Unknown - Game Over

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ I ask.

‘It’s time,’ he confirms. A cold finger traces its way along my spine. I shiver; it feels a lot like fear. Josh marry? I’d lose him. Or rather I’d lose my position as numero uno in his life. I share Josh with Issie but that’s different. Issie isn’t competition, she’s complementary. I’d miss him.

‘You’re pissed. You don’t mean this. I tell you what, you can retract it in the morning.’ I smile. I wait for him to smile back and he doesn’t, so I move on to Issie. ‘OK, what’s your resolution?’

‘I like that one about running a marathon. And you?’

‘I’m beginning to feel cheap and bored.’ She cocks her head to one side, waiting for me to elaborate. I can’t. I’m amazed I’ve said this much. I don’t mean it. Or do I? I do.

‘I’m giving it up.’

‘What?’

‘Casual sex, shags without thought, impulsive sex, shags with limited thought, acting on drunken whims, sleeping with someone to celebrate a promotion, or the ratings, or a pretty frock in Armani.’ I pause to be certain that covers all scenarios. It does.

‘What will you do?’ asks Issie, with the scary honesty that only best friends can employ.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply with the same tone. ‘Celibacy?’

8

‘What happened? Why did you do it, Susie? What made you do this?’ Jed is being unusually dignified, under the circumstances. After all, a quarter of the British adult population have just seen his fiancée kiss her ex-lover almost in the vestry of the church, fifteen minutes before their wedding rehearsal, a week before their wedding. The film clearly shows her adjust her skirt as she emerged from behind the tombstone. Bale’s terrified of lawsuits so we are not explicit but it doesn’t take a Mensa IQ to work out that kissing wasn’t where the action stopped.

Susie is whiter than the wedding dress that she’d proudly shown the audience just before the advert break. But then that was another lifetime. That was a pre-public outing lifetime. Susie was still playing happy families, Jed was still living in cloud cuckoo land and Andrew was still standing in the wings waiting to expose Susie’s infidelity.

‘I am so sorry,’ whispers Susie. Which I think is a good move. Her only chance of winning the audience over is to be immediately and totally contrite. After all, Jed’s a good-looking guy and natural instincts are to root for him.

It’s an interesting moment, this one: when all three stooges are on the floor and they have to deal publicly with the consequences of a very private affair. Jed had thought he was in control. He hadn’t actually believed Andrew was any real competition. He’d imagined that it would be exciting to be on TV, something to tell the grandkids. He’d expected Susie to choose him, despite the fact that all their friends still whispered about Andrew and Susie being a great couple, so much more passionate. I bet he’s now wishing he’d simply stuck to the wedding video.

Andrew thought it was his game. He had little to lose as his and Susie’s romance ended in a veil of tears and reprimands some years ago (FYI, and it’s worth noting, the reason why they finished was because Susie found Andrew in bed with another woman). Andrew had happily agreed to tempt her. If he hadn’t, it would look as though he was chicken shit, and that foxy detective who’d approached him would think he was only half a man.

‘Why did you do it, Susie?’ pleads Jed.

‘I wish they’d ask more probing questions,’ comments Fi. We are both standing in the wings watching the action, live.

‘No, this is the crux,’ I whisper back. The reasons why the partners fall are massively interesting. The list is endless. Closure, revenge, consolation, opportunism.’

Susie has finally found her voice.

‘I am sorry, Jed. But I couldn’t not. For the last three years since Andrew and I split up I saw him in every square jaw and broad shoulders. Sometimes I’d see him in front of me on the tube escalator and I’d run to catch him up, my feet pounding on the wooden slats, my heart vibrating against my tonsils. And for that heady thumping moment I wouldn’t worry how I’d explain it to you. Or why I was forgiving him. I just wanted to heal myself by resting my eyes upon him. I thought then that the throbbing might go away. But it never was him. It was always someone less. Because everyone is less. Even you.’

How curious.

The audience knows that Andrew doesn’t deserve such devotion, but they are thrilled. Other than Susie’s very deep ugly sobs, you can hear a pin drop.

Tears are streaming down Fi’s face. ‘Aren’t you moved, Cas?’

‘Yes, I’m delighted there isn’t a dry eye in the house. It’s great television. What’s next?’

She hands me a clipboard.’ Interviews for next week’s show.’

I walk towards the interview room, ushering away a few giggling research girls who are cluttering the doorway. ‘What’s up with them?’ I ask Fi.

‘Haven’t you heard? Your thinking man, he’s a Greek god.’

‘Not very tall, then, and with several heads?’ I quip. But my sarcasm is whipped out of me as I open the door and see Darren. I can understand why Marcus is insecure. I met Marcus this morning. He is fine. He is bright enough, more interesting than most, average-looking and extremely wealthy. He obviously adores Claire. Claire realizes this is not a bad deal and I figure she adores him back. However, besides my personal belief that everyone will have an affair given the opportunity, Darren is breathtaking.

He’s tall, about six foot two, with long, gypsy hair touching his chin. I don’t normally go for long hair. Because, more often than not, it is accessorized with an entirely denim wardrobe and a Meatloaf album collection. But, right now, all I want to do is lose my fingers in his locks. More, I want to lose him in my Conran bâteau wooden bed. He has wide shoulders that taper to slim hips and the cutest bum. He is wearing a pale grey sweater and some old Levis. Just the right amount of effort, without suggesting he is conceited. His eyes are huge, deep brown and framed with the most stunning Bambi lashes. And best of all is his smile. He has the cheekiest smile that provokes his entire face. His eyes, his cheeks, his laugh lines.

He’s a babe.

For a moment I am at a complete loss. I don’t know what to say, what to do or how to stand. I am absolutely dispossessed of common sense, thirty-three years of precedent, or even a simple grasp at etiquette. I can no more think of the correct words than I could bungy jump from… God I can’t even think where people bungy jump. My mind is blank. He smiles and I think I can hear music, which is such a cliché that I’m ready to shoot myself. My nipples are getting hard, which I think is a filthy betrayal. Can he tell? I’m literally salivating. Get a fucking grip, I instruct myself.

‘Jocasta Perry,’ I say in a confident, don’t-think-I’m-going-to-be – impressed-by-your – stunning – good-looks-I’m-impenetrable voice. It’s entirely fictional.

‘Jocasta, how Oedipal.’ He smiles, taking my hand and shaking it very firmly. I’m amazed not at the firmness of the handshake but at the reference. ‘Jocasta or Ca—’

‘Cas,’ I confirm. Is this man psychic?

‘Darren Smith.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I indicate the clipboard, which has all his personal details. Telephone number, address, date of birth. I wonder if we should start including some more intimate questions in the briefing session. Like favourite sexual position, which side of the bed he sleeps on. Mentally I pinch myself. He’s just a man. I quickly draw attention to his short-comings. We both need to be aware of them.