‘Your timing is immaculate. We’ve had six shows and just when there was a danger of infidelity becoming a foregone conclusion, you find a couple who resist.’
I smile at him. I’m trying not to look excited but to be honest I’m delighted too. We found a couple who although probably tempted were not stirred, so to speak. These people amazed me. They resisted not simply because the ex turned out to be a Clash bore or knew all the lyrics to every Duran Duran song, not just because they were worried about the chiffon and lace industry, not just because they feared being caught. But because they believed in it. Fidelity.
Loving.
Cherishing. They wanted to be exclusive lovers. For ever.
‘Suckers,’ I comment.
‘Still, it’s brilliant television,’ adds Fi.
This it is. It brings the house down. This is what people want to believe in. It tantalizes. I’ve made it a possibility again, the Happily Ever After. We plan to do a massive follow-up show. By paying for the most OTT wedding. We are investigating the possibility of getting Westminster Abbey. It’s short notice but providing there are no obscure foreign royalty or minor member of the aristocracy booked in I think we’ll pull it off. I’m going to give the public what they want.
‘Next week we can go back to the cheats.’
It’s late and it’s 24 December. I look up from my desk and note that there is no one else left in the office except the cleaner. I note that he is wearing a Santa hat and a red nose. The red nose is real. I close down my PC and decide to lock it away rather than take it home for Christmas. My phone rings.
‘Cas Perry, evening.’
‘Cas, you silly tart. What are you doing in the office on Christmas Eve?’
‘Hi, Josh,’ I sigh, too tired to tell him how pleased I am he’s called. ‘Just finishing off, actually.’
‘Good. We’re in the Goose and Crown. Come and join us.’
‘Who’s there?’
Josh names a number of our friends. I look at my watch. It’s 8.40 p.m. – not too late to join them. I can’t remember the last time I got pissed with genuine mates.
‘I’d love to. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Suddenly I am awash with Christmas cheer and so give the cleaner a bottle of malt whisky that some advertiser sent me. He’s disproportionately pleased. I received about a dozen similar gifts this Christmas and can’t relate to his excitement. I call the lift and experience the unusual sensation of being relieved to leave the building. It is a glass elevator not unlike the one that appears in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; it glides up and down in a graceful, effortless movement. As the lift takes me to the ground floor I mentally checklist the next show. This is the hundredth time I’ve done this – I know everything is fine but I do it anyway. It’s habit. The building is dark, only illuminated by fairy lights. I pass the meeting areas. One has a photocopier in it and is always empty. The other has a Mars bar dispenser and a coffee machine. The latter room is always heaving. It’s a good place to catch up on conversations about the male menopause. No one is there now. They’ve all gone home to start basting turkey or stuffing their wives. I pass a few words with the receptionist, which I do every Christmas. We comment on how quickly it’s come around again. This time, however, I mean it. I’ve been so busy that I’ve completely missed autumn. Which is a shame because, if I was pushed to comment, I’d say that autumn is my favourite season. I nod to the security guard and then head towards the huge glass rotating doors. I’m already imagining downing my first vodka and orange.
‘Jocasta Perry.’ A voice slices across the tranquillity.
I don’t have a chance to reply or to establish where it’s coming from.
‘Do you know what it is like to feel humiliation? Betrayal? Do you understand the pain? I don’t suppose you do with breasts like those.’
The woman who is shouting at me is in her early thirties. She has presumably been sitting in reception waiting for me but I hadn’t noticed her until she’d called out. She has fine, highlighted, shoulder-length hair. It isn’t particularly styled. She’s a comfortable size twelve or fourteen. I don’t think I actively know her and yet she has a vaguely familiar face. She looks a lot