norms of the West? I’m not suggesting anything that they aren’t already endorsing, committing.’
We both fell silent as Darren concentrated on retrieving the cheese on toast from under the grill. He set it down in front of me and offered Worcester sauce. I refused it. I poured him tequila; he’d left it untouched. We ate in silence and then I went to bed, alone, defeated.
Now, I try to find my wristwatch.
‘It’s three thirty, pet,’ says Mrs Smith, cheerfully.
‘In the afternoon?’ I jump up suddenly. Mrs Smith clocks my lacy negligée.
‘Yes, in the afternoon. By, love, you must have been tired not to notice the cold in that flimsy thing. If you’d said you only had your underwear to sleep in I’d have lent you one of my nighties.’
Duly mortified, I crawl back into bed and cover myself from her disapproving gaze. Underwear indeed! I’d especially selected the most conventional and practical nightdress I own to bring on this trip. I normally sleep naked. If she thinks this is skimpy enough to be underwear, what would she think of my knickers?
‘Darren wanted to get you up but I said, “Let her sleep.” You obviously needed it. He’s just taking the kids into town for a ride on the merry-go-round on the seafront. I thought that you might want to get bathed and then we can think about a bite to eat.’
I nod politely, although I’m sure my stomach will actively revolt if I try to eat anything more. Yesterday’s binge of sweets, chocolate cake, scones, hamburgers and finally cheese on toast was more than I normally eat in a week. It must be the fresh air that’s given me such an appetite.
‘What time did you say it was?’
‘It’s nearly twenty to four now.’
‘What day is it?’ I’m not normally so vague, but then I don’t normally sleep for seventeen hours. And I don’t ever sleep in nylon sheets.
‘Tuesday.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Smith looks horrified but I have no time to placate her.
‘Shit. Shit.’ I scramble in my bag looking for my mobile phone. ‘Shit. Fourteen messages.’ Mrs Smith tuts and leaves me to my own devices. I think it’s safe to assume that any tentative strands of approval she’d been weaving my way are now well and truly snapped. So what? I turn to my messages.
The first is from Issie, reminding me that my New Year’s resolution was not to have casual sex. Ha, fat chance. Darren doesn’t even seem to want to swap pleasantries, never mind bodily fluids. And anyway, what is she talking about? That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to endear myself to Darren so that he agrees to be on the show. Nothing more. I thought I’d explained that. All the other messages are work-related.
Cas. Please give me a call. It’s Tuesday morning. What time will you be back? Have you persuaded Darren to be on the show?
Fi sounds nervous and a twinge of guilt bites as I acknowledge that I have left her in the lurch. She’s a strong assistant but she hasn’t had to make the decisions before. Well, maybe I micromanage too much and it’s time that Fi had a bit more responsibility. She’s probably doing a good job. I skip a few more messages to listen out for her voice. There are three more from Fi. The first and second are increasingly irate. The third confidently asserts that she’s found a replacement for Darren, Claire and Marcus and has made the decision to reschedule the filming. She details how she’s going to use the two producers back to back. One in the studio, editing, whilst the other is at the shoot and then vice versa. This is a good idea as it will help catch up on time. She says she’s expecting me back by Wednesday morning and significantly repeats, ‘As you promised.’
Bale is less subtle.
Cas, where the fuck are you? Getting serviced? Well, fuck that. Call me.
His three messages are all the same. I also have calls from Di, Debs and Ricky. Apparently some bishop or other has written an open letter to The Times condemning the show. Which is great news. Di and Debs want to know how to handle the PR. Idiots. Can’t they do anything without me? Ricky is lobbying for a schedule change to coincide with Valentine’s Day. He’s come up against a brick wall. Or, more accurately, a homo-phobe executive who can block or facilitate such things. Ricky’s particular breed of charm will only serve to