‘What’s cooking?’ I enquire, lifting lids and spooning small amounts of heaven into my mouth.
‘Out,’ he snaps, playfully swiping at my hands and trying to replace the lids. ‘You have to wait.’ But he can’t resist showing off. ‘It’s peperoni con acciughe e capperi.’
‘Chargrilled peppers with anchovy and capers,’ translates Issie, as she hands me a glass of Australian Chardonnay. ‘Mountadam, Eden Valley 1996,’ she assures, knowing it’s important to me.
‘And maiale arrosto con aceto balsamico,’ interrupts Josh.
I turn helplessly to Issie. She fills in, ‘Roast pork with balsamic vinegar.’
‘Fantastic.’ Funny, I’m never irritated by Josh’s pretension of insisting on calling every dish he cooks by its Italian name. ‘Have I got time to shower off my shit day?’
‘Yes, if you are quick.’
Sometimes we chatter non-stop throughout supper and sometimes we watch TV, entertaining ourselves by hurling abuse or a book at the commentary, but tonight we eat in comfortable silence. Or at least I think it is comfortable until Issie asks, ‘What’s up, Cas? You’re really quiet tonight.’ She’s given me authority over the remote control. Normally I love this but tonight, as a diversionary tactic, the remote control is a failure.
I realize I’m grateful to be asked and I slip into child mode, hoping that surrogate Mum and Dad can sort things out for me. There’s only Issie and Josh, in the entire world, who I let see me when I feel vulnerable or down.
‘It’s work,’ I whine.
‘Naturally. We never expect you to say it’s man trouble,’ comments Josh. I don’t have man trouble – that’s the advantage of seeing them as sex objects rather than soul mates.
‘The channel’s viewing figures are down for the twelfth week in a row. It’s serious. Bale’s talking redundancies. Problem is we haven’t got a hero show. We haven’t even got a strong soap.’
‘What about Teddington Crescent?’ Issie is as intimate with my programming schedule as I am.
‘The lives and loves of the inhabitants of Milton Keynes don’t have what it takes to knock Come or Brookie off their spots. We haven’t got a principal game show, or a lead chat show host. Poor ratings – that’s viewership,’ I translate, but it’s unnecessary as they are both educated in my media speak, ‘affect the advertisers we can draw. Without advertising money we can’t invest in cool shows. It’s a vicious circle.’ I pause. They don’t interrupt but allow me to find the words. ‘The worst of it is that Bale has made it into my problem.’ I check to see if they are as pissed off as I am. They both make an admirable job of looking horrified. Satisfied, I continue. ‘Despite his obscene pay cheque he has renounced all responsibility and said I have to come up with a winning idea. He’s—’
‘A plethora of R words.’ Issie grins and tries to get me to cheer up.
I scowl. ‘He’s a shit.’ I’m not going to allow them to brighten me out of my despair. ‘I’m scared.’
Everyone is silent. They know my job is my world. Josh sits down next to me and puts his arm round me.
‘I’m fucking scared,’ I say with unusual honesty.
‘I don’t see the problem. You’ll come up with the idea,’ he comforts. Normally I love his confidence in me but I shrug, because right now, I don’t think his confidence is founded. My head is aching. Everything’s fuzzy.
‘Maybe.’ I know that it is my problem and neither of them can really offer a solution, so I change the subject. ‘Did I get any post?’
‘Its on the mantelpiece.’
Two bills, council tax and water – marvellous. Three pieces of junk mail, all for pizza delivery services. I spy another heavy white envelope.
‘Hell, another wedding,’ I sigh. ‘It’s nearly September, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t these people any decency? Plaguing me throughout my autumn months as well as the summer.’ I’m only half kidding, but it’s great to see Issie look het up.
‘Who is it this time?’ she asks.
‘Jane Fischer is marrying Marcus Phillips,’ I read. ‘Have we met him?’
‘Yup,’ confirms Josh. ‘He was at Lesley and James’s wedding last week. He was an usher. The blonde one, with the red waistcoat. Jane wasn’t there – some prior commitment, probably another wedding.’
Issie and I freeze.
‘Bastard,’ we assert in unison.
I pass Issie the invite so she can see the betrayal for herself. Issie fingers the white card, caressing the embossing, and sighs. It’s not turning out to be a