the compulsory comfy couches in the middle of the stage, ensuring everyone gets the best view of the gallows.
‘Where did he come from?’ I am referring to the warm-up act. He is a fat, northern comedian who has blatantly been on the circuit longer than Schumacher. He looks like a pantomime dame and his requests for the audience to ‘Go wild, go crazy’ illicit nothing more than a few embarrassed titters. Fi shrugs, ‘He does well with the Kin’s Kismet audience.’
I listen to him telling a few mucky jokes. He is the only one laughing.
‘What were you thinking of? I’ve told you I want an up-market show. Which bit of the word up-market is it that you don’t understand?’ I snap. Somewhere I can hear someone say, ‘Thirty seconds to live.’
‘You told me to deal with the detail,’ she defends.
I’m not in the mood for debating. ‘I want him off the show by next week, Fi.’ The voice in my earpiece says, ‘Twenty seconds.’ I tune back in to the fat man.
‘It’s a live show tonight, so if you are sitting next to somebody you shouldn’t be, move.’ The audience finally begins to smirk. ‘Ten seconds.’
‘Did you see anyone move, Fi?’ I ask. I’m always thinking about potentially adulterous relationships. ‘Eight, seven, six.’ There is a swell of expectancy.
‘Now a big hand for Katie Hunt, this evening’s presenter.’ The audience starts to clap their hands raw for the remote chance that there may be a nanosecond mug shot on TV. The fat man tries to get Katie to twirl like a modern-day Anthea. This is proof, if we needed it, that he has had his day. Katie wouldn’t twirl if Robbie Williams asked her to. Katie casts him a withering look. I’m relieved – at least she understands what type of show I’m making here.
Three, two, one – we are on air.’ The roving camera sweeps magnificently across the audience and set. The camera reminds me of an internal. It must do the same for Fi, as I notice she writes ‘smear’ on her hand with a felt tip. The emergence of the cameras acts as an aphrodisiac on the audience. Everyone visibly brightens; they grow a couple of inches, smile a bit wider.
‘Hello, and welcome to the very first Sex with an Ex.’ The stage manager initiates more applause; the audience catches on quickly and begins to cheer. Katie smiles back at the camera, appreciating their appreciation.
‘You smell the same.’
‘Smell? What do I smell of? ‘He is mildly irritated. Scrupulously clean at all times, he has made a particular effort tonight.
‘My youth.’ She smiles.
She leans closer to inhale him again. She notices he is quivering. She notices she is. He turns a fraction and he is staring into her eyes, straight past the pupils, and directly hitting her mind and soul. She is sixteen again. Which makes him eighteen. She has been propelled back to the doorstep of her parental home. The season is irrelevant; she feels warm and safe. It’s late at night, very late, because although they abide by the curfew and get her home by 10.45 p.m., they are literal: she is home but not in her home. It’s past midnight and they are still sitting on the step. They can’t go in because her mother is waiting up in her nylon dressing gown. Her mum will want to know what the film was like, and she’ll make a cup of coffee and stay up and drink it with them. They don’t want to talk to anyone else. They never do.
Did. ‘Did’ is the correct verb because she’s not sixteen, she’s twenty-six and she’s not on the step of her mum and dad’s house in Croydon. She’s actually just bumped into Declan outside Pronuptia bridal shop.
‘Big box,’ he comments, grinning, and he’s just the same. The grin is just the same; it lights up her stomach and a bit lower.
‘Er, yes. ‘She hesitates. The natural thing to say next is, ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ but Abbie doesn’t say the natural thing. She says, ‘Wow, it’s been a long time.’
‘Yes. Ten years.’ He pauses for a moment and then adds, ‘Four months, two weeks and about eight days.’
‘Delighted and shocked, Abbie blushes and glances both ways up the street. She’s not sure what or who she’s looking for. But she’s relieved not to see anyone she knows. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been counting.’
‘Fair cop. I haven’t. I just made up the stuff about months and weeks.’ They