by Jane Moore
"Busy are we?" he whines sarcastically.
"We got it right the first time," I counteract, smiling sweetly.
"Oooh, get you." He noisily scrapes back a chair and sits to my right, a look of sheer hopelessness on his face. "I hope you've booked a plastic surgeon, because fuck knows she needs one. What a Picasso arse."
Clearly baffled by such verbal eloquence, Tab looks at me for an explanation.
"It means her bum is too big, her knickers too small, and the overall effect is that she has four buttocks," I say matter-of-factly, translating one of Kevin's many inimitable phrases.
"Oh." Tab looks mildly uncomfortable, obviously casting her mind back to that morning's choice of underwear and wondering whether she too fits this description.
"There must be something we can do," I muse.
"We"means Kevin, the makeup artist Trudi Pearson, and the program's fashion editor, Camilla Safford, a woman so dense that if brains were taxed she'd get a rebate. But when it comes to slimming down trucker-style arms with a wispy piece of sheer lace or frill, she's a towering genius.
My role is simply to sift through all the letters requesting makeovers, find one with an interesting story, and book her--or, occasionally, him--taking care of them along the way. The general idea is to think televisually and choose one who would benefit from some expert guidance.
"You must have been having one of your Stevie Wonder days when you pulled this one out of the hat," says Kevin, stirring his Slimline Latte vigorously.
"Come on now," I say soothingly. "Think silk purse."
He purses his lips. "Love, we're not just talking sow's ear here. She's got the snout and trotters too."
I sigh. "Last week you castigated me for choosing one that was too pretty. You said it was easier to make a dramatic transformation with someone a little more moose-like, to use your exact words."
Kevin runs a hand through his blond highlighted hair, accentuating the little Tin Tin quiff at the front. "True, but now we have the other extreme, and I have Gollum waiting in my chair upstairs. Cut me some slack, will you? In the future, choose one of the other twenty million women in the country that I can work with."
Standing up, he grabs his latte, pokes his tongue out at me, smiles at Tab, and minces back towards the exit in his bright pink trainers.
"Gosh." Tab looks taken aback. "Is he always that high maintenance?" In her department of cookery and gardening items, the worst she has to deal with is the wandering hands of an overly lecherous expert on herbaceous borders who comes in from time to time.
I nod. "Most of the time. But there's never a dull moment, and I much prefer that to having to while away the hours with nondescripts."
"Maybe." She shrugs, staring into the middle distance.
"You OK?" Amid the Kevin whirlwind of the past few minutes, I noticed Tab had seemed a little distracted.
"Not really." She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. "I got my period this morning."
I look at her blankly for a couple of beats, knowing her desperation for a child, but wondering why the arrival of this period should be any more devastating than any of the others.
She registers my incomprehension. "Which means the IVF has failed."
I instinctively clasp my hand over my mouth, horrified by my own thoughtlessness. "Tab, I'm so sorry." I feel a total, self-obsessed heel. "You poor thing. What awful, terrible luck."
It was Tab and Will's first attempt at IVF, and even before knowing the outcome, they had been to hell and back, enduring the effects of her hormone injections and the uncomfortable egg-harvesting procedure. Not to mention the $5,000 cost they could ill afford.
"Don't they say that the second attempt is usually the most successful?" I say, dredging back through my memory to some IVF slot we'd run on the show months earlier.
"I don't know." Her voice is small and there are tears in her eyes. "But I do know it'll be a while before we're able to afford it."
We lapse into silence for a few seconds, then I clear my throat. "I wish I could lend you the money, but I'm broke," I say, rather pointlessly.
She smiles weakly. "Thanks, but don't worry. Will's parents have already offered, but we want to pay for it ourselves rather than build up huge debts."
Silence again. Then she leans forward, an urgent look on her face.
"Jess, what if I can never have children? What will I do?"
I'm rather floored by the question, so opt for the get-out clause. "It won't come to that." I shake my head. "No way. You'll have children, I can feel it in my bones."
"Do you really think so?" She visibly cheers up at my psychic nonsense, and it suddenly strikes me how quacks and cowboys easily make so much money exploiting desperate people at such a vulnerable time of their lives. Want to get pregnant, ma'am? Just pay us several hundred dollars for this course of "miraculous" powders and potions. Women in Outer Mongolia swear by them and they're having babies all the time.
The irony is that, over the years, Tab and I have had endless discussions about contraception, worrying about the threat of unwanted pregnancy. Once, several years ago and with a previous boyfriend, Tab even thought she was pregnant. It turned out to be a false alarm, but not before she'd spent a week agonizing about it. Now, here she was, desperate to conceive and nothing was happening.
"When did you get your period?"
"Here, this morning." She looks pale with disappointment. "Just after the morning meeting."
"Have you told Will?"
She shakes her head. "Not yet. He's in a meeting himself until ten. I'll wait until later. He'll be so disappointed." A tear falls silently down her cheek and plops into her tea.
I lean across the table and squeeze her forearm. "Don't cry, sweetie. Everything will be fine, you'll see."
She brushes the moisture from her cheek. "If it turns out that I can't have children . . ." Her eyes are huge and inquiring. ". . . do you think Will would leave me?"
I scoff loudly. "Don't be ridiculous, of course not. He adores you."
"I know, I know." She nods. "But if I can't give him what he so desperately wants . . ."
"Tab." My stern tone surprises even me. "Stop being so negative, that won't help your mind-set at all. You've had bad luck with the first try, and even then there are a million other options after that, including egg donors or even adoption. Believe me, you will be a mother, so start thinking positively."
"You're right." She looks sheepish. "There are so many other people worse off than me. I should stop being so self-obsessed."
I didn't actually mean it like that, but as she's looking a bit happier, I decide to leave things the way they are.
When I first met Tab through a friend of a friend, we were both keen to break into television in some behind-the-scenes capacity. We had a lot in common in other ways too, so when my particularly loathsome South African flatmate buggered off back home--leaving me with a $600 phone bill to clear--Tab moved seamlessly into the empty room.
By day, we wrote endless amounts of application letters to TV companies, by night we either stayed in watching and eating crap, or went to the local wine bar in search of any Mr. Will-do-for-nows.
Eventually, Tab landed herself a research job with Granada Television, working on the daytime talk show What's Your Problem? It was a fantastic opportunity, with one drawback--it was based in Norwich. That was the end of "the Dangerous Sisters," as my father affectionately referred to us, and I was looking for a new flatmate.
Naturally, we stayed in regular touch, more so when I landed a research job on a local news program and we'd exchanged letters packed with industry gossip. Four years later, Tab transferred back to London when the all-powerful host of What's Your Problem? was unearthed as having a raging affair with a Granada executive and moved the show to London to be closer to her.
By that time, I had scraped together enough money to buy a one-bedroom, top-floor flat in Tooting, so she crashed on my floor for about three months, then rented a place of her
own.
We resumed our wine bar crusades, but this time Tab had a different agenda. She didn't quite hand any potential suitors a questionnaire, but she may as well have done. During every first date, she would throw in the question "Do you want to have children?"
Sure, she'd try to make it sound as casual and spontaneous as possible, but of course the men would balk instantly, most visibly paling, some even spluttering their drink.
In their minds, she had suddenly transformed from this amiable girl they'd met in a wine bar into a wild-eyed bunny boiler who would have them choosing kitchen units before they could say "commitment-phobe." Needless to say, they'd never call again.
"Maybe you should refrain from asking about children until you've been on a few dates . . ." I suggested during a lunch we shared the day after one date had made his excuses and left less than ten minutes after the big procreation question.
Tab wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "I don't see why I should waste even a few hours of my time on someone who doesn't have the same objectives in life that I do," she said firmly. "If he's not man enough to deal with such an obvious, sensible inquiry, and see it for what it is, then I'm not interested."
And then along came Will. True to form, she asked him the killer question on their first date, and he answered: "Oh yes, I want children more than anything else in the world."
And, pow, that was it. Within weeks, Tab was telling anyone who'd listen that he was "the one."
My view of Will now is exactly the same as when I first met him. He's an affable, rugby-player type whose social uniform is a Hackett shirt with the collar turned up, faded cords, and battered deck shoes--as befits him and all the other real estate agents based in Fulham.
Despite an expensive public school education, he isn't terribly bright, and I've always felt he wasn't interesting enough to be with Tab. But I've never doubted his unswerving loyalty to her and she, in turn, seems happy with him. So who the hell am I to question their relationship?
The canteen has suddenly emptied and I look up at the clock. It's 10 a.m.
"Shit!" I jump to my feet. "We're on air in an hour and I've got Gollum waiting to be transformed upstairs. I'd better go check on the progress."
Tab stays where she is. "I'm just going to sit here for a few more minutes," she says quietly. "My prerecorded item is finished anyway."
I walk across the canteen to the exit, and just before I reach the double doors, I turn back to look at her. She's staring at the tabletop, deep in thought and, presumably, lost in her problems again.
What with everything she's going through, my infrequent pangs of loneliness pale into insignificance. So I wasted a few hours with a pair of ne'er-do-wells and ended up paying the bill . . . so what?
Galvanized by this, I decide to give Madeleine a call and see if she fancies a spot of old-fashioned wine-bar trawling tonight. It can be a scientific experiment into old dating tactics versus the new.
Eight
I have absolutely no idea how I got myself into this. OK, I do. Basically, I allowed Madeleine to bully me into it during one of our long, late phone chats last night, during which I filled her in on Larry--he of the macramed vests and wicker shoes, a man who lights up a room when he leaves it.
"He probably just needs a damn good shag," was her verdict. And she's probably right, but I'm not the woman who's going to offer it. I don't date outside my species.
Anyway, the upshot of our conversation was that Madeleine thinks the way I'm meeting potential dates is far too time-consuming. Given that I have now wasted well over four hours on two men who were both totally unsuitable, she has a point.
So here I am walking into a vast bar on the Kings Road, desperately scouring the crowd for Madeleine before we venture to the private function rooms downstairs for . . . wait for it . . . a speed-dating event.
Yes, we really have stooped that low. I could tell you that it's vital research for an item on the show, or pretend that's it just a laugh between friends, one more hilarious anecdote in the rich comedic tapestry of life. But I'd be lying. Transparently and pathetically.
I am here because, lurking among the battery hen lines of men, I valiantly hope that someone will leap out at me. Not literally of course, but in a sparky, good chemistry kind of way.
On a more basic level, Madeleine's here because she wants someone to have regular, no-strings-attached sex with. The same Madeleine, I might add, who has so far steadfastly failed to go on the Internet dates she promised she would as part of our deal.
"Here I am!" She's waving at me from a high stool positioned at one end of the bar. She's flanked on either side by two men in suits.
"This is my friend Jess," she says as I approach. "Jess, this is Paul . . ." She curves her hand one way towards the smaller of the two men, then curls it back in the direction of the taller one . . . "and this is Dave. They're something big in the City."
"Really?" I keep my voice as flat as possible, having already made the swift decision that neither of Little and Large is my cup of tea.
"Yes. They think we should give the speed dating a miss and stay up here with them." She lets out the tinkling laugh I've heard so often when Madeleine has been on the prowl in the past.
"Really," I say again.
"Do you say anything except 'really'?" says the taller one, giving his friend a smug smile.
"Rarely."
"That's posh speak for really," says Madeleine. There's that tinkling laugh again.
"Are we going?" I deliberately turn my back on our social carbuncles and jerk my head towards the staircase in the far corner.
Madeleine has known me long enough to recognize a certain look in my eye that says I've reached the end of my tether and won't be persuaded otherwise.
"OK, OK." She hops off the stool and smoothes down her corduroy miniskirt. "Sorry guys, gotta go." She follows me across the bar towards the stairs. "Did you have to be quite so rude?"
"Sorry Mads, but I'm not as good at all that small talk as you and they looked a right pair of shifty sods. Besides, I'm rather nervous about this." I nod towards a sign at the top of the stairs that reads "Private: Extreme Speed-dating Event."
"Fear not." She links her arm through mine, her two new best friends already forgotten. "I'll look after you. Come on."
As we descend the stairs, my brain computes the extra, unexpected word it read on the blackboard and I stop in my tracks. "Hang on--what's extreme speed dating?"
Madeleine makes a casual waving gesture with her left hand. "Oh, it's just a more concentrated form of speed dating, that's all." She starts to descend the stairs, but I stay stock still.
"Concentrated? Explain . . ." I feel a pang of uncertainty.
Grabbing my forearm, she physically tugs me down two more stairs. "Bigger and better than most," she says vaguely but firmly. "Come on, don't be a baby."
As Madeleine has organized this, I have had no insight whatsoever into what to expect. She even paid my entrance fee as a belated birthday present.
As the stairs turn a corner and lead down into a vast reception area, I see five "greeters"sitting behind a desk. Above their heads is a sign that reads "If you haven't yet paid your $75 entrance fee, we accept checks and all major credit cards."
"Seventy-five dollars!" I splutter. "They can't be serious."
Madeleine puts a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. "Jess, this is going to be a serious night out. There's free drink and various fun events going on. It's not cheap."
Various fun events. Words that turn my pang of uncertainty into a thumping dread.
We shuffle towards the desk behind a queue of five or six others, waiting in line to register.
"Name." The greeter doesn't even look up. Some greeting. "Jessica Monroe," I say, rather wishing I'd asked Madeleine to use a pseudonym.
"Monroe, Monroe, Monroe . . ." she says loudly, moving a red talon down the list of names in front of her. "Ah, here we are!"
Reaching down by her side, she pro
duces a plastic identity tag with a piece of red ribbon attached. Taking a blank sticker, she scrawls "Jess Munro," presses it onto the tag, and hands it to me.
"You've spelt my name wrong," I say. "It's M-O-N-R-O-E."
She looks at me as if I'm the pettiest person ever to have walked the planet. "It really doesn't matter. It's the number in the top right-hand corner that's important."
I glance down and see the number 435. I resist the temptation to sweep my hand across the table of labels screeching "I'm a name, not a number."
"Four thirty-five. Is that how many people are here?" I whimper.
With a blatant are-you-still-here expression, she hands me a pack of calling cards and sighs. "There are just over five hundred of you actually. Have a good night."
Summarily dismissed, I move to one side and wait for Madeleine to join me. Taking a closer look at the cards, they have "Frisson"--the name of the event, as well as the company that orchestrates it--written across the top, followed by two empty boxes: one marked "First name," the other "number." There is also a special Frisson number, so anyone you like the look of can text you, quoting your special number. Across the bottom is printed "Strictly no mobile phone numbers to be handed out."
Madeleine, or number 436 on the dating menu, rushes up, her eyes shining with expectation. "Two hundred fifty blokes to choose from!" she gushes.
"Yeah, and two hundred forty-eight other women all after any decent ones," I mutter.
"God, you are so negative," she admonishes. "Repeat after me: We are the most attractive women here and shall conquer all."
"And then we woke up," I reply, following her through to the next room in the labyrinthine building.
Here, we are met by the saccharine smiles of various waiters and waitresses, all dressed in black T-shirts with Frisson emblazoned across the front in silver lettering. They are brandishing trays with a selection of red or white wine, orange juice or sparkling water. Both Madeleine and I lunge with undue haste at a glass of white.
