are convinced that Claire wouldn’t fall, the programme might be good for her and Marcus. We did have one couple, before Christmas, who managed to resist.’
‘Yes, I read about that. TV6 turned their wedding into a media frenzy,’ says Darren with obvious disgust. ‘That must have been marvellous for the ratings. Cas, haven’t you been listening to me? It’s not about whether she would want me or not. Any association with Sex with an Ex is contemptible. A need to “test” someone you should love exposes the fact that there is a problem with the relationship. I don’t want to embarrass Claire or anyone else for that matter. I don’t want her to know that her fiancé has this insecurity. I don’t want to drag up our past, not even to entertain your – what did you say? – 8.9 million viewers.’ I nod. ‘I loved her and that fact is still important and private.’
He believes all this. I look at him, this six-foot-two specimen of pure sex, sitting in front of me. I don’t understand him. He seems to be from another era. One that is perhaps a little more genteel. And trusting.
And pointless.
I try to think about my initial strategy.
‘Look, Darren, this show isn’t just about entertaining the general public. There are a lot of other serious issues hanging in the balance here.’
‘Such as?’
‘My job, the jobs of about thirty-five other people, advertising revenues.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Darren calls the waitress and asks for the bill. It’s time to go. I’m disappointed. The restaurant maybe empty but I don’t want to leave. I try to think of something else that will be damaged if the show doesn’t go ahead. There’s my ratings-related bonus. I don’t think it’s wise to mention this. I sigh, resigned. The quiet determined way he explains his views convinces me that he won’t change his mind tonight. I suppose it does sort of make sense in a horribly moral way. Never again will I attempt getting a thinking man on the show. I’ll stick to Neanderthals.
We leave the restaurant and start to wander back to the tube, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Although it is January my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat. I hope I’m not coming down with flu. Couples are edging up to one another, the foolish myth of intimacy protecting them against the late-night chill that is settling. And it must be chilly because the people who are on their own pull their coats about them. My bag weighs a ton. It’s full of my life: notebooks, Dictaphones, research manuals, schedules. The weight of it drags my shoulder down to the right, causing me to lean. I occasionally bump into Darren. Each time I do so I tut so that he, at least, is clear that it’s an accidental collision and I don’t like it.
My senses are on red alert. I can feel the cold night air not brushing my skin but laying icy hands on my forehead and shoulders. I hear a train rattle across Charing Cross bridge, splitting the night. Sparkly lights outline the bridges and pavements. An adult dot to dot. There is metal on my tongue. I can smell sweat, fresh and stuff that’s months old. The fresh twang is mingled with Darren’s aftershave. It rinses my nostrils. I tut at the dreamers hanging around the National Film Theatre, lost in nostalgia or stupefied with pointless hope.
‘Look at them,’ I spit. ‘Incapable of getting off their arses and doing something real.’
Darren surprises me by laughing. ‘Is that all you see?’
‘Yes.’ I look at the jugglers and pseudo-intellectuals. People happier to watch plays about other people’s lives than actually live their own. ‘What else is there?’
‘Look again,’ he insists. He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me to look at the crowds. ‘You have to look at everything from as many different angles as possible. In as many ways as possible. Look at it and try to see it differently.’
I look again and see scores of people hanging out. Some are drinking coffee sold from the cafés at the theatres. Others are standing around the buskers. Others are debating with one another or chatting animatedly about the performance they have just seen. Others are snogging the face off each other. I shrug.
‘Don’t you see dozens of people having a good time, improving and enjoying themselves? A mass of humanity buzzing with just being here.’