Unknown - Game Over

‘There. Is. No. Such. Thing. Yes, we could marry but sooner or later (and it probably would be sooner, as these intense affairs are always the first to burn out) he’d let me down. Or I’d let him down. And that would be hell. If he can make me feel this good’ – as though I was born the moment his dick delved into me – ‘imagine how foul he could make me feel if he left.’

Issie hides her face in her hands. ‘Who are you trying to convince?’

‘No one.’ Me. Me. I’m trying to convince myself, but at the same time I’d be more grateful than Issie could possibly know if she proved my argument is guff. But she can’t because I’m right. I’m certain I’m right. I have to stop this going any further.

‘Cas, you’re thirty-three now, not seven. And just because your parents’ relationship didn’t work it doesn’t mean there can’t be successful relationships.’

I glare at her. Although Issie knows everything about my mother and father’s divorce, we have an unwritten rule that we never discuss it. I am not the type to bleat on Oprah.

‘Issie, one in three households are single-people house-holds. Three in four couples who co-habit split up. Nearly one in two marriages end in divorce. Look at the facts.’ Now that ‘the facts’ have burst (uninvited) into my consciousness they won’t go away.

‘But think about Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. They’ve been married for ever and they are blissful.’

‘That’s one example, Issie.’

‘There’s the Queen and Prince Philip.’ I snort. She’s desperate.

‘There’s Mr and Mrs Brown in the baker’s on Teddington Crescent.’

‘They’re fictional.’

‘There’s my mum and dad.’

‘But your mum hates your dad.’

‘Not at all. She only pretends to. What about that couple on your show who didn’t fall into temptation?’

‘It’s only a matter of time.’

Issie raises her eyes skyward.

‘Oh, Cas, you poor thing.’

What can she mean? My mistake was allowing myself to become besotted by Darren. A mistake but not irrevocable. Not if I act swiftly and certainly now.

‘Issie, can I come and stay with you for tonight?’

‘Of course, if you want to. Why?’

‘Because I know if I see him I’ll weaken and I’m expecting him to pop by late tonight, when he gets back from the Cotswolds.’

‘Oh, see him, pleeeease.’

‘I can’t, Issie. I’m not playing games here. This isn’t a way to make him more interested. I have to sever all contact immediately. I can’t allow this to continue. I can’t make myself vulnerable.’

I simply can’t. Not won’t. Can’t.

I whizz around my bedroom and start throwing some clothes and cosmetics into a bag. I hardly pause to consider what I’m selecting, but I do stop to smell the sheets and to take him in one last time. He is why I was born a woman, but he can never, ever know because whilst I can only just bear walking away from him, I know I would be inconsolable if he ever left me.

This vulgar state of being ‘in love’ – it’s bound to be only temporary. The sooner I get back to my ordinary routine the better I’ll feel.

It will only be a matter of time.

Very little time at that, probably.

Probably.

I pull the sheets off the bed and push them into the washing basket.

Issie realizes that she’s not going to change my mind so instead settles for changing the subject. As I stuff a hairbrush and knickers in a bag she tells me that the sad loser guy from New Year has called. They’ve seen each other a few times. Issie’s excited because they play Connect 4 together. I can’t forgive him for letting his mother fix him up. Issie chatters on but I can’t keep track. I’m sure it’s delightful but I’m not sure I care. How has this terrible thing happened to me? How has this wonderful thing happened to me? How can it be both at once? I’ve seen enough to know that it is a messy, complex, filthy state of affairs at the best of times – i.e. when you want to be in love. This is by no means the best of times. I thought I was immune. I thought I was somehow better or different – certainly cleverer. Now I understand no one is immune.

As we put on our coats, Issie sighs, ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?’

‘I’m sorry, Issie. I’ve spent my entire evening forgetting about Darren,’ I smile sadly.

‘Why are you doing this? Don’t you think there’s a possibility that you are snuffing out a genuine chance of happiness?’ she coaxes.

‘No. It’s an exercise in damage limitation.’

‘I don’t understand you, Cas.’

‘Really? How odd. I thought I’d made myself crystal clear.’ Except of course I’m lying. I don’t understand me either. The bit I do understand, the fact that I am in love, only serves to confuse me further.

I lock the door behind me and Blu-tack an envelope to the door. It’s addressed to Darren and the letter inside simply says:

Don’t call.

13

Work is as foul as I thought it would be. Bale didn’t swallow the laryngitis story because Fi, the bitch, showed him a photo of Darren.

‘Laryngitis, my arse.’

‘No, actually it’s a throat infection,’ I snipe back. It is a weak retort but I’m out of practice. I’ve been being nice to people for two weeks, for God’s sake.

‘I saw his picture, Jocasta. You were shagging. Getting your end away whilst the rest of us carried the can. It’s shoddy. It’s unacceptable. What do you have to say for yourself?’

Bale has selected his glass office for this public flaying. I know that however angry he is, he has to appear more so for the benefit of the rest of the team.

‘Nigel, you are getting this out of proportion.’ I only ever call him Nigel when things are desperate. I consider leaning over his desk and creating an illusion of intimacy by touching his arm, but I can’t bring myself to do it. ‘OK, so I trailed a candidate for the show and OK, it turned out to be a duff call because I couldn’t persuade him to be on the show, but it was worth the gamble. If he’d appeared, it would have been the biggest show ever.’

‘Why?’

I knew that would get him.

‘This guy objects to the show on moral grounds: social and individual. He’s startlingly handsome and very articulate. If he’d agreed to be on the show there isn’t a person in the country who would have wanted to oppose his decision. Not the lace industry, the manager of the John Lewis wedding gift service or that bishop.’ I toss the latest list of complaint letters to Bale. ‘The viewers would have united. He’d have taken away the last shadow of doubt about the show. People would have clambered to appear.’

‘But you couldn’t persuade him?’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ I reply to my hands.

‘You tried everything?’ He holds on the word ‘everything’ and we both know what he is asking. Did I sleep with Darren to get him to appear on the show? Yes and no. This answer is far too subtle for Bale to comprehend.

‘Everything.’ My face is aflame.

Bale leans very close to me and I can see the blackheads nestling in the crease between his nose and cheek.

‘Maybe you’re losing your touch.’

‘What an arse!’ I complain to Fi, as there is no one else around. Most of my team have decided that it’s wiser to keep out of my way for a while. Fi is either braver or more stupid than the rest.

‘I thought you’d need some company.’ She hands me a double espresso. I wince as I swallow it back. It’s some time since I’ve drunk such strong coffee. It tastes like creosote.

‘It’s not as though anything went wrong whilst you were away,’ comments Fi.