is doing well. I saw her in B Magazine the other day and I understand she has a contract with some modelling agency.’
All this points to the fact that the show only has a shelf life of one or two episodes. It is becoming almost impossible to lure people on to the show, as the entire nation appears to be on infidelity alert. The plan is to use the kudos from this show to launch other programmes. My phone rings, interrupting Debs’s newspaper review.
‘Hi, stranger.’
‘Hi, Issie.’ I wait for her justified complaints. I never ring her, or Josh. I’m totally absorbed in my work. Have I visited my mum recently? It’s a relief that she skips it.
‘Fancy a night out?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s just that I’m still interviewing. Bale’s keen to commission another series.’
‘Then what? Another and another?’
‘He seems to think so. I’m sceptical. I mean how gullible does he think the general public is?’
‘Well, you may as well have a night out. You can’t continue working at this rate ad infinitum.’
‘What have you got in mind?’ I ask.
‘A drink? Grab some pasta? Somewhere where we can talk and catch up. I feel I haven’t seen you for weeks.’
I wonder if this is code for ‘I’ve been ditched.’
‘OK, let’s try Papa Bianchi’s,’ I suggest. ‘The food’s fine, not exactly Michelin star, but it’s cheap and cheerful and most importantly the waiters understand the importance of having a laugh and getting lashed.’ I don’t mention that it is also in spitting distance of the studio and I’ll be able to return to work after we’ve dined, but when I give her the address she’ll guess.
‘OK, hold the line until I get a pen.’
I can hear the music from Issie’s radio drift through the telephone line. I hear her scrabble around for a pen. I know where she’s looking. She’ll be starting in the telephone table drawer – futile. She’ll progress to the kitchen drawers, the jamjar on the windowsill and then behind the cushions on the settee. She’ll find a number of pens but none of them will work, the pencils will be blunt. For a scientist Issie is extremely disorganized. She’s back on the line.
‘Couldn’t find a pen. An odd earring that I’ve been looking for, a telephone number and a recipe but no pen.’
‘Try your handbag.’
‘Good idea.’ She leaves the line again and this time the hunt is successful.
Issie takes down the details of where and when we are going to meet and I put down the phone. I’m pleased to have averted the inevitable disaster of her arriving late because she’s lost or going to the wrong place and not arriving at all. My life is made up of a series of these small services which make other people’s lives more comfortable. If only people realized.
I turn back to Fi and the problem of an increasingly moral nation. I know this squeamishness is hypocrisy and I don’t expect it to be sustained, but it is an irritation.
‘You know what, Fi?’
‘What?’
‘This new morality that the British public have so inexplicably developed’ – I’m scornful – ‘may work to our advantage.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, as I predicted, they’ve fallen. One after another. We really are living in a faithless society. Fidelity, or the lack of it, knows no boundaries. Indiscriminately it rages and rocks the lives of anyone who dares to trust.’
‘But it is brilliant television,’ adds Fi, not getting my drift.
‘But somewhat depressing,’ I assert.
‘Well, yes, it is,’ she confirms. ‘In fact, we had a letter from a silkworm farm in Ireland today.’
‘Really?’ This trivia momentarily distracts me.
‘Yes. Apparently last year, this farm – I forget its name – won the Queen’s Award for Industry and some other shield thing for their exports. Apparently this year demand has dipped perceptibly.’
‘Honestly.’ I’m delighted. Fi doesn’t catch my drift.
‘I know, it is a huge responsibility, isn’t it?’
‘Responsibility bollocks, it’s a huge story.’ Sometimes Fi lets me down. ‘Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Whilst interviewing next week I want you to actively look for those you think have a chance of resisting.’
‘I thought you said people like that didn’t exist,’ protests Fi.
‘Prove me wrong.’ She looks nervous. I try to be helpful. ‘Pick the under-confident who don’t believe they are attractive to one individual, let alone two. Or pick those who are too driven by public recognition to risk public humiliation.’
‘What, like budding politicians?’
‘Yes, or Freemasons.’
‘You are a sensation! You are a fucking marvel.’
‘Thank you, Nigel.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Believe me,