Unknown - Game Over

‘Oh, no offence. There’s nothing worse than a male chauvinist pig, is there? Well, except a woman who won’t do what she’s told.’ Again he laughs. Fi is obviously unimpressed. I’m refreshed to find a man who is honest enough to tell it as he sees it. However, for Mike’s sake I hope he tries a more conventional chatting-up approach with Fi. If I could, I’d advise chocolates and compliments.

Ivor is bored with trying to control the group dynamics and his interest now lies in drawing me into a more intimate conversation. He takes advantage of Fi going to the loo and Mike going to the fag machine to invade my body space. He’s sitting on my right and he edges closer. I have nowhere to move, even if I wanted to. He puts his left arm along the back of the scruffy tartan settee. It reminds me of being in the pictures, aged thirteen.

‘So how old are you, Cas?’

‘Thirty-three.’ I never hesitate here. I’m proud to be thirty-three. I think it has much more kudos than, say, twenty-six or eighteen. I certainly feel better than I did then. It’s only women who have a biological Timex who have a problem with saying their post-thirty ages out loud. Pointless really – it’s not as though denial will turn the hands back. Anyway, I know I don’t look thirty-three. As if to prove a point and somewhat predictably, Ivor raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t bother with the cheap compliment that I don’t look my age. He knows I’ll have been told this often enough. Instead he keeps the conversation on track.

‘So when are you going to settle down and make an honest man of your boyfriend?’

‘Honesty is not my thing. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t want to be a wife.’ I smile efficiently. So Ivor’s scored a hat trick, discovering the three most important facts in one conversational turn. He taps my leg with his right hand.

‘You’re a wicked woman, Cas.’

This isn’t strictly true. But for immediate purposes it will do as a character ensemble.

‘So what do you want?’

I could tell him that I want world peace. I want Issie to find the man of her dreams. I want Josh to stop having wet dreams. I want my mother to redecorate and I want massive ratings on the next episode of Sex with an Ex.

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ I whisper as I move closer, allowing my breast to rub against his arm. I realize I’m not conforming to the traditional role of coy female. But playing hard to get is only useful if you want to keep the man in question, which I never do. I approve of the invention of paper knickers, cups, napkins, knives and forks. I adore the disposable. I smile broadly. He gulps his designer beer. Amnesia has hit. The words ‘for better, for worse’ etc. are temporarily erased from Ivor’s mind.

‘You know, just before you joined us Fi and I were discussing the fact that I make an adorable mistress.’ My voice is devoid of emotion and I could have just commented on the autumnal weather. The contrast between the piping hot statement and the Arctic delivery causes Ivor’s cock to stiffen. It’s just too much fun to resist. I look from his cock to his eyes, back to his cock. His gaze follows mine. He blushes and crosses his legs. But to be honest, he hasn’t a chance. ‘You see, I enjoy it. All of it. Dressing up, having food eaten off me. I never worry that the chocolate ice cream will stain the sheets.’

‘Meet me outside in ten minutes,’ he says, leaving before he’s finished his beer. I wonder how he’s going to hold his erection for ten minutes, as he looks fit to explode. ‘I need to call my wife. It’s just—’ I stop him saying any more. I don’t need his excuses.

‘Save it for her.’

He shows willing, in fact much too willing. His enthusiasm briefly battles with his ludicrously macho self-image. The enthusiasm wins. Ivor manages to restrain himself in the short cab ride that takes us to a hotel, and whilst he checks in. If ‘restraint’ can be used to describe a man who is intermittently swilling out my ear with his tongue. However, somewhat disappointingly for us both, he shoots his load in the hotel lift. I have very little to do with the act. Besides being there. It’s a depressing thought, but I have to face it. He could have downloaded some images from the Pamela Anderson website. His premature ejaculation has sobered both of us. I’m left frustrated. Hardly the culmination to the evening celebrating my ratings that I was expecting. I stare at Ivor, who can barely face me. The lift stops.

‘I haven’t spoken to my wife for eighteen months.’ Inwardly I sigh. If I’d realized this I wouldn’t have touched Ivor with a barge pole. I look at him. He’s grinning. ‘I don’t like to interrupt her.’

Another one of his jokes. We are both relieved and indulge in juvenile sniggers. His humour, for what it is, has saved the day. It’s not that I think this man is particularly irresistible but I do admire an ability to laugh in the face of adversity. Although I no longer want carnal knowledge of him I am aware that he has just shed out £185 for a hotel room. The least I can do is help him attack the mini bar. By the time he unlocks the hotel bedroom door it’s pretty clear that neither of us wants sex. We do both, however, need a bit of a confidence boost. I’ve never had the Pamela Anderson thought before but now I can’t shake it.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ he offers as an explanation, justification and apology all at once.

‘You don’t—’ I plan to say, ‘You don’t say,’ but I catch a glimpse of Ivor sitting on the edge of the bed. His head is in his hands. It could be the alcohol, but I think he is genuinely upset. I change tack. ‘You don’t have to apologize. There’s a first time for everyone.’

‘It’s just that recently my wife and I haven’t been getting along too well.’

‘Married long?’ I ask as I light a cigarette.

‘Four years.’

Ah, the seven-year itch. Everything is fast-track in London. I inhale deeply.

‘We’re moving house and trying for a baby. Things are tense.’

‘Oh.’ I’m engrossed in the mini bar. The hasty offload I can forgive, but if it’s marriage guidance he’s after I’d prefer it if he got a counsellor. I pour myself a brandy and try to change the subject. ‘Know any more jokes?’ It appears that the sexist and irreverent jokes have dried up. He’s insisting on showing me that he’s a decent bloke. He’s wasting his time; it’s an oxymoron and it’s late. He fishes in his wallet and pulls out a picture of his wife.

‘This is Julie.’ I hate this name and face business. I light another cigarette and realize that I haven’t smoked my first one yet. Irritated I stub it out.

‘Very nice,’ I comment, after taking a cursory glance at the picture. Julie looks like a pleasant enough woman, curvaceous, jolly, uncomplicated. She looks like a wife.

‘I do love her,’ pleads Ivor.

I take pity. Which is unusual. Am I due? It could be that. When I’m hormonal I’m moved by Heartbeat

‘Look, it’s OK.’ I sit next to him on the bed and stroke his head as if he is a Labrador. I am practised at letting them off the hook. Admittedly it’s usually post coital rather than pre. Normally I use the gentle let-down as an efficient way to get them to vacate my bedroom. ‘Nothing happened,’ I insist. I consider sharing my Pammie theory but I’m not feeling that charitable. I wonder if he’d have resisted me if I was an ex of his. I doubt it. It’s the uncharted waters that are scaring him. ‘It was the combination – availability and alcohol. My availability and your alcohol. It gets them every time.’ I try to grin. ‘Now go home to your wife.’

He readily accepts my suggestion and scrambles to his feet. He pushes his arm into the sleeve of his jacket, which, I note, he hadn’t let go of. His readiness to leave me momentarily stings, so just before the bedroom door slams closed I yell, ‘And don’t get mixed up in capers you can’t handle.’