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Under the table, I wiped my clammy palms across my jeans. “Isn’t that a bit dull?” I ventured. “Watching vines grow?”

I knew the answer already; reality shows like ours relied on the worlds they were set in. But they relied on the people too. If a fly-on-the-wall show about hillbillies flogging duck callers for a living could be a worldwide hit, anything was possible. Jonas would sell the vineyard dream to weary middle-Englanders sprawled on their sofas at the end of a day trying to make ends meet.Wow, honey, imagine upping sticks to revive a derelictvineyard!Populate it with two attractive presenters, add in a few grumpy local characters,together with a dollop of artificially engineered onscreen drama, and hours and hours of raw footage on a backdrop of pretty scenery for the editor. Bingo.

“Nah, trust me, the audience will love it.” Never one to battle with confidence issues, Jonas.

Even Leigh eyed him curiously. “But… where’s the drama? The bite?”

It was a fair question. For the second season, on medical advice, I took life easier and became a plumber’s mate. My knowledge of standpipes and ballcocks is second to none. I am the only gay man I know able to offer those tidbits of information with a totally straight face. However, despite ticking the boxes marked pretty scenery (we fixed bogs in the swankiest houses in Notting Hill) and local character (an amphetamine-soaked plumber named Daniel) it received our lowest ratings, thanks to an utter absence of tension and conflict.

“Trust,” leered Jonas in that supercilious, creepy way he had. Call me fickle, but I really struggled to see what attracted Leigh. Especially as, when we first met him, Leigh remarked he had a face like an Easter Island statue carved out of a lump of gone-off ham. Not that I had developed a jaundiced view, obviously. “Have I ever let you down?”

Nope, just shagged my husband.

“Where is this vineyard?” I asked in a disinterested fashion. Southern California would be nice. Or Margaret River. Somewhere warm all year round. And in a country big enough to put distance between me and love’s wet dreams on my days off.

“France.”

Big enough. A bit chilly in January, mind. I kept my expression neutral as Jonas continued in his dry, lawyerly voice. He wasn’t a lawyer; he was a middling, frustrated producer. UntilMy Big Gay Adventuresclimbed up the ratings, his biggesthit was an advert for low-fat cottage cheese, although listening to him talk, you’d think he was Shonda Rhimes. This week, in an endeavour to elevate his pallid features into something more interesting, he’d acquired new blue-framed spectacles. The specs had now become the most fascinating thing about him. Nudging them up his nose in an ostentatious manner, he checked his notes.

“We considered a very pretty vineyard just outside Cape Town, but the vineyard we’ve taken the lease on in France looks easier to turn around. And the bigger vineyard next door will take over thevendage—the grape harvest—in September, so all we need to worry about is getting the grapes to that point. But—this really sealed the deal—it’s only been neglected for eighteen months. And, of course, you and Leigh both speak French.”

We did, I acknowledged, with a slight nod. The three of us met while taking a year out of French degrees, working at a school in Lyon to solidify our language skills. Leigh and I fell in love speaking French. We used to whisper sweet nothings to each other while Jonas pretended to look busy. Back in those heady, youthful days, anxiety and depression only happened to other people. If Jonas had the gumption, I’d imagine he’d picked France to rub it in, but the guy wasn’t that creative—a fatal weakness in an aspirational television producer.

“And the French vineyard was considerably cheaper.”

Aah. Now we came to the crux of it. Despite our reasonable ratings successes, the viewing public’s passion for ordinary folk taking on extraordinary challenges had waned somewhat over the last couple of years, reflected in the television company’s ever-decreasing budget allocation.

“Where in France?”Anywhere but Lyon.

“An island called Ré, a couple of miles off the southwest coast.”

“Never heard of it,” I answered shortly.

“It’s not very popular with British tourists, so I wouldn’t expect you to,” Leigh explained, like I was five. Had he always been so condescending?

“And it’s very small.” Jonas jiggled his spectacles. “It’s only about eighteen miles long and a couple of miles wide.”

“There is a bridge to the mainland,” added Leigh. “Although the vineyard is towards the far end of the island, and travelling back and forth to the mainland is quite tedious. And the road toll is expensive.”

Damp tendrils of claustrophobia trickled down my spine. Since starting venlafaxine, my sympathy towards menopausal women’s hot flushes had increased a hundred-fold.

Oblivious, Leigh tapped his pen against the paperwork. “As well as doing the vineyard stuff, Jonas thinks we can incorporate some wildlife aspects into the programme too. Birds and shit. The whole island is pretty much a huge fucking nature reserve as far as I can tell.”

Birds and shit.Thatwas supposed to sweeten the pill?

‘Never work with children or animals’ was bandied about a lot in showbusiness. A stupid axiom, in my opinion. Children, for instance, didn’t trot out asinine corporate bollocks such asgrab the low-hanging fruitandlet’s touch base offline. Or, like Jonas, have a desktop calendar declaringthe only person you can truly rely on is you: what a fucking nightmare that would be if it ever became a reality. Or send abrupt texts saying,your share of the house sale is only thirty percent because my parents helped us with the deposit.

Some children were even too young to talk at all, and when they did, they asked cute questions, like,Can you do the funny voice again, Uncle Caspian? Orwhy is the sun yellow? Not awkward ones, likeis it okay ifI take the oak dining table as it was a wedding gift from my mother?

Dogs, thank fuck, didn’t talk, period. I was very fond of dogs. As long as someone threw them the occasional bone, they were more than content with having their ears stroked and emitting lethal farts at bad moments. Cats were even more superior, being independent and totally uninterested in praise, perfect colleague material. And when cats deigned to open their eyes and notice you, like the privilege was all yours, you could retaliate by chucking them out the front door for the night. If I did that to Leigh, HR would become involved.

“Apparently,” interjected Jonas, “in the summer months the place is packed with rich Parisians fleeing the city to their second homes. And posh yachting folk. Can’t move without bumping into an oversized straw boater. Business types everywhere you look, wearing deck shoes and draped in cashmere. Guzzling Aperol Spritzes and slurping oysters. Very chic.”

“Ooh la la,” I offered flatly. Maybe Jonas and Leigh would entice one of them to spice up their sex life. Could I nonchalantly crack open a window? Above my left elbow, taunting me, a newly scabbed razor cut had started to itch. The urge to pick at it through my shirt grew. “And in winter?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Dead, I should imagine.”

“We start filming in January,” added Jonas helpfully.

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