peter. Death.

  ‘As we said, we want something that will be addictive. Radio continues to lose listeners and what we want for a syndicated programme is something that is going to get listeners checking their clocks to make sure they don’t miss it.’

  One of his underlings, the Deputy Head of Programming for MNC, a bristling but attractive blonde called Eva Claire, snorted rudely. ‘At this rate, the presenters will miss it. Let alone the listeners.’

  The other exec, a fifty-something accountant named Barry Toire, noted that the advertisers they had lined up for the special show were going to be underwhelmed if the show didn’t go on.

  ‘It will,’ Henri told him. ‘I promise you, he will be–’

  ‘Here! Here I am.’ Peter breezed in to the room, larger than life. Which, given his six foot two, 80 kilo frame, was about the most accurate description one could give of him.

  Henri breathed a huge sigh of relief, and stared daggers at her brother.

  ‘Peter Prime, pleased to meet you.’ Peter pressed palms and chucked shoulders with an abandon usually reserved for lapdancers or his bookie.

  ‘Only ten minutes until you’re on air,’ Carson Abramson told him. ‘I hope you took on board the changes to the programme we discussed. After all, that Phony Phone Call segment was quite literally a killer.’

  Was he joking? As far as Henri knew, poor Hugh McMann had thankfully survived the heart attack Peter had induced by insinuating his wife was a prostitute. Hadn’t he?

  Peter and Henri glanced at each other. They had hardly discussed changes, because there had been so little time. Obviously, the phone call stuff was out.

  Carson kept talking. ‘After all, we can’t keep the rest of your current format, dull, dull, dull.’

  The suits clucked in agreement at the statement from Ms Claire.

  Henri was horrified. Can’t keep the current format? But that was all they had.

  Peter tried to fill the breach. ‘Absolutely. We’ve added more in-depth interviews, a great segment on the Atlantic divide, and there’s this Cockney lady from UK telly who does a hilarious bit about cleaning.’

  All standard stuff they wanted to incorporate into the UK show.

  Before it was axed.

  But the three executives stared at them in horror.

  Then Eva Claire began laughing. ‘Oh, he’s joking. That’s funny. Cleaning. For our twenty-something demographic!’

  The other two male execs joined in.

  ‘They still live at home,’ the accountant was hiccupping with the humor of it. ‘They couldn’t give a shit about cleaning.’

  Jeez, thought Henri. It’s not that funny, is it?

  ‘See.’ Abramson boasted. ‘I told you they were hilarious.’

  Henri and Peter looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘What the fuck are they on about?’ whispered Peter.

  ‘Not sure, but I have the sinking feeling that our great new show has just been slated.’

  ‘Well, let’s get this thing started, then.’ Carson Abramson held the lift as they filed in.

  As they were rushed down ten floors to the main radio broadcast studio, Peter and Henri realized that their great new life in America was in danger of derailing at the first crossroad.

  Settling in to the unfamiliar studio and letting some hapless guy chewing a huge wad of gum adjust their headsets and mics, the brother and sister act stared at each other.

  ‘We are so stuffed,’ Henri mouthed at Peter.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said, pressing the mute button so that they weren’t overheard.

  Henri did the same. ‘Your stupid ideas are what got us into this mess. That cleaner was your rubbish suggestion.’

  But her brother didn’t appear phased by the dramatic turn of events. ‘Trust me, sis, they are going to love us. All you have to do is pretend you’re not such an uptight prig. Think you can do that?’

  Before Henri could strangle her brother with the mic cord, the producer, who was also chewing a huge wad of gum, began counting them in.

  ‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’

  Henri pressed the mute button again. ‘Peter, what the hell have you got in mind? This isn’t the UK, you know? You can’t just ramble on like a lunatic and expect them to laugh.’

  ‘. . . five, four, three . . .’

  ‘I said trust me,’ Peter indicated that she should shut it, and then, in his best, Peter Prime, radio star voice, introduced them to their huge new audience.

  ‘Hey there, USA, we are the Primes, all the way from the UK, and we’ve got a new take on relationships for you, each and every morning here on MNC and its affiliates.’

  New take on relationships? He’s got to be joking, right? He was a male slut and she was a virgin. Neither of them was in any way qualified to present a show on relationships.

  Henri was still gawping in shock when Peter introduced her. ‘And here she is, your very own, twenty-something, agony sister – Henrietta Prime.’

  What? What did he call me?

  Chewy the Producer was waving frantically at Henri to begin talking. Silence was a grave sin on commercial radio.

  ‘Yes, hi there America, this is Henri Prime. Thanks to my brother for that delightful introduction, but why don’t we throw back to him for a full explanation of what you can expect from us from these wonderful studios here in Manhattan.’

  Peter scowled and gave her the finger, which had Chewy choking on his gum.

  Henri didn’t return the gesture.

  ‘Thank you Henri, so get this people, we are going to invite you to join a, um, er, dating show, that’s right, a dating show with a difference. Drum roll please . . .’

  Dating show? Was he mad? We don’t do relationships! Henri tried to mouth at him to shut up but Peter waved her away again.

  We don’t have a show, or an idea. Henri wanted to scream, but it would be pointless.

  Chewy the Producer mouthed the words ‘wanker’ as he tried to find the right sound effect. A moment later, a tinny drum roll sounded in their headphones.

  It was like Laurel and Hardy gone bonkers. Especially when Peter passed back to her.

  ‘Now, back over to my gorgeous, if a little sexually repressed sister, Henri, to tell you all about her idea.’

  Sexually repressed? Outside the booth the suits were laughing. At least they thought he was joking.

  Grinning like a lunatic, Peter held out his arms in a mock pass. Henri longed to take something sharp and gouge out a major organ, but there wasn’t time. She had to think.

  Meanwhile, there was dead silence.

  Suddenly, an idea popped into her head, based on some unrelated newspaper article on buying kettles she’d been reading the night before – Top 10 Best Brewers. Trawling her addled brain, Henri added a personal touch, care of her ex, and there was the nub of a radio show.

  ‘The Primes are
pleased to announce: Ten Reasons to Say I Don’t.’

  Peter almost fell off his chair. ‘Fucking A-star!’ he whispered, a huge inane grin sprouting on his comically round face.

  Henri couldn’t help but notice the reaction of the execs – they were standing directly in front of the booth, behind the soundproof glass – and they actually seemed impressed.

  Even if they, like Henri, had no idea what she was talking about.

  Unlike Henri, however, what they didn’t know was that Peter would fly with it. This whole charade was typical of her brother – off the cuff and destined for disaster. The solitary reason they were sitting here in Manhattan in the first place was their UK employers had not renewed their contract after Peter instigated a cruel joke on actor Hugh McMann that went horribly wrong, and the celebrity sued the network for a six figure sum. And won.

  That’s why this gig had to work out, because there was no way they could work in the UK again; at least not in the near future.

  And so far, Henri was fairly confident there was no way it could work out.

  Ten Reasons to Say I don’t?

  What on earth was she thinking?

  What the hell did that even mean?

  ‘I’ve got it from here,’ Peter boomed into his mic, still grinning maniacally.

  Idiot. What was he going to say now?

  Henri didn’t have to wait long to discover exactly what her brother had in mind.

  ‘So, my new U.S. pals, listen up, here’s the deal. Each day, one of you rings in with a relationship problem. Between us all – me, my sister Henri and all you wonderful listeners, we will try to come up with ten legitimate reasons why you should tell your partner to hit the road. If we get there, you agree to ditch the boy or girl live on radio!’

  What? Henri stared at him. It was like an anti-dating show. And it had the potential to become very, very nasty.

  The word lawsuit still gave Henri nightmares, and now Peter had virtually guaranteed they would be keeping half the lawyers in New York City busy on an ongoing basis.

  Slander, coming to you live from The Primes!

  Slating some poor sod who probably doesn’t put the toilet seat down – and then shaming him in a public dumping? Surely the execs weren’t going to go for this?

  But as Peter rattled on about all the sorts of people who should call in to complain, Henri watched the three suits in the producer’s booth beaming widely. There were so much white teeth on show that Henri had to hold up her hand to shield her eyes.

  They liked it.

  Peter had come through for them.

  Carson Abramson saw her looking and gave a merry thumbs-up.

  Unbelievably, against the odds, it appeared they might have won the contract.

  So far, so good.

  But give it a few days; a few lawsuits, and they would, as her grandfather used to say, be ‘smiling on the other side of their faces’.

  ‘Let’s try out the new concept, shall we Henri?’

  No! Let’s get legal down here to cover our arses.

  ‘Henri?’

  Henri sighed. If the suits aren’t stopping it, might as well continue. ‘Sure, Peter, do we have someone out there who is concerned about their relationship?’

  From the frantic actions inside the control booth, it was clear the switchboard had lit up. On a LCD screen in front of them, information began scrolling.

  Jessica Clark, Long Island, not sure whether to dump long term boyfriend Kyle.

  ‘Hi Jessica, you’re through to Henri and Peter on Ten Reasons to Say I Don’t, why don’t you tell us about Kyle.’

  ‘He won’t go down on me.’

  Shit. Henri and Peter stared at each other. Could she say that, did they have the usual five second delay? These were the questions Henri should have been asking whilst they were waiting for Peter. Unfortunately, she had bloody well forgotten to, and now the siblings were staring at each other in horror, wondering whether the job interview was about to go up in flames.

  Shrugging, Peter went on, asking carefully worded questions of Jessica whilst the callers queued with suggestions.

  The suits in the control booth were looking at each other in bewilderment too. They had assumed any trouble would be coming from Peter Prime, not the random callers.

  Even Peter seemed thrown. ‘Well, then, Jessica, that’s quite a problem. And let’s ask Henri to start with the first reason why you should say ‘I Don’t’.

  Gee, thanks, big brother! Peter was lucky Henri actually knew what the hell the girl was talking about. She’d certainly not had any direct experience of the act.

  ‘Well, the first reason would be that if he won’t do that for you when you are in the early stages of a relationship, it doesn’t bode well for the future.’

  ‘Well, Ms Prime, we have been together for ten years, and he used to. Now, he just won’t. Says it hurts his back.’

  Peter began laughing at Henri, and pointing at her accusingly. ‘Boy, sis, that’s score one for good old Kyle.’

  ‘Well, Jessica, perhaps you could confirm he doesn’t have a back problem?’ Henri tried to sound serious and professional, as she imagined a doctor might.

  ‘Well, he did break his back a year ago.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, we were doing it on a swing.’

  Now the execs and the Chewys in the booth in the front of her were in hysterics too. Henri had to admit, it was bloody ridiculous. Your boyfriend breaks his back and you ring up a radio programme to complain he can’t give you oral sex? Who was this person?

  ‘Why don’t we leave my sister and her rather pathetic attempts and go to a caller. Hi, I believe that’s George in Brooklyn, you’re on with the Primes. What reason do you have?’

  ‘You can’t fuck a cripple.’

  Noooo. Surely that wasn’t broadcast. It was daytime, for God’s sake.

  Henri tried to tone down the shock in her voice. ‘Now, now, George, that’s not nice.’

  ‘But it’s true.’

  Honestly! Henri looked over at Chewy, wondering if these people had ever heard of the damned delay. How many other foul things were the callers going to be allowed to say before someone stopped them?

  Instead, everyone in the studio totally fell apart. Anger building, Henri maintained enough composure to ask Jessica what she had thought of that suggestion.

  ‘You can,’ the girl said. ‘That’s not a reason.’

  And so it went on. An hour later, the ratings were the highest for that slot that the network had ever enjoyed, and in spite of the x-rated comments, or perhaps, because of them, there had never been such as positive response to a first appearance of any presenters in the history of MNC.

  ‘Told you I’d be okay,’ Peter told Henri, as they exited the booth to loud applause from the huge crowd that had gathering in the hallways outside the studio.

  ‘Well, you were certainly in your comfort zone. Porn and comedy, what more is there?’

  Peter chucked his sister’s cheek. ‘Nothing, little sis. That’s what. That idea was fucking brilliant.’

  ‘You didn’t have to make it about sex.’

  ‘I made it about relationships. What the hell was it going to be about? Kettles?’

  Well, actually . . .

  ‘Terrific guys. Just terrific. You really had your finger of the pulse of those kids out there.’ Carson Abramson hadn’t stopped grinning since he first heard the caller say the words ‘go down on’.

  ‘But what about the censors?’ Henri asked loudly, to whoever was listening.

  ‘We’re like HBO. A bit risqué. People expect it.’ Eva Claire looked as if she’d won the lottery. Perhaps she has shares in MNC, and foresaw a big, sex related dividend that year.

  ‘But what if everyone who calls in wants to talk about sex?’ Henri asked Peter quietly, when the back-slapping had momentarily subsided. ‘I’m going to look like a fool.’

  ‘Maybe you should give up on that religion thing and get fucking then. Af
ter all, it was you who said we have to make this work.’

  ‘I told you, it’s got nothing to do with religion. I just value my virginity, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Er, everything?’

  ‘Promise you’ll tone it down.’

  ‘Down below the belt, you mean?’

  ‘Peter!’

  ‘We don’t want to bore the audience to death with proper problems, do we? Who wants to listen to that?’

  As usual, Peter was joking.

  At least, Henri hoped he was.

  Because there was no way she was doing some sort of porno radio show. Nor was she having it off with just anyone in the name of show business. In fact, what Henri really needed was a nice glass of Pinot. Thankfully, there was nothing in her home-made belief system that forbid slugging back a few nice glasses of her favorite alcoholic beverage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RODNEY CALLED, PRESUMABLY TO TRY to apologize again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pick that up?’ Peter asked, as he heaped sausages, eggs and bacon onto his breakfast plate. The suite at a small boutique hotel on the Upper West Side, just around the corner from the studios, was part of the deal they had struck immediately after the show. When Peter had suggested they might need separate suites, the network reminded him that the $1 million deal they had signed should be enough for the Primes to subsidize their own accommodation. ‘After the huge response to our brilliant first show, they should be showering us with apartments,’ Peter had said as they checked in last night.