‘No. It’s an exercise in damage limitation.’

‘I don’t understand you, Cas.’

‘Really? How odd. I thought I’d made myself crystal clear.’ Except of course I’m lying. I don’t understand me either. The bit I do understand, the fact that I am in love, only serves to confuse me further.

I lock the door behind me and Blu-tack an envelope to the door. It’s addressed to Darren and the letter inside simply says:

Don’t call.

13

Work is as foul as I thought it would be. Bale didn’t swallow the laryngitis story because Fi, the bitch, showed him a photo of Darren.

‘Laryngitis, my arse.’

‘No, actually it’s a throat infection,’ I snipe back. It is a weak retort but I’m out of practice. I’ve been being nice to people for two weeks, for God’s sake.

‘I saw his picture, Jocasta. You were shagging. Getting your end away whilst the rest of us carried the can. It’s shoddy. It’s unacceptable. What do you have to say for yourself?’

Bale has selected his glass office for this public flaying. I know that however angry he is, he has to appear more so for the benefit of the rest of the team.

‘Nigel, you are getting this out of proportion.’ I only ever call him Nigel when things are desperate. I consider leaning over his desk and creating an illusion of intimacy by touching his arm, but I can’t bring myself to do it. ‘OK, so I trailed a candidate for the show and OK, it turned out to be a duff call because I couldn’t persuade him to be on the show, but it was worth the gamble. If he’d appeared, it would have been the biggest show ever.’

‘Why?’

I knew that would get him.

‘This guy objects to the show on moral grounds: social and individual. He’s startlingly handsome and very articulate. If he’d agreed to be on the show there isn’t a person in the country who would have wanted to oppose his decision. Not the lace industry, the manager of the John Lewis wedding gift service or that bishop.’ I toss the latest list of complaint letters to Bale. ‘The viewers would have united. He’d have taken away the last shadow of doubt about the show. People would have clambered to appear.’

‘But you couldn’t persuade him?’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ I reply to my hands.

‘You tried everything?’ He holds on the word ‘everything’ and we both know what he is asking. Did I sleep with Darren to get him to appear on the show? Yes and no. This answer is far too subtle for Bale to comprehend.

‘Everything.’ My face is aflame.

Bale leans very close to me and I can see the blackheads nestling in the crease between his nose and cheek.

‘Maybe you’re losing your touch.’

‘What an arse!’ I complain to Fi, as there is no one else around. Most of my team have decided that it’s wiser to keep out of my way for a while. Fi is either braver or more stupid than the rest.

‘I thought you’d need some company.’ She hands me a double espresso. I wince as I swallow it back. It’s some time since I’ve drunk such strong coffee. It tastes like creosote.

‘It’s not as though anything went wrong whilst you were away,’ comments Fi.

She really is a bitch. I think it’s time to remind her who the guru is.

‘Yes. Well done, Fi. I saw that the ratings had stabilized at 9.1. Don’t worry that you didn’t get an increase with your shows. I thought they were very competently filmed, no matter what the punters thought.’ I smile at her and she hesitates, not knowing whether she should smile back or not.

‘You’re pleased, then?’

‘You held the fort. Well done.’ The words say one thing, the tone another.

‘Have I upset you?’

I sigh. I know I’m being a cow. Fi has produced two good shows. Without her there would have been no possibility of my taking off to Whitby, never mind staying for a week and then pulling the laryngitis stunt for another week. She’s made a few minor cock-ups with the paperwork, she hasn’t responded to any of the log-room calls and she hasn’t helped Ricky or Di with any of the decisions they needed to make on scheduling or marketing. But, all in all, she’s done a fine job. It’s not her fault that I feel like crying, laughing, shouting, dancing and howling, whilst smashing and kissing everything in my eye’s view. I’m turbulent. And misunderstood. Most notably, by myself.

‘No, really, you have done a great job,’ I assure and this time I do it with a bit more enthusiasm. Her face breaks into a massive grin.

‘I hoped you’d be pleased. Now tell me what really went on. I want details.’

Fi pulls up a chair and we huddle around my PC. It is not my usual style to indulge in girly confidences but I haven’t said Darren’s name aloud for hours. If I don’t say it soon I’ll erupt. I tell her some of the things that I told Issie. I tell her about the train journey, his family, the swimming baths, the walks and the ‘restaurants’. I’ve been talking for about twenty minutes solid and I’ve only just caught Fi’s expression. She looks bewildered.

‘What?’

‘Cut the foreplay, get to the shagging.’

I stare through her and think of the lovemaking. I can’t tell her. For one thing, some of the language is potentially shocking, even for a Scand. And two, it’s private. It’s Darren’s and mine. I can’t turn him into a character in a short story. The phone rings and Fi reaches for it.

‘Jocasta Perry’s line, Fi Spencer speaking.’ I turn to my e-mail and let Fi deal with the call. I note that she’s blushing. Then she giggles. Finally she says, ‘I’ll just check.’ She covers the hand set and behaves like a pantomime dame.

‘It’s himmmmm,’ she mouths.

‘Whoooo?’ I mouth back; it appears it’s contagious.

Fi flaps her arms up and down and rolls her eyes. In less enlightened eras she’d have been consigned to the ducking chair for less.

‘Darren.’

‘I’m not here.’

Fi looks perplexed. She makes excuses to Darren and then carefully copies down all his contact numbers. As she hangs up she passes me the note with the numbers on.

‘So you did sleep with him.’ Her tone has changed considerably from before the call. I don’t deny it; I just shrug. ‘And now you’ve lost all interest,’ she concludes. I wonder if this is what Darren has surmised. ‘Christ, Cas, you are such a love-them-and-leave-them merchant that I’m beginning to think that you were born a man and had a sex change. How can you resist him?’

I take the numbers from her and put them in the bin. ‘If he calls again, tell him I’ve left the company.’

Because of the bishop’s letter, Bale and I spend the entire day working side by side. The directors are metaphorically urinating all over the leather chairs in the executive suite. It’s not that any of them are particularly godly – far from it. But one or two of them are hoping to be mentioned in the Queen’s next honours list. Offending the Church is only one stop away from offending the government. Bale and I talk to the duty officers who work in the log room and fully analyse the complaints and compliments that the show has received since its conception. The duty officers are loyal and pragmatic and go some way to reassuring Bale that everything is cool. I suspect the loyalty is inspired by George, the duty office manager, who talks to my breasts.

‘People are always more likely to complain than praise. The Great British Public complains about everything.’ George shrugs; my breasts don’t comment but let him continue. ‘This bishop thing, don’t sweat it. It’s always the mad ones who complain. I’ve had letters saying that we are biased against smokers, that they don’t like the colour of the dress that the newscaster is wearing.’ I don’t interrupt to say I have some sympathy – our newscasters are sartorially challenged. ‘During the Rugby World Cup we received complaints about the TV angles, that the Union Jack was upside down.’

‘Was it?’

‘I don’t know. They said Shirley Bassey was miming, which was definitely a lie. That the action was too much for epileptics and migraine sufferers. We are no longer a nation of shop-keepers but a nation of whiners.’

I’m pleased – these examples discredit the people who complain, they seem petty and small-minded. I thank George for his time, with my special smile. It’s wasted because as wide as it stretches it doesn’t stretch to my breasts.

Bale and I also meet the scheduling and marketing departments. By midday we have a convincing response for the executive committee and, although we have the entire afternoon scheduled for debate, I know it won’t be longer than an hour before the meeting breaks down and someone walks out. It’s inevitable, with so many egos in the room. I’m delighted when my prediction comes true. The only director who really does object to my show is bullied and humiliated sufficiently for him to leave in disgust within an hour. We agree to take our response to The Times. I am packing away my electronic Filofax when Gary, the commercial director, taps my arm.

‘Well done, girl.’ I smile. He nods enthusiastically and his mop of blond curly hair bounces up and down, putting me in mind of a cherub. It strikes me that I wouldn’t have drawn this comparison before my foray into sentimentality. I’m disgusted with myself. I try to concentrate on what he’s saying.

‘Buoyant term one. Going gangbusters. Twelve up. First stab, six up. The star performer in the quadrangle. Product categories are all up. Deal credit no deal debt. All thanks to ambitious penises. Well done, girl.’

I haven’t a clue what any of this means. The language is deliberately ambiguous. But Gary smiles at me and as I have only ever seen him smile when he talks about football, I figure that the commercial director is happy.