icky arrives at the Wolseley fifteen minutes later than planned. She’d waited ages for a cab, and then got stuck in traffic, so she’s slightly more flustered than she had planned as well.

The waitress leads her through the beautiful people, through the famous and wannabe famous, to a table where a thin, bespectacled man with a large smile immediately jumps up and extends his hand.

‘You must be Vicky,’ he says. ‘I’m Hugh. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ She shakes hands then turns to his colleague, a small, pretty girl with blonde hair and freckles who looks about twelve.

‘Hi,’ she smiles as well. ‘I’m Elsa. I’m the director. It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve been reading your magazine for years.’

‘Great,’ says Vicky, wondering how this child could possibly have been reading Poise! for years when she looks like she graduated from kindergarten a few weeks ago. ‘Our editor, Janelle Salinger, will be joining us as soon as she gets out of a meeting. I hope that’s okay.’

Hugh pulls out a chair for Vicky telling her it’s fine, that Vicky is the one they’re most interested in, and as he steps away from her chair he raises an encouraged and pleased eyebrow at Elsa. Vicky’s perfect. Already, after two minutes, he can tell the camera’s going to love her.

‘Here,’ he says, sliding his card over the table. ‘Let’s start with giving you my business card so you can get hold of me any time you want.’

Vicky takes the card, studies it briefly then looks up at Hugh in disbelief, a smile twitching around her lips.

‘Hugh Janus?’ she says finally, a giggle breaking out. ‘Is that really your name? Huge Anus?’

Hugh sighs his exasperated sigh because this happens every time. ‘No,’ he says slowly, ‘it’s Janus. Pronounced Jan-us. Not Jayn-us. It’s Hugh Jan-us.’

‘Oh come on.’ In her nerves Vicky feels on the brink of hysteria. ‘Seriously. That can’t be your name.’

‘I know. It’s horrific,’ he shrugs, with an apologetic grin. ‘But at least I’m not fourteen any more.’

‘School must have been horrendous.’ Vicky is fascinated.

‘Yup. You can’t even imagine.’

‘Yes I can.’ Vicky grins. ‘Did they ask if you had a brother called Lar?’

‘Large anus!’ Elsa starts cracking up with laughter, and Vicky joins in, even though Hugh doesn’t seem to find it particularly funny.

‘And what about your cousin Sor?’ Elsa says eventually, wiping the tears from her eyes.

There’s a long silence as Vicky and Hugh look at a delighted Elsa. ‘Oddly enough,’ Hugh says in disbelief, shaking his head at Elsa’s delighted smile, ‘no. No one ever asked if my cousin was called Sor Jaynus.’

‘Oh God,’ Elsa flushes. ‘How stupid am I?’ And it sets off another round of laughter.

‘Well this is very professional,’ Hugh says finally, when order is returned. ‘So much for a business lunch.’

‘How in the hell does anyone keep a straight face with your name?’ Vicky asks. ‘Seriously, what were your parents thinking?’

‘They didn’t think, basically. My actual name is Hugo, which is fine. Hugo Janus doesn’t elicit any kind of response whatsoever, other than people assuming I’m an upper-class twit…’

‘Are you?’ Vicky grins.

‘Do I seem like it? Don’t answer that!’ he says. ‘But no, I’m neither upper class nor a twit, but once I got to secondary school everyone, not surprisingly, started calling me Hugh, and unfortunately it stuck, which caused endless mirth amongst the stars of the last reality show I did.’

‘Hang on,’ Vicky says, as the wheels of her memory start churning. ‘You’re not the guy who did The Robinsons, are you?’

Hugh nods. ‘Yup. That’s me.’

‘I loved that show!’

‘I was the director on that too,’ Elsa interjects. ‘That’s how we started working together.’

‘Didn’t you win a Bafta for that?’

‘It currently has pride of place in my loo. Every time the cleaner comes she moves it to the mantelpiece, and every time she leaves I put it back in the loo.’

‘But why? You ought to be proud of it.’

‘I am, just embarrassed for it to be out. It’s the first thing everyone comments on when they come over, and it means a half-hour chat about whether the Robinsons were really as awful as they appeared.’

‘Were they?’

‘Worse,’ he says with a smile, as the waitress comes over to see if they are ready to order.

Vicky hasn’t done her research. Normally before a meeting such as this she would have, at the very least, googled the person in question to find out who they are and what they have done. Had she not been so busy sorting through the responses to Life Swap, had she in fact found the time to google Hugh Janus, here’s what she would have found:

Hugh Janus is thirty-nine years old, a graduate of Bristol University where he studied English and Drama, before going straight into the London Daytime Television graduate training programme.

After joining Channel 4 he became one of the leading lights in the new phenomenon of reality television. Initially copying successful American shows like The Bachelor and Survivor, Hugh Janus went on to make the biggest breakaway hit of last year, The Robinsons.

The Robinsons are a family who live on a council estate in Peckham, south London. The mother is a drug dealer, as is Wayne, the oldest son. Darren, the middle son, is in prison for GBH. Warren, the youngest son, is in training to go into the family business, and Kylie, the fourteen-year-old, is trying to give up smoking and find a job as she looks after her baby daughter, Paris.

Hugh found the Robinsons after reading a newspaper article about them. They were dubbed the Family from Hell after all the neighbours had requested the council move them because of the constant noise, aggression, and threatening behaviour from the Robinson family, and their six pit bull terriers.

The Daily Mail had run a double-page spread on the family entitled ‘Neighbours from hell!’, accompanied by a large colour photo of the family staring belligerently into the camera, with other, smaller photos of frightened-looking neighbours alongside.

It had been Hugh’s idea to follow the family for a year. ‘You don’t get better television than this,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t have to do anything. Just plant the cameras and we’ve got gold.’ He got their phone number, but every time he phoned they told him to fuck off, and slammed the phone down.

Eventually he borrowed a mate’s beaten-up Volvo – his own 1978 Alfa Romeo Spider was not a car he was going to take to this council estate in Peckham, no matter how desperate he was for the work – filled it with beer, cigarettes, and pigs’ ears for the dogs, which Sheila Robinson, the mother, had referred to in the Mail as ‘her babies’, and drove down to Peckham, turning up on their doorstep.

‘Fuck off,’ Sheila said, attempting to slam the front door in his face as a baby wailed in the background.

‘I’ll pay you,’ he shouted as the door slammed. There was a long silence, then just as he was about to turn around and leave, the door opened again and Sheila blew a large cloud of smoke into Hugh’s face.

‘How much?’ she scowled, and after Hugh mentioned the figure he’d agreed with Channel 4 in advance (he knew there would have to be money involved, why else would the Robinsons agree to do it? Kylie was the only one who might enjoy her fifteen minutes of fame, but there was no way the others would agree to something like this without being paid, particularly when the Mail had to fork out several thousand pounds just to get the photograph), Sheila stepped aside and gestured for Hugh to come in.

‘Posh git,’ she called him from the first, but he figured it could have been a lot worse, and he suspected that after a while she actually grew quite fond of him. Hugh and the crew spent a year filming their every move, editing the hours and hours of footage into one-hour weekly slots that held the nation riveted for the best part of six months.

‘Makes Wayne and Waynetta Slob look like Charles and Camilla,’ he later joked to the head honchos at Channel 4. Except he wasn’t joking.

And this is what Vicky would not have found out about Hugh Janus, despite scrolling through the multiple pages:

He is the younger of two boys, was brought up in Gloucestershire, and owns one cat, called, rather unimaginatively, Cat. Cat sleeps on Hugh’s side of the bed every night, curled up on his pillow, purring into his face.

He lives in a basement flat in Notting Hill with his girlfriend – Lara – who he has been with for seven years, and who he is planning on marrying, when he can find the time. Lara is also in television – they met when she was a researcher on one of his shows whilst still at London Daytime Television.

Lara is now head of factual programming at London Daytime Television, and they joke about how powerful she is. Hugh has been approached many times to go corporate, but he loves the day-to-day producing, has no wish to be a suit, to commission others to do the work he so loves.

They have the perfect relationship. Or at least, perfect for them. They understand one another completely, do not feel the slightest hint of jealousy or insecurity if one or other is spending the evening in the pub with the rest of the gang, and have successfully merged their friends to create a hip media crowd who live mostly in Notting Hill if successful, or in Kilburn and Queens Park if not quite up to the same level.

The only fly in the ointment, if it can be described as such, is that Lara has started talking about having children, and Hugh just isn’t sure that he’s ready. He likes their life. No, loves their life. Is very happy with Lara and Cat, and can’t see how a child would fit into it.

His brother, Will, has three children whom Hugh adores, and every time he and Lara go up to Islington to see Will, Lara delights in seeing how Hugh plays with his niece and nephews: he leads them down to the woods at the bottom of the garden and creates secret clubhouses complete with passwords and magic doorways.

He spends entire afternoons sitting at the kitchen table with them, making pretend passports that will allow them entry into worlds of enchantment and surprise, weaving myths and fairy tales that leave the children breathless with excitement whenever they learn he is coming to see them.

‘How can you not be ready for children?’ Lara always asks when they leave. ‘Look at what an amazing uncle you are! You’re going to be an incredible father, and I don’t believe you’re not ready. It’s just an excuse. And anyway, when is anyone ever ready for children? If we all waited until we were ready there would never be any children born at all. We just need to do it, we’ll worry about whether we were ready afterwards.’

For some time now Lara has thought about just getting pregnant, telling Hugh she didn’t know how it happened. For the longest time they used condoms, and she actually thought about sticking a pin through the packet to try and fall pregnant; the only thing stopping her was the thought of Hugh seeing the hole and realizing what she had done.

Recently she switched to the pill, telling Hugh it’s to balance her hormones, although her latest plan involves not taking the pill, and when she becomes pregnant telling Hugh that she had taken a course of antibiotics which negated the effects of the pill.

But she hasn’t quite got the nerve to go through with it. Not yet. Last year she put it off until her work schedule became easier, only that never happened. This year she keeps telling herself, and her girlfriends, that she’s going to go through with her plan, but although it seemed like a good idea at the time, the idea of the deception, the scale of the lie, is not something she’s certain she can live with.

So in the meantime she’s trying to persuade Hugh to change his mind. He would be a wonderful father, that much she’s certain of, and surely it’s just a matter of time.

‘We think it would be a great documentary.’ Hugh leans forward and looks Vicky square in the eye. ‘It was only ever a matter of meeting you and seeing if you have what it takes, and then of course meeting your choice for the life swap, but you’re the first step and I’d say this is going pretty well.’

‘Oh?’ Vicky raises an eyebrow and pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning if you’d been completely lacking in charisma and personality then I would have had to think twice.’

‘And what if I’d been desperate to become famous? How would you have got out of it?’

‘I would have come up with some excuse like the network had suddenly cancelled on me.’

‘Wimp,’ Vicky says, and Hugh and Elsa both laugh.

‘The only thing I’m nervous about is being recognized,’ Vicky says finally. ‘I’m not sure I can bear the thought of being famous just because I’m on television. It’s not like I would be well known for having achieved anything. I haven’t written a book, or invented a new kind of vacuum cleaner. I’m just being followed around by a camera crew.’

Hugh nods and leans back. ‘I do see your point, Vicky,’ he says slowly, ‘but I’m not sure that would be the case. The fact is you’re Features Director of Poise! which is one of the most popular magazines in the country. We wouldn’t be presenting you as Jo Schmo, just a woman on the street who we’re following. It would be very clear that you’re doing this as a journalistic exercise, and the publicity for Poise! would be fantastic.’

At that moment Vicky’s cell phone rings and Janelle’s voice comes through loud and clear as she apologizes profusely for being late. She claims to be stuck in a meeting, although the many junior hairdressers milling around Daniel Galvin while Janelle sits under a hair-dryer, her head covered with foil as her hair gently highlights, would beg to differ.

‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she croons to Vicky over the phone. ‘Do you mind handling it by yourself? Will you apologize for me?’

‘Of course,’ Vicky says, unsurprised, as Janelle is known not only for her creative brilliance, but for her unreliability and unfailing charm.

‘As I was saying,’ Hugh continues, once Vicky has explained Janelle’s absence, ‘it would be great publicity for Poise!, plus you mentioned it’s not as if you’ve written a book, but I see no reason why you don’t use this for a book. We could tie them in together. Now that really could be a ratings winner.’

‘Hmmm.’ Now it’s Vicky’s turn to sit back. ‘That is an interesting idea.’ Something catches her eye as she sits there, and she turns her head to see a familiar face whose eyes meet hers at exactly the same moment.

‘Oh shit,’ she whispers, as Jamie Donnelly blinks, looks at who she’s sitting with, then quickly starts making his way over to the table as Vicky feels a hot flush rising up her cheeks.

‘Hugh!’ Jamie Donnelly is standing there shaking hands with Hugh; the pair of them clearly know each other well.

‘Jamie! How are you, mate?’ Hugh grins as he turns to introduce Jamie, first to Elsa who seems suddenly tongue-tied, and then he turns to Vicky. ‘And this is Vicky Townsley, Features Director of Poise!.’

‘We know each other,’ Vicky mumbles, willing the flush to disappear from her cheeks, barely able to look Jamie Donnelly in the eye. What she wants to say is, ‘You bastard. How could you not call? How could you not be who you appeared to be? Who I wanted you to be? Bastard!’

But of course she doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him and wishes she didn’t think he was so handsome. Didn’t remember how he tasted. How he looked when he had raised himself up on top of her and leant down to kiss her with lust-glazed eyes, moving down her body, down to her stomach, down further as she swooned with anticipation and passion.

Vicky Townsley stands in the middle of the Wolseley and again feels a shiver of excitement at the memory. Oh shit. This isn’t supposed to happen.

‘Vicky,’ Jamie says softly, moving forward and kissing her on the mouth, except at the last minute Vicky turns her head slightly so he just catches the corner of her lips.

‘I’m going to have to assume you two know each other, then?’ Hugh laughs, as Elsa bites her lip in envy.

‘Oh yes,’ Jamie says, never taking his eyes off Vicky. ‘I’ve been meaning to call you, Vicky,’ he says, and despite herself, despite the pictures she’s seen of Jamie Donnelly and Denise Van Outen, despite the fact he never called, Vicky feels her heart skip with hope.

‘You know where I am,’ she finally manages, the coldness in her voice betraying her feelings. The feelings that haven’t changed. The hope that still remains. That somehow the papers got it wrong. That he wasn’t with those other women, that he’s been desperately trying to track Vicky down, to tell her he wants to see her again, can’t stop thinking about her.

‘What are you doing after lunch?’ he says, his eyes focused intently on hers.

‘Back to work,’ she says, even though she doesn’t want to. Wants to cancel her afternoon, call in sick, something, just to follow Jamie Donnelly wherever he wants to take her.

‘I’ll call you later,’ he says, as Hugh raises his hands up in the air.

‘Whoa, you two,’ he laughs. ‘Talk about serious chemistry. Should Elsa and I leave?’

‘No, you’re all right,’ Jamie says. ‘Vicky and I just have some unfinished business to take care of. Speaking of which, you and I never followed up on the meeting we had about that comedy show. I’d still love to work with you, Hugh. Loved The Robinsons. Really. Fantastic show.’

‘I’ll call you,’ Hugh says. ‘Sorry I didn’t get in touch after that meeting, but life’s been crazy. Let’s do lunch. Next week?’

‘Sounds great. Nice to see you. And Vicky,’ he turns to Vicky and touches her lightly on the arm as a shiver goes through her, ‘I’ll call you in an hour.’

‘So…’ Hugh grins at Vicky.

‘Okay,’ Elsa butts in. ‘Can I just say that if you’ve shagged Jamie Donnelly I may have to kill you.’

‘Ah,’ Vicky grimaces. ‘Am I allowed a final dessert?’

‘I knew it!’ Elsa says. ‘God, I am so jealous! Jamie Donnelly! I love him!’

‘What’s going on with you and Jamie Donnelly?’ Hugh grins. ‘Because clearly something is.’

Vicky shrugs and shakes her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. Something did happen but it didn’t seem to lead to anything.’

‘He’s a nice guy,’ Hugh says, ‘but are you concerned about his reputation as a womanizer?’

‘Womanizer? Who? Jamie Donnelly? No! You’re not serious!’ Vicky clutches her heart as if in shock.

‘Okay, okay. Not that it’s any of my business, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I’m a big girl,’ Vicky says. ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Just as long as you don’t end up either getting married or having a broken heart before we start filming. The whole point of this exercise is that you’re single.’

‘Hang on a minute. I haven’t agreed to do it yet. There’s a hell of a lot to think about. You have to give me some time. Plus we haven’t even found the person we’re going to swap with yet.’

‘What kind of people are on the shortlist?’

‘The names themselves won’t mean anything to you, but there’s Sarah Evans, Sally Lonsdale, Hope Nettleton and, funnily enough, a woman in America called Amber Winslow. I can email details about them to you when I get back to the office.’

‘There’s someone from America? You mean you’d actually go to America to do this? Okay. Well I suppose we could find it in the budget to do that if that’s what you decided, although if we did go ahead with the filming I think we ought to be in on the selection process. How would you feel about that?’

‘Let me speak to Janelle. I know that at the moment she’s most keen on the American woman because she’s obsessed with the show Desperate Housewives, and Amber Winslow sounds like she’s a real-life Desperate Housewife. She’s out in the suburbs in an enormous house with a golden retriever, two kids, a four-wheel drive and a husband she never seems to see. Janelle thinks it might be far more interesting to swap with her, but I’m trying to set up some meetings with the women here, and I’ve still got to get in touch with Amber Winslow.’

‘I think your editor may have a point. Real-life Desperate Housewives. That might be television gold. Just let me know as soon as you decide so we can set up a meeting with the swap. Vicky, let me tell you, I’ve got a really good feeling about this.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Vicky says as the waiter comes back to the table. ‘Because quite frankly I don’t know what in the hell I was thinking.’