Free Mr. Commitment by Mike Gayle Page B

producer”—she pointed at a group of unfeasibly trendy twenty-somethings, their faces obscured in a haze of Marlboro Light smoke—“and dragged them here to see you. And I have to say it was worth it. You were brilliant tonight. So relaxed and confident.”
    “Cheers,” I said diffidently. I could feel my forehead furrowing apprehensively—partly because I always got embarrassed by compliments but mainly because I hadn’t the faintest clue how Mark had got hold of a tape of one of my gigs. He had mentioned to me several weeks ago that a friend of his who worked in TV was looking for a comedian. He’d even given me the address to send the tape to. It was still on the kitchen cork notice board back at the flat.
    “What are you up to now?” asked Alexa, lighting up a cigarette and squinting in an outrageously sexy manner as the smoke got into her eyes. She noticed me staring at her. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want one?”
    I shook my head nervously. “Not at the minute.”
    Silence.
    “So?”
    I looked at her, bewildered.
    “What are you doing now?”
    “Right now?”
    She nodded.
    What am I doing right now?
    “Nothing,” I said, a little too late for it not to be totally obvious that I’d been trying to think of an excuse why I couldn’t talk to her. “Why? What do you want to do?”
    She laughed loudly, unfazed by my lack of social skills. “You go find a seat,” she said patiently. “I’ll get us a drink and we’ll have a quick chat.”
    I chose a seat as far away from the bar as possible. My friends downstairs were so Scrooge-like they were bound to send out a search party for their drinks. With my head hidden behind a large cardboard lunchtime menu, I watched as Alexa hovered in the middle of the room looking for me, seemingly unaware that nearly all the pub’s male clientele were watching her every move. I waved cautiously. As I stood up to give her a hand with the drinks, I imagined the whole pub sigh collectively as the same thought occurred to all of them: “What is
she
doing with
him
?”
    “So,” I said, sitting down, “what exactly is it you do? All Mark said was that you work in TV. What are you, a runner, researcher or a producer?”
    “None of the above,” said Alexa, laughing knowingly. “I used to present a cable TV music program about five months ago, but now I co-present
The Hot Pop Show.
”
    “I watch that!” I exclaimed a little too excitedly. I wasn’t lying either. Since Dan and I had been living together, watching Saturday morning kids’ TV had become one of the highlights of our weekend survival ritual. “I watch it every week. I’m a huge fan.” I paused. “How come I don’t remember seeing you on it?”
    “You might be a huge fan”—she smiled and took a sip of her Beck’s—“but you must have been busy for the last few weekends because I’m the show’s latest presenter.”
    She was right. I had been busy on Saturday mornings lately. Busy doing engaged-couple things with Mel.
    “Come to think of it, I might have read something about you,” I said. “In one of those men’s mags that always have about a zillion pages of car and clothing ads.”
    She smiled and delved into her shoulder bag on the floor and pulled out a magazine. “Pages fifty-six and fifty-seven,” she said succinctly as she handed it to me.
    There in full color was the woman sitting across the table from me, wearing what could only be described as La Perla–type underwear and a big grin. Across the picture ran the headline: TV ’ S HOTTEST TOTTY !
    “Nice use of light,” I said, examining the picture carefully.
    “Yeah.” She smiled. “That’s what they all say.”
    “Do you always show men you’ve just met pictures of yourself in your underwear?”
    She shook her head and smiled. “Only the nice ones.”
    We talked for quite a while. She told me about how she’d finished drama college two years ago, gone traveling in Thailand, come back to England expecting to end up