Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

I didn’t reply. I stood there, leaning against the scarred wooden desk, looking at his desk, and the seat that he had left. He’d promised his wife he’d be home early. His wife ? He’d promised his wife? No. I couldn’t believe it. Will didn’t have a wife.

I was still sitting in the office when Brian came back in. ‘Still here, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘I always knew Americans were keen.’

‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘Will, Billy. Is he married do you know?’

‘Billy? Oh yes, love, a real family man. Got a couple of kiddies too. Three of them I think.’ He smiled nicely. ‘You’re wasting your time there, love. Billy’s definitely spoken for.’

Billy. Will. A real family man. Married. Three kids.

No. No!

I gathered up my stuff and headed out of the building and back ‘home’ through town. My mind was going crazy. Will couldn’t be married. Not my Will. Certainly not so very married. Three kids? My skin went clammy with panic.

Calm down, I had to calm down. Think. I tried to think of all the possibilities. This was all pretend. It was a challenge. Like the bush tucker trial in the Celebrity Jungle thingy, only much much worse.

Yes, that’s what it was. It was just another challenge. I had my breathing almost under control. A challenge on a reality TV show. That’s what it was. All pretend. Somewhere in a viewing gallery there were people watching me and laughing themselves silly at my reaction, overreaction. It was only pretend.

Of course Will couldn’t say anything in the office. There were cameras in the office. That’s it. I’d have to get him outside. Somewhere there weren’t cameras. Somewhere where we could talk properly.

I was calmer now. It began to make a sort of sense.

But I couldn’t forget that blank look. That blank look had seemed too genuine. Could Will be that good an actor? I tried to shrug the memory from my mind.

It was a test, that’s all, just a test. But what a test …

Right now, what I needed was a drink, a very large drink. A large vodka would hit the spot. Or a nice rich red Merlot. Just the thought of it cheered me up and made life seem almost normal. I went out into the street and up into the Market Place, looking for a supermarket or an off licence, but there didn’t seem to be one, just lots of little shops, already shut up for the night. It all seemed very dark. No wine bars. No restaurants. No burger joints. Didn’t anybody ever eat out? Plenty of pubs though. Some of them looked a bit rough.

I carried on walking through the town centre. Then I saw The Fleece. Of course! The Fleece must have been a coaching inn centuries ago. It was terribly respectable, the sort of place that the Rotary meets. I bowled into one of the side bars. It was full of smoke and smelt really strongly of beer.

‘Hey you! Get out!’

I made my way past the tables and headed for the bar. The bar was already quite full and I needed some big fat chap to move his chair a bit so I could get past.

‘Excuse me,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I’d like to get past please.’

‘You can just bugger off,’ he said and turned back to his drink, with a grin at his companion.

‘There’s no need for that!’ I said crossly.

‘There’s every bloody need. You shouldn’t be in here,’ he said, still not moving. The man with him laughed – not a nice laugh – and some of the other men joined in.

I wished to God I hadn’t gone in that bar, but I wasn’t going to be bullied. I squared my shoulders and said firmly, ‘I have every right to be in here.’

‘No you haven’t. Now get out.’

I looked over at the barman. Surely he would do something.

‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘but you’re not allowed in here. Men only.’

‘Men only? That’s illegal!’

‘No it isn’t, miss. This has always been a men-only bar. You’ll have to go.’

‘You can’t have bars that are just for men!’

‘Yes you can, miss. And this is one of them. Will you go now, please.’ He made a move as though he were going to lift the counter flap and come around and chase me off.

What else could I do? With my face bright red I left, making my way past all the little tables, while some of the men still laughed. Horrid. Horrid. Hateful. Another test. I tried not to let it worry me. I pushed my way out and in the corridor opposite I saw a door marked Lounge Bar. That would be all right. I walked in, trying to calm myself down.

This room looked much nicer. Comfortable chairs, horse brasses, a log fire and an air of quiet calm. And there was a woman here – a middle-aged couple were sitting in one of the corners beneath a picture of a hunting scene. I’d be all right here. I walked up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. There was a different barman, older. He was wiping glasses.

‘A large vodka and cranberry juice please.’

He carried on wiping glasses.

I waited for a moment. I was still getting myself calmed down from the other bar. But then the barman stopped wiping glasses and started stacking bottles on the shelf.

‘Excuse me,’ I said in my Like-I’m-here-can’t-you-see-me? sort of voice. ‘Could I have a vodka and cranberry juice please?’

This time he did at least bother to look up. He put his hands on the counter and looked around the room, towards the door.

‘You on your own, madam?’

‘Yes and I’d like a large vodka and cranberry juice please.’

He looked at me, not particularly pleasantly.

‘Two things, madam,’ he said. ‘First, we haven’t got any Russian drinks. And second, we don’t serve unaccompanied ladies, madam. I’m sure you understand why.’

I was gobsmacked.

‘No I don’t actually. I haven’t a bloody clue.’

‘Language, madam, please. I can’t serve you and I must ask you to leave.’

I looked towards the middle-aged couple, thinking they’d be sympathetic and help me out here. But they were suddenly intent on the pattern on the table.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, getting really angry now. ‘If you haven’t got vodka, then give me a large glass of Merlot.’

He leant forward menacingly and said, ‘I’m not giving you anything, madam.’ Then, in a fierce undertone, ‘Now just sling your hook before I call the manager and get you put out. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want your sort in here.’

My sort? What did he think I was? A tart touting for custom?

And then it dawned on me. That’s precisely what he did think. The idea was so ridiculous I started to laugh, despite myself. I slipped off the stool and made quite a good exit. But outside I was shaking. It was ridiculous but it was also insulting. I still hadn’t got a drink. And Will had got a wife. Not a good day.

I headed back to the Browns’. I desperately needed to talk properly to Will. This was a challenge too far, no joke. I remembered his blank look and started to panic again, wanted to cry. But no, it was a game, a TV show. It wasn’t real, I reminded myself firmly. It’s not real. We’d sort it all out tomorrow.

I blew my nose on the silly little lace-edged hanky I’d found in my jacket pocket and headed for home. I wasn’t sure of the way but I strode out purposefully and kept my head held high and my expression determined. I even tried to smile – just in case those cameras were watching.

Oh they’re clever, whoever’s doing this. Clever and crueltoo. But I must not let them get to me. I’m not going to let them. Whatever nasty sneaky tricks they pull.

I thought the 1950s house was going to be about practicalthings – like doing without decent wine and hotshowers, wearing scratchy underwear and not being ableto do my hair. Not psychological warfare. But then Iremembered a piece Caz wrote last year about how cruelreality TV was getting. Every new series pushes thebarriers a bit further. The last one locked people alonein the dark for days on end. They were so disorientatedthey lost all sense of reality and of who they were. Publicexecutions are the next step, Caz reckoned. But I thinkshe’s wrong. I think it’s mind games to see who can copebest. That’s why there was no warning, no preparation.Well, no one’s going to make a victim of me. Certainlynot for a TV programme. Certainly not for a TV programme I didn’t ask to be in. Not even after theirlatest trick.