After the Break

All her friends loved Adam, but Dee had expressed reservations. ‘He seems just a teensy-weensy bit self-obsessed,’ she told Katie, during a drunken night out with the girls.

Now, eight months on, Katie had to confess that she was beginning to feel she came a poor second to his business. He was expanding Wolf Days Productions, and they were taking on new staff. He did invite her to some of the business dinners, but they were dull, involving talk of editing suites and cabling. She had tried to lighten one up by brightly announcing that coconuts killed 150 people a year. Adam had had the temerity to tell her to be quiet. In front of everyone. It had taken her so much by surprise that she had immediately phoned her friends to discuss the state of her relationship.

She met her perennially single friend Kathy at their favourite budget café, its gay plastic tablecloths covered with garish pictures of vegetables. They ordered enormous frothy cappuccinos. Katie took all the foam and chocolate sprinkle off the top of hers and ate it before she addressed the matter in hand. ‘He seems really keen one minute, then cools off the next,’ she said. ‘I know he’s busy businessing at the moment, but it’s making me feel needy. And I hate feeling needy.’

‘Maybe it’s because you don’t have a job,’ said Kathy, who was juggling two, and still not earning enough to make ends meet.

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

‘Well, you are what you do, and you’ve done bugger-all of any consequence for rather a long time.’

Katie had been limping along by writing for newspapers and magazines, hosting awards ceremonies and standing in for people on local radio. ‘There’s not much about,’ she said ruefully. ‘I was offered Celebrity Masterchef, but I hate cooking anything that’s not vegetable soup. And I couldn’t do the meat thing. A mate of mine, who was training to be a chef, gave it all up after he had to debone a whole pig. Apparently shot the shoulder ball, or whatever it was, into an enormous trifle made by the head pastry chef. Nobody saw it happen, but he was convinced that if he confessed the pastry chef would kill him. And that if he didn’t, he’d be up before the beak for killing a trifle-eater with E. coli or whatever you get from uncooked pork.’

‘Tapeworms.’

‘Nope. Don’t think it was a tapeworm. Anyway, he said he felt sick, drove home and never went near the place again. He presents some show on BBC4 now.’

‘Food?’

‘No, thanks. Unless they have one of their special lemon meringue pies. Why? You hungry?’

‘I meant, does he present a programme about food?’

‘Oh. No. I think it’s vaguely intellectual. He was telling me something about Einstein’s brain being bigger in one area than another and scientists trying to work out whether it developed like that or had always been that way. It seemed to me that it was a bit difficult to prove. I mean, it’s not as though you can cut the top off people’s heads to look at their brain–like peering into a boiled egg–to find out whether nature or nurture is responsible for what’s going on in it.’

‘What was his answer?’

‘I don’t recall.’

The inside of the café was steamy. Katie rested her hands on her cup to warm them. ‘Hey, talking telly for a minute, did you see that beast Keera Keethley on Hello Britain! this morning?’ she asked.

‘Why do you watch that programme? It only annoys you,’ said Kathy, who had witnessed the hurt Katie had suffered when Keera had replaced her on the Hello Britain! sofa.

The new presenter was exotically beautiful, with long black hair and blue eyes. She was also hugely ambitious, and employed publicists to make sure she was constantly in the public eye. She rarely drank alcohol, appeared at all the right events and in all the right places, and never left the house without checking in a mirror…unlike Katie, who had appeared in numerous periodicals and publications coming out of the wrong sort of places in the wrong sort of state.

‘So what did she do this morning?’

‘She was interviewing this chap from some massive quango about what they were going to do for consumers. And then–because, as we know, she’s as thick as a Scotch pancake–she asked in that sugary little-girl voice she does, “But do you have any teeth?” And he looked bemused, smiled and said, “Of course I do.” And then she looked confused. And Rod Fallón rescued her with, “Yes, she obviously doesn’t mean it literally. What Keera means is what teeth does your organization have?” And then there was a two shot with Keera looking thunderous. It was hysterical.’

‘You know, Hello Britain! suddenly sounds like it’s worth watching,’ said Kathy, rolling her eyes.

‘Yes. All right. Maybe you had to be there.’

‘Anyway. As for the Adam stuff, I’m sure he’s in love with you, just as they always bloody are.’

‘Being, as I am, the most gorgeous creature alive,’ said Katie, deadpan.

‘Frankly, I don’t know what it is. You’re an ugly muppet with no personality. It must be the smell of your feet,’ said Kathy, glancing at her watch and doing a double-take. ‘Damn. I really have to go. Enjoy your relationship for what it is. That’s what you tell me when I occasionally get lucky. See you.’ She grabbed her things.

CHAPTER TWO

All was not well at Hello Britain!. The ratings were down, and the editor was blaming everyone but himself. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. He had had a new male presenter foisted on him by The Boss. Rod Fallón had all the presence of a sock. He had been brought in as a safe pair of hands to replace the previous male presenter, who had been unveiled as a kerb-crawling sex pervert. Mike had been the consummate breakfast-television host. He had looked good, sounded good, and could do a good interview. He had been able to turn a difficult situation into must-watch television with a sense of aplomb. Rod could do a passable interview–period, as they would have said in the States. He was grey in every sense of the word. And that, coupled with the easy on the eye, but essentially dim Keera Keethley, was not pulling in the viewers.

Simon gazed out of the window, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, pulling the thin material tight over his bony haunches. As he waited for the news editor and the producers to come in for their morning meeting, he mulled over what was needed to give the show a boost–something that everyone would be talking about.

He turned as they walked in. ‘Morning,’ he said nastily. ‘Not a good one, frankly, was it?’

The news editor, Colin, was taken aback. ‘Oh. I thought it was. Bounced along. Lots of content,’ he said.

‘Flat as a tea-tray and about as inspiring,’ said Simon, sitting down and tapping some of the keys on his computer. ‘There was nothing that would have got me tuning in. We could start with some intelligent bloody conversation. What the hell was Keera doing asking what a potato clock was when Rod quite clearly said he’d got up at eight o’clock?’

‘I think she thought it was funny’

‘We both know she doesn’t think,’ said Simon, bitchily.

Colin was surprised. What he couldn’t have known was that Keera could no longer be bothered to flirt with the programme’s editor. Knowing that she wouldn’t be sacked now that Katie and Mike had gone, she had no further use for the little tête-à-têtes she’d had when she’d first got her feet tucked firmly under the famous Hello Britain! sofa.

Consequently, Simon’s view of her had altered. The stirring in his loins was still there when he caught the glimpse of thigh and panties she flashed so regularly on the show it had almost become her trademark, but her lack of intelligence grated. That morning, she had called some starving Africans ‘emancipated’. You could get away with that sort of mistake if you were seen as innately clever. People assumed you knew the right word. The problem was that Keera probably didn’t.

‘Right,’ said Simon, clenching his small buttocks in the pale blue trousers. I have decided that we need one of our presenters out and about. Next week we’ll go on the road. We’ll do OBs every day’

There was a subdued groan. Outside broadcasts were a recipe for disaster. There was disruption, chaos…and that was just the presenters’ and crew’s home lives. There was so much to organize, so many things to go wrong, and therefore more reasons for bollockings from Simon, who relished them.

‘I want a different town every day. You can forget about Northern Ireland, but I want one morning in Wales and one in Scotland. One in the north, one in the south-west, the other wherever. But not London. And I want a proper reason for us to be there, not some made-up crap. Now. What have we got for tomorrow?’

The rest of the meeting was conducted in the usual bear-pit manner, with one person being picked on for a special mauling.

Afterwards they spilled out in silence.

‘I don’t see why it’s so awful to do OBs,’ Kent, the producer, said to Heather, wrinkling his nose in confusion. ‘I’ve never been on one, but they sound like good fun.’

Heather was a senior producer, and had been there long enough to have seen knee-jerk reactions to low ratings before. They never worked. Only one thing did, in her opinion. Good content. Good interviewees. And good interviewers. She couldn’t be bothered to explain that to Kent. He was besotted with Keera and would have been happy to watch a three-and-a-half-hour programme of her applying her lipgloss. Mind you, she thought wearily, it would be a damn sight cheaper than going on the road.

She wished she’d taken the job at the BBC when it had been offered five years ago. It had been a lot less cash, but she wouldn’t now be dreading going on the road with Keera. She was difficult enough to nursemaid when she was at the end of a button hard-wired into her ear…

In his office, Simon sat at his keyboard and rattled off an email to Rod, Keera and Dee. He smiled. Sending emails that he knew would disrupt his presenters’ lives was one of the delights of the job. He wondered how long it would be before he got the phone calls, and in which order they would come. He looked at his watch.

Keera was having a meeting with her new agent. At least, she was hoping he’d be her new agent. She had accidentally sacked the first one. She really didn’t like it when things were unplanned. She had phoned to tell him to pull his finger out. ‘I really should be doing better than I am,’ she had said. ‘I’m a high-profile presenter but what have I been offered? Nothing that I want to do. You need to get out there and be hustling on my behalf. It’s up to you to make it happen. I said I wanted my own show, and I see no sign of it happening.’

She always liked to hear herself sounding firm. In control. Serious. She even drummed her burgundy-lacquered nails on the table as she was talking, admiring the way they looked.

But he had told her that if she felt like that, perhaps it was time for them to part company. Taken by surprise, she had agreed.

The agent had not been unhappy. He was relieved to see her go, despite the money she brought in for his company. She was high maintenance, constantly demanding more meetings, more action, more show reels sent to more people who couldn’t possibly have anything to offer. He could do without her running his staff ragged in pointless exercises.

So Keera had phoned Matthew Praed, who was considered one of the best. He also charged a punitive commission, and demanded his clients follow his advice even if they felt it was against their morals, principles or best future interests. For her first meeting with him, she had chosen a slim-fitting black suit and high red stilettos.

‘Obviously, most people know me as a war correspondent and journalist,’ she said, to his amusement, since most people knew her for the naked photo shoot she had done shortly after joining Hello Britain!. ‘But I don’t really see myself as a newshound.’ She crossed her immaculately stockinged legs, giving him a flash of black-lace panties. ‘I want to be more famous than the people I interview. Actually, I probably am more famous than most of them. But I want to be someone whose name is so well known that I’m just Keera, no surname required. I know that sounds a little, perhaps, ridiculous…’ She tried out the latest smile she had been practising, which involved a shy look up through her fringe, then polished it off with the laugh she felt she had almost perfected. As it rang out, she wondered whether there should be a touch more bass. ‘But if you can’t be honest with your agent,’ she finished, ‘then who can you be honest with? I suppose my dream job would be my own show. Michael Parkinson, only younger and more female.’

Matthew was not surprised that she wanted her own show. Every presenter did. And he liked her sheer determination and naked ambition. It was what had driven him from his first job in a relative’s nascent porn-film business to the über-agency he now ran out of a smart address in London’s West End. He had many famous names on his books, and was well aware of the money that could be made at the high end of television. Normally he would have turned over a breakfast presenter to one of the five agents who worked for him, but he decided that until he had added her to his burgeoning number of bed notches, Keera would be under his aegis.

Matthew Praed was a renowned philanderer, and few women had not succumbed. He was a committed collector, and a commitment phobe. Today his well-honed body was clothed in an Ozwald Boateng brown suit, with a thin orange stripe, and a white T-shirt. Absolutely,’ he concurred. ‘One should always be honest with one’s agent. Best to set out your stall straight away. What else are you doing at the moment apart from Hello Britain!? And I assume you’d leave the programme if the right job came up?’

‘Too right I would,’ she responded with alacrity. ‘And as for other things that I’m doing, well…all I keep getting offered are programmes where I have to strip off.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps that’s understandable, considering that you’ve done a number of photo shoots where you’ve appeared naked.’

‘Yes, but I don’t have to tell you how different it is doing a photograph naked and being naked doing a television programme.’

‘Of course not,’ he said soothingly. Before their meeting he had enjoyed looking through the magazines and newspaper articles featuring Miss Keethley. She was a very knowing model, he thought. ‘So where would you draw the line?’

Keera pursed her lips. Then, worried that she might not look very attractive in that pose, she relaxed them. She made sure her voice was well modulated and began to explain. ‘As I said, I don’t want to be seen only as a journalist. But I’m aware that the news side of it does carry a certain, erm…What’s the word?’

‘Cachet?’ he supplied.

‘Yes. Probably,’ she said. She had thought a cachet was something you kept your jewellery in. But obviously not. And I don’t want to lose that entirely by prancing about in my swimwear.’

‘I see,’ he said, smiling encouragingly and glancing towards her short skirt as it edged up slightly.

She was delighted to notice that. Apart from hosting my own show, I think what I would like to do,’ she said, wriggling slightly in her seat, ‘is to keep that journalistic allure, as it were, while actually going more entertainment-based. You know that I got the job on the sofa because of my war reporting.’

It had been something of a standing joke in the newsroom. Her first report had been so unutterably bad that the producers had had to write the rest and fax them to her so that she could rehearse them. What she had done well was deliver the words. And obviously no one could dispute that she had actually been in a war zone–albeit a very well-protected part of it.

‘So I’m talking more…Oh I don’t know…more University Challenge than Love Island.’

Matthew was enjoying this meeting. He liked Keera’s chutzpah, no matter how misguided she was. He tried not to let his face show his incredulity. University Challenge! ‘I think Jeremy Paxman’s got that pretty well wrapped up,’ he said, ‘but I get where you’re coming from.’ He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles, admiring the soft leather of his Italian brogues. ‘I’m sure we can get something brewing. If you’re OK with our terms and conditions, I’ll get my secretary to send over a contract. And in the meantime I can start setting up some meetings. I have quite a good relationship with Wolf Days Productions, who are big players in the television world, as you know,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘They were one of the ones who wanted me to do a programme wearing nothing,’ she said, with a complicated sigh that was supposed to indicate it was understandable that everyone wanted a piece of her.

‘Yes, well, they’ve always got something on the go, and it doesn’t hurt to put your name out there,’ he said, then dragged a large desk diary towards him. ‘How are you fixed at the moment date wise?’

She reached into her Chanel bag for her BlackBerry. She noticed that an email was waiting from Simon, and quickly read it. Damn, she thought, as she scrolled through to her diary. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if we’re talking about a one-hour meeting, max, I can do a week on Monday straight after the show. It’ll get me out of the morning meeting at Hello Britain!, which is always tedious.’

‘Better give me a few more days, just in case. And maybe tell me your free afternoons and evenings. Sometimes they can be more productive.’ He jotted down the dates she gave. ‘Good. I’ll come back to you when I’ve firmed things up. And, as I said, I’ll get that contract written up with our terms et cetera. It’s all pretty standard. On the assumption that you sign, welcome aboard,’ he said, standing up and holding out his hand.

She stood up, too, aware that her skirt had ridden up and was nudging the top of her thighs. She pulled it down a little. ‘Thanks very much,’ she said, taking his hand. Look at me being all businesslike, she thought. I’m like Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde. Only better, because I’m taller and, though I say it myself, better-looking. Better-sounding in the name department, too. Witherspoon. That is just so…so…withering. She made sure her handshake was firm, but not too firm.

Matthew, meanwhile, was contemplating how attractive she would look spreadeagled on his leather bed.

Outside, on the pavement, Keera phoned Simon. She was skilled enough in the politics of office life never to let her annoyance show. ‘Hello, Simon,’ she said, ‘Keera here. Are you busy?’

‘Not for you,’ he said, adjusting his trousers and checking his watch. He was out by an hour. Must be losing his touch. Although he’d been right that she would be the first to ring.

‘Just to let you know that obviously I’m delighted we’re going on a little roadshow,’ she said. ‘Brilliant idea. I was just wondering whether it was worth one of us staying in the studio because, as we know, with the best will in the world, things can go wrong and you could do with a safe pair of hands to anchor it.’ She really didn’t want to be traipsing round the country meeting the hoi polloi and being pawed by local dignitaries. It was so depressing.

‘Hmm,’ said Simon, pretending to think about it. ‘So we’d have Rod back in the studio, you mean?’

Keera laughed her new laugh. Only lower. Finally, she thought. Absolutely pitch perfect. ‘Whatever,’ she said, pertly. ‘Although, as the main presenter, I was actually thinking that perhaps it should be me…’ She tailed off.

‘Oh,’ said Simon, examining the chewed cuticles on his left hand and smiling to himself. ‘I saw the main presenter as the one who was going to be at the hub. And the hub will be wherever we’re going to be. The other person will be the co-anchor, and there’ll be less for them to do. Which was why it was going to be you. But if you’re happy with Rod being main presenter for the week…’

Keera had been caught out. She had insisted on being described in all correspondence as the main presenter. How very annoying.

‘Keera?’

‘Yes, still here. Sorry. I couldn’t hear you. I’m standing on the street and a lorry just went past.’

‘I said that the main presenter…’

‘Yes, I heard you,’ she snapped.

‘Oh. I thought you said you hadn’t,’ he said, pretending he’d believed her.

‘I meant I hadn’t quite heard you. Or wasn’t sure I’d heard you correctly. The thing is…well, to be honest, I have a number of evening corporate events, which I’m hosting.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding even remotely sorry, ‘but you’re going to have to sort that out yourself. I’m sure you’ll be able to get to one or two. You won’t be on another continent, after all.’

She realized she had been comprehensively snookered. That idiot Rod would get the cushy job of sitting on the sofa, while she trailed round Britain staying at hideous hotels with the camera crew, interviewing the general public. Hateful. And she would be losing money. There was no way she’d be able to get to and from the corporate gigs if she was in the wilds of bloody Wales, for bloody example. At least it wouldn’t be annoying for her new agent because they’d been set up by the previous one.

She phoned Matthew to see if Hello Britain! could force her to go if she decided to put her foot down.

‘Moot point,’ he said, moving his chair back from the desk and imagining her in lingerie. ‘You could push it if you wanted. But it’s a high-risk strategy. It might result in them not only sticking to their guns but demanding a change in your contract–and you really don’t want that. On balance, I think you’ll have to grin and bear it. As soon as we know where you’re going to be, we can book cars or flights or whatever. And those corporates you absolutely can’t do–well, I’ll have a word with your previous agent. Since he arranged them, it’s up to him to farm them out to someone else. I can always help him with names from our books, too.’

How annoying, Keera thought, as she hailed a cab home. She’d earmarked that money for a new car. A Mercedes SLK convertible in silver. Or possibly black. She’d have to check which one looked nicer with her hair–silver might be a better contrast.

Her co-presenter was also annoyed about the arrangements for the week of outside broadcasts. Rod had assumed that he would be the one going on the road, and had told his wife and daughter. He had been looking forward to getting away from home.

And, to complete the hat-trick, Heather was annoyed, too. Simon had decided that there was to be a plastic-surgery strand the week after the OBs and that, to save on health and safety issues with the public, producers would volunteer to undergo the procedures. He already had candidates for Botox, fillers and ears pinning. He had persuaded Heather to have her eyebags done. It had been a double whammy for her. Number one: she didn’t fancy going under the knife, even though it was a local anaesthetic and she’d be straight out. Number two: she didn’t think she needed it. But when she’d told a friend how she’d been press-ganged into having her eyelids sliced off, her friend had told her she was lucky. Lucky!

Katie Fisher caught up with all the gossip late that afternoon when she saw her senior producer friend, Richard, who had finished his stint of overnights and was about to have four days off. She caught the tube and an overground train to Twickenham, then went into a delicatessen where she bought a bottle of white, a bottle of red, some cheese, olives and a box of chocolate-covered ginger, to which she knew he was partial.

‘Provisions,’ she declared, as he opened the door.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ he responded, with a smile. ‘We were down to our last weevil.’

‘You look like shit,’ she said, giving him a hug and moving a small dumper truck off one of the chairs.

‘Why, thank you, kind lady. I wish I could say the same for you, but sadly you look great. Have you done something new to your hair?’

‘Washed it. It’s probably shrunk. You know how it is.’

Richard ran his hand through his receding hairline. ‘That’s not kind. Mine’s not so much shrinking as disappearing. I’ve got to the stage where I talk about past events as “when I had hair”.’

‘I’d feel sorry for you, except you’re such a damned fine figure of a man that you look more handsome without it,’ she declared.

‘I knew I liked you. Let’s open the first bottle of wine and have all our week’s units in one fell swoop. When do you have to go?’ he asked, opening the tub of olives and putting them on the table.

She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a few hours. Enough to do at least six or nine units, I’d have thought. Where are the children?’

‘Oooh! Are these chocolate gingers, you naughty young lady?’ he asked, picking a piece of sticky tape from the side of the container. ‘They’re out with Louise. We have a very small window of opportunity before we have to escape to the shed to continue drinking in peace and quiet.’

‘How are they?’

‘Oh, you know, a chippy thirteen-year-old, a clingy ten-year-old, and a noisy three-year-old, whose new lorry you almost sat on. Sometimes I wish I’d had the snip.’

‘You love ’em.’ She laughed and poured the wine. ‘Cheers.’ They chinked glasses and there was a companionable silence as the liquid eased its way to the right places.

Richard and Louise had met as producers on Look West–and, in the throes of new love, he had swiftly given in to her demand for impregnation. Then she had quite reasonably said she didn’t want to leave it too long for another. He really couldn’t remember the third occasion, which had resulted in Brett. He claimed she had got him drunk on his birthday and the next thing he knew she was handing him the white plastic stick with a line through the middle of the window.

‘I do love them,’ Richard confirmed ruefully, getting up to go and get a board and a knife for the cheese, ‘but they’re knackering. It would help if we didn’t both work. What with me doing mostly nights, and Louise doing mostly days, we should have it all covered. Instead we’re always trying to sort out the gaps. God knows how single parents do it. I’d have to build some sort of cage to stop the children getting out. I thought it was bad enough when they were little and keeping us up all the time or getting into trouble. Now, we’re just a glorified taxi service. Daisy and Andrew have a bigger sporting and social life than we ever did. Even Brett gets out more than I do. Does life have to be this hard?’

‘You could try being sacked as the anchor of Britain’s foremost breakfast-television station and finding another job that paid as well’

He smiled. ‘Can’t Adam give you a job?’

‘He’s got me in to do voiceovers here and there. But all the things he’s been working on since we’ve been together have needed a different presenter from me. Or he puts my name down and the commissioning editor says they want someone else. I could do with losing about fifteen years and eight stone.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Television companies demand young flesh. Or less flesh, more youth.’

‘Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the National Debt,’ he said.

She grinned. ‘Very funny’

‘I think a comedian said it.’

‘It’s so annoying when they say it first. I like the one that George Burns said about how when he was young the Dead Sea was only sick.’ She picked out one of the larger olives.

‘Anything at all in the pipeline?’

She sighed and puffed out her cheeks. ‘The usual. I get by on articles for newspapers and magazines and hosting corporate events.’

‘At least you haven’t got a thirteen-year-old stomping round the house, telling you she hates you and shutting herself up in her bedroom and picking her spots, or whatever she does.’

‘Aaah. Bless her little cotton socks. I remember Daisy when she was a sweet girl who adored her daddy. I still use her expression when I’m blow-drying my hair and it goes static’

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘This hairbrush is making my hair ecstatic,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll come out the other side,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s puberty, not a life choice. It’s predictably tedious, though.’

‘Andrew hasn’t started it yet, has he?’

‘No. Something to look forward to. And Brett, when he’s not banging his head on the walls and developing his lunge technique, is adorable.’

‘Takes after you. Oh dear. I think my glass has got a hole in it.’

‘It’s a trick one. It always does that. I think mine’s got a slow leak, too.’ He leaned over and topped up the glasses. ‘There’s also the smell. Did you have a bedroom that needed a public-health warning slapped on it when you were a teenager?’

She looked horrified. ‘Do you know to whom you’re talking? Little Miss Tidy! My mother used to ask me to give a room a lick and a polish and she’d come in to find me behind the sofa trying to get the pile up on the carpet where the feet had been.’

‘Daisy goes berserk if you so much as suggest she wouldn’t get so many spots if she washed more often, put her clothes in the laundry basket and didn’t live in a pit.’

‘I hate to break confidences, but Dee’s still like that. I once found a cheese sandwich welded to the underneath of a fake Tiffany lamp.’

He laughed.

‘Talking of which, how are things at the funny farm?’ she asked.

‘Rod Fallon’s the dullest man on earth. He’s so dull, that I almost long for Mike to be brought back.’

Katie made a face.

‘I know,’ he said. I kept telling you he wasn’t what he seemed.’

‘I still can’t quite believe it, though. I didn’t think he had much of a sex drive.’

‘Hey, that’s a good one. A new version of kerb crawling. Get it?’