I’m amazed. A man who owns up to feeling these things must be gay. But I know he’s not. I mentally shake myself. Fuck. Twat. I haven’t got time for this. I’m busy. I don’t need some half-average-looking bloke, who has too high an opinion of himself, screwing things up for me now. I glare at him. I breathe deeply.
‘But Darren, why not? Marcus wants this,’ I say reasonably.
Then Marcus is wrong.’
‘He wants to test her.’
‘He’d do better to trust her.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Deadly serious.’
I check my watch. I have to speed this along. I still have the other guests to meet. First interview of the New Year and I run into a hitch immediately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d think it was an omen. But I’m not.
‘Look, Darren, is this a question of money? You see we can’t offer our guests hard cash, our lawyers won’t let us. But we can make this worth your while in expenses. Clothes, travel, entertainment, etc.’ I mentally calculate what I can up the budget to. We normally expect an outlay of up to £600 per guest.
‘It’s nothing to do with money.’ Darren rests his head in his hands and leans back against the sofa.
‘We can go up to eight hundred pounds.’
‘I just think it’s ignoble.’
‘Fifteen hundred.’
He shakes his head fractionally. And casually crosses his legs. They are extremely long. I take a deep breath.
‘Two thousand.’
He doesn’t acknowledge my offer. I make a quick calculation. This man is extremely intelligent, sensitive, stunningly good-looking. Even I, fleetingly, had found him attractive. Until he started arsing around like this. Now I realize he’s a wanker. But, generally, people aren’t as perceptive as I am. Audiences will like him. Bale will love him. How much?
‘Four thousand pounds.’ I hear Fi gasp. Darren smiles pleasantly, too astute to be insulted. He looks extremely confident. He shakes his head. I lean close to him. My mouth is only inches away from his ear.
‘It’s my final offer,’ I whisper. He smiles. I look closer. He’s resolute. Damn.
‘Big prick,’ I comment to Fi, as I charge out of the room. I don’t even check if the door has banged shut behind me.
‘Almost certainly has,’ she comments.
I glare at her. ‘I wasn’t commenting on his equipment,’ I snarl. ‘More his manner.’
‘I thought he was utterly charming,’ she confesses, blushing.
I sigh, irritated. ‘What exactly is charming about fucking up our shooting schedule?’ I rage. ‘Do you think Bale will be charmed?’
‘Guess not.’
I begin to charge down the corridor towards the other interview rooms. We are on an extremely tight schedule. We’ve moved Sex with an Ex from the Monday slot to Saturday, which has cranked up the pressure by one more near infeasible notch. We have to complete the interviews tonight. For both liaisons, pre and post advertisements break. We have to choose the location for the temptation scene. Tomorrow we have to arrange all the logistics for all the parties in each liaison. Film on Wednesday and Thursday and then edit on Friday. The entire team regularly work at the weekends. I don’t need spanners in works. I don’t have time for mistakes, misgivings or misjudgements.
‘So who do we have on reserve? Give me the briefing notes.’ I hold out my hand waiting for the relevant file.
‘Err.’ Fi looks a bit shamefaced. ‘We haven’t one.’
I stop abruptly. ‘What?’
‘We did have. But we don’t now. Mr P. Kent marrying a Ms L. Gripton were in reserve but he called the wedding off. I actually think he was using the show as a way to get rid of her. But he found the courage to do it without us.’ Fi smiles brightly and I consider murdering her. I don’t have time. When did she become stupid?
‘How fabulous for him. What a shame for Ms Gripton and what a bloody disaster for us.’ I’m not shouting. I’m too angry to shout. ‘We always have two reserve options. Who are the others?’
‘Well, there’s a bit of a problem there too,’ mumbles Fi. ‘The bride-to-be broke her leg. She’s unlikely to try to conduct an illicit liaison when she’s in a toe-to-hip cast.’
‘Such bad luck,’ I snarl.
‘Isn’t it? The wedding photos will be ruined.’
‘I mean ours. Fi, go back to your office and paw over every letter we’ve received. See if there is anyone who we can reach tonight. Who’s on next week’s show? Is there a case we can bring forward? Leave no stone unturned. If you can’t find anyone in the letters pile, go on the Internet and set up an emergency telephone line; run it tonight.’ Fi starts to dash down the corridor. I call after her, ‘Fi, do you know anyone who’s engaged? Check your Filofax. I’ll check mine.’ Fi starts to object. I sweep away her squeamishness. ‘This is important.’
I check my watch. It’s 6.30 p.m. I bleep for the Sex with an Ex runner. I know it will take some time to locate Trixxie because our policy for employing runners is another one of Bale’s economy-driven strategies. Instead of recognizing that the runner on a show is a lynchpin and needs to be astute, willing, energetic and proactive, TV6 employs the defective offspring of our big advertisers. More proof that Bale is a sycophantic stinge. He gets to suck the cock of his most important clients and at the same time is able to pay below the minimum wage, in the knowledge that Daddy will supplement with an allowance. I wait nine and a half minutes for Trixxie to respond to my page. She is undoubtedly doing something really pressing, like smoking hash or fixing her make-up or choosing the correct piece of metal to put in her eyebrow. When she eventually does show, I realize that ‘respond’ is probably too kind a description.
‘Like can I do something?’ she asks with a tone that is somewhere between careless and gormless. She is in reality about twenty-two but looks about six, as she is anorexic-thin, wears her hair in bunchies and has a number of bruises on her legs. The bruises are not, however, the result of playground bullying but UBIs – unidentified beer injuries. Unrestrained partying is part of the job. In fact, she thinks it is the job. She’s paid a pittance but she’s worth less. I tell her to go directly to Darren and delay him.
‘Delay him?’ she drawls. Redefining the adjective non-comprehending.
‘Yes. He wants to leave.’
‘But he can’t, he’s filming this week and whatever.’
‘He doesn’t want to film,’ I explain with what absolutely must be my last ounce of patience.
‘That’s bad.’
I sigh, far too aware that incompetents surround me. Trixxie stumbles on an obstacle. ‘I can’t force him to stay against his will or whatever.’
‘I know that. You have to persuade him to stay by making it worth his while.’
‘Sleeping with him?’ she asks.
I look at the specimen in front of me. Darren wouldn’t. I think on my feet. I need Darren on the show. He’d make a great show and more urgently, because of Fi’s incompetence in securing a reserve, he’s our only chance at any show. I have to keep this lead, as tenuous as it is, warm until we’ve explored all other angles.
‘No, don’t offer to sleep with him. Appeal to his better side. Say that I’m cool with his decision and would like to take him to dinner later, to show there’s no hard feelings etc.’ I’m sure he’ll agree to dinner. He’s too polite not to.
‘That’s big of you,’ says Trixxie, beaming at me. ‘Really cool. Like you could be pissed off and whatever.’
I don’t bother explaining that in reality I’d like to dissect Darren into small pieces and feed him to the lions at London Zoo for inconveniencing me so. I don’t think Trixxie is up to the deception. In fact, I’m not sure she is up to delivering the message. And there’s something else that I don’t mention. As irritating as I obviously find Darren, I’m also absolutely fascinated. He said no to me. He said no to me. Not the type of no which really means ‘yes’ or ‘maybe’. A flat, final no. Try as I might, I can’t think of him as the moralistic tosspot loser that he so obviously is.