Unknown - Game Over

‘Jocasta Perry.’ A voice slices across the tranquillity.

I don’t have a chance to reply or to establish where it’s coming from.

‘Do you know what it is like to feel humiliation? Betrayal? Do you understand the pain? I don’t suppose you do with breasts like those.’

The woman who is shouting at me is in her early thirties. She has presumably been sitting in reception waiting for me but I hadn’t noticed her until she’d called out. She has fine, highlighted, shoulder-length hair. It isn’t particularly styled. She’s a comfortable size twelve or fourteen. I don’t think I actively know her and yet she has a vaguely familiar face. She looks a lot like a lot of women. She walks across the foyer and is within a foot of me. She is pointing a plump finger at me: she’s so agitated she is actually shaking and as a result the strap of her handbag keeps slipping down her shoulder. Each time it does this she stops for a second and hitches the strap back on to her shoulder. Smart mac. Gucci bag. Where do I know this woman from?

‘The people who write the letters – do you know what motivates them? Have you the slightest idea?’ I look at the security guard and make it clear that I want him on standby. Whoever this woman is, she is obviously buoyed up by Christmas spirit(s). ‘I don’t suppose you do. You obviously love yourself so much you can’t love anyone else enough to be made vulnerable.’

As I can’t believe I know her, I consider it a near impossibility that she knows me. Even my best friends would be reticent to claim they know me. So what right does she have to draw such conclusions? Cast such aspersions?

Still, she’s right.

She isn’t shouting or threatening, but her powerful anger is obvious. She’s controlling the menace, but only to show me she can. I mentally run through my Filofax and index cards. Finally I place her.

‘I know you. It’s Libby, isn’t it?’ I hold out a hand for her to shake. Libby was on one of our early shows. She’d suspected her fiancé still had a thing for his ex. She’d been right. I remember Libby because she had had such lovely taste. I remember her showing me her wedding dress and the brides-maids’ dresses; they’d been exquisite. Yes, lovely taste, except in men, that is.

She nods curtly. ‘I was scared but I was with him. Now I’m scared and alone.’

I touch her arm. She smells of teenage perfume which reminds me of Fairy Liquid. I doubt this is Libby’s because of her impeccable taste. I suspect that she went for a quick one after work and with the combination of gin and Christmas songs on the jukebox she has become maudlin. I imagine her mates geeing her on to come and track me down to tackle me. One or two of her really good friends will have tried to stop her. On noting her determination they’ve done the next best thing – doused her in their perfume.

‘He’d have left anyhow,’ I comfort.

She starts to sob. ‘Would he? Would he?’

The receptionist gives her a cup of tea and the security guard leads her to the settee. She’s telling them how lonely she is. I think she should be evicted from the building, but as it is Christmas I won’t report the lax approach of the receptionist or the guard. I head towards the door.

‘Merry Christmas, Libby,’ I shout. I pause, waiting for her to wish me a Happy New Year.

She doesn’t. Instead she grips my arm and asks, ‘Have you ever looked in the mirror and been disappointed with your reflection?’ I turn to face her and she meets my gaze. ‘Well, I loathe mine.’

7

It’s New Year’s Eve. I have two things to celebrate this evening. One, Christmas is over. I’ve watched The Sound of Music with my mum and I’m now Julie-Andrews-free for another year. And two, it’s not the millennium. That was hell. The horrible expectancy of it all. I started planning my millennium New Year’s Eve in February 1997, as I was terrified that I’d choose the wrong option for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I couldn’t decide. Cottage in the Cotswolds? Black tie in Vegas? Beach in Mauritius? There was just too much choice and every one of them with its advantages. It wasn’t simply a question of enjoying myself. I presumed that I’d manage to pull that off just about anywhere, but I soon came to realize that wherever I chose said something about me. Did I want to say Vegas or Cotswolds? Did I want glitz or serenity? In the end Josh, Issie and I had a posh dinner at Issie’s house. Josh cooked, I provided the champagne. Issie’s contribution, besides the venue, was that she managed not to have her heart broken. A first for a New Year’s Eve, at least in my memory. We then drunkenly walked up and down the River Thames, getting crushed by the crowds and watching the fireworks and the backs of several million revellers. It was great. Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s New Year’s Eve again. With all its hellish accessories. Not only does the thought of the little black dress ruin Christmas indulgence, but this year I’m not spending it with Issie and Josh. Issie is going to her parents’ party in Marlow and Josh is in Scotland with the family of his latest girlfriend.

On the up side, I am going to a glitzy industry party and if I’m not going to be with Issie and Josh, this is my second choice. Everyone who is anyone in TV will be at the Gloucester Hotel in Mayfair tonight. I have to be there. Especially this year, as I’m riding high. Perhaps the highest I’ve ever been. My show is the talk of the industry. I also consider that it is actually impossible not to score at these events. And I’m ready for it. Thinking about it, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry patch of late. There was Joe, in late August. And then the botched attempt with Ivor, which doesn’t count. I thrust these disconcerting thoughts aside, comforting myself with the fact that the combination of my current success, the fact that it is New Year’s Eve and the loose morals of those who work in the media industry mean I’m guaranteed great sex tonight. You can smell the testosterone as soon as you walk into the hotel foyer. I bristle. We have tried to disguise it with Calvin Klein perfume and aftershave, bow ties and posh frocks, but lust is tangible. A thick tension is staining the air. And although this may sound lairy, it’s not. It’s exciting. It’s fun. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

Literally.

My targets fall into two categories: victim or sparring partner. I prefer the latter but hey, a time and a place. I see him by the time we sit down to dinner. He’s on the next table. He’s glittering in the candlelight. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. After a few discreet enquiries I discover that he has a long-term girlfriend but she’s not here tonight. The very best combination – challenging but not insurmountable. I want this to be a one-night thing and really I can’t be arsed to put in weeks of prep. Chances are he’ll be going through a rough patch. They always are. He’ll tell me that this is because his girlfriend doesn’t understand him. Of course the opposite is true.

The dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne. Bale is as pompous as hell, but at least I don’t get caught under the mistletoe with him, as Di does. Fi, Ricky and I have a huge giggle, spreading gossip, spiking drinks and strutting our stuff on the dance floor. I’m having so much fun that I almost forget that I plan to score. But as the clocks strike midnight and Fi and Ricky both disappear to snog their chosen boys, I look around for my target. Of course it’s not a coincidence that he is standing just a few feet away from me. He wasn’t oblivious to the smouldering glances I threw across the melon balls; nor was he averse to returning them.

I don’t kiss him on the dance floor because he does have a girlfriend. I can do without the gossip and uproar which would ensue after such an obvious display of our intentions. Instead I lean very closely in to him so that my lips are a fraction from his lobe. His hairs stand up and brush my lips. I move an almost indiscernible bit closer, letting my tit scrape against his arm. He trembles. My groin flinches.