not in my favour. I remind myself again: the primary reason for my being here is that I must persuade him to be on the show. And even if he is drop-dead gorgeous, so what?
He’s drop-dead gorgeous, that’s what.
I stare at the menu, pretending to be interested; a toss-up between wood-roasted squid stuffed with chilli, or red mullet in white wine, parsley and garlic sauce. No, not garlic. Really I need to broach the subject of the show.
‘Why would you want to buy me dinner?’
He blushes and then drags his eyes to meet mine. ‘Any man would want to take you for dinner. You’re stunning.’
Bang.
I am delighted, thrilled to my core. Yes, I’ve heard it before. Yes, I’ll hear it again but really it’s never been quite so thrilling. Or terrifying. His up-front approach propels me into a unique position. I’m honest in return.
‘Look, Darren. Cards on the table, I’m not here to be social. I’m here to try to persuade you to be on the show. I need you. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I need a show and you’re it.’ I stop and take a deep breath. The bread arrives. He doesn’t comment for a while. Instead he chooses his bread. He selects the walnut one. In an effort to ingratiate myself I do the same.
‘I’m sorry you didn’t want to have dinner with me.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘I’m not going to be on your show.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I couldn’t face myself in the mirror every morning if I did so. Myself or my parents or siblings, friends, nieces, nephew.’
No girlfriend. He didn’t mention a girlfriend.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are peddling the destabilization of family values.’
I sigh. I’ve heard it all before. Somehow the general public has convinced itself that TV is responsible for the disintegration of the family unit. It’s a way of avoiding responsibility. It’s not fair.
‘The family unit is under pressure for myriad reasons. Television is only one, ‘I argue. ‘There have been countless surveys that have tried to assess the effect television has on modern society but net net, bottom line, psychologists, educationalists and moralists have failed to agree that there has been any effect at all. How can you expect little old me to have all the answers?’ I’m trying to appear girlish and agreeable.
‘You are endorsing the gradual deconstruction of decency. You are encouraging the trivialization of love and sex.’ He butters his bread ferociously. He has magnificent hands. Very strong-looking. I reach for my wine.
‘Darren, no one needed me to do that. There were Blackpool postcards long before TV.’
‘So you accept your show is in poor taste, indecent and a contributor to the erosion of public standards?’
The waitress interrupts to take our order.
‘Taste is arbitrary, it changes according to fashion. Good taste is revised with every issue of Vogue. Decency I understand – a regard for cultural and religious issues, i.e. sending sympathy cards when some old dear pops her Patrick Cox.’ I fall back on familiar territory, sarcasm. ‘But standards, are they somewhere between the two? Like giving up your seat to a pregnant woman when travelling by tube, or more emphatically not travelling on public transport at all. And who is the standard setter? The law? The Independent Television Commission? The public? You? Are you the judge and jury in this, Darren?’ I’m raising my voice. He’s got me riled. The seating is tight; there’s no room for hysteria. I lower my voice in an effort to regain control. ‘I’ve always avoided racism. I don’t patronize people with disabilities. There’s no violence, we beep out the bad language and we don’t show actual penetration.’
‘How magnanimous of you.’
I’m not sure he means this. I take a deep breath. This conversation is not going in the direction I expected. It’s wrong by about 180 degrees, and Issie isn’t even navigating. I had planned to be beguiling, flirtatious and coquettish. This is usually a successful ruse. Instead I’m behaving like Attila the Hun’s more ferocious big sister. More peculiar still, I actually do want this man to see my point of view. Not simply to get him on the show: suddenly I want him to respect me. Wanting his respect makes it impossible to flirt. How much have I drunk? We both take a break as we sip our wine. It’s a ‘96 Puligny-Montrachet. It’s very fine.
‘Nice wine, good choice,’ I comment.
‘Thank you.’ Darren is not going to be side-tracked. He pursues his line of reasoning. ‘TV has exercised an unanticipated and unprecedented influence. Not