Unknown - Game Over

The monitor is showing the film I made the day before I met Darren. The case is one where some bloke left his wife for some girl. The girl is now unsure if she can keep him, even though they plan to marry in a month. She thinks he wants to go back to his wife. This, I suppose, disproves the theory that one wife is as good as the next. I’m interviewing the wife. She’s a rare breed, a shy Scottish woman. Her abrasive vowels rasp, ‘If I were famous it wouldn’t bother me so much – the stained carpet and chipped skirting board. I’d accept that he chose her.’

‘I might be able to give you both.’

That’s my voice on the monitor, offering her false hope. At the time I had thought that a bit of fame and glamour would make her happier. And there was a chance that he’d choose her. But rewatching the tape, just two weeks on, leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Is it right to—? I stop the thought as it’s forming, and for the zillionth time today, I curse Darren.

‘They hate my accent,’ she’s wailing.

‘No, they hate your long legs and massive tits. That’s their motivation. Objecting to your accent is a diversionary tactic,’ I assure.

‘You are a true pro,’ says Ed. ‘Dishing out that sort of compliment is certain to get them on side. She’ll get your man for you now.’

‘Actually, Ed, I just meant it,’ I say as I close the door behind me.

Unusually I decide to take a bus home. I don’t want to be alone in a cab. I don’t want to be alone with me. I don’t want to be me. I’ve never felt so confused and miserable in my life. And yet I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. That’s the worst of it.

I look at my watch and allow myself two minutes thinking about Darren. Twenty minutes later the bus arrives. There is a huge advert for aftershave painted on the side of the bus. The model has a look of Darren. Similar eyes but not as beautiful.

The bus is a mistake because the driver won’t accept my £50 note and laughs when I explain that I don’t carry loose change as it ruins the shape of your pockets. In the end some skinny guy behind me offers up the £1. It’s embarrassing. I am about to glare at him for his impertinence but as I catch his eye I notice that he also looks tired. Maybe he isn’t paying my ride in hope of one in return. Perhaps he just wants the queue to move along.

‘Thanks,’ I mutter. He briefly nods, self-conscious about his own act of goodness. He’s probably aware how very un-London he’s being.

I go upstairs and sit at the front. I wish Darren were here with me – we could pretend to be driving the bus. As soon as I have this thought I hate myself. There. See. That’s where this kind of shenanigans leads. Pathetic sentimentality! How do I know that Darren would pretend to be driving the bus? I’m acting like an arse.

Usually public transport is anonymous. That’s why we are happy to pay inflated prices for an unfeasible short ride – it’s part of the deal. No one will talk to you and if they can possibly help it, they will avoid looking at you too. Except for drunks who use public transport for the exact opposite reason. I rarely notice whom I’m travelling with, but today it’s as if I am looking with new eyes. Nothing is anonymous; everyone seems to be acting significantly. The guy next to me, besides suffering from terrible BO, offends me on another front. He’s wearing a headset, which he’s singing along to. Naturally he’s singing a song about everlasting love, which frankly is a load of crap. Not just his voice. I move seat and find myself sitting behind two teenage girls. They are reading Cosmo. They do the quiz to find their perfect men. If only it was so easy. As they read the questions aloud to one another I mentally answer them. I’m mostly Bs. By the end of the quiz the girls discover that their boyfriends are mummy’s boys and misogynists respectively. I discover Darren cannot be improved upon.

When I get home I see that the answering machine light is flashing. I listen to the messages as I run a bath.

‘Cas, it’s me,’ chimes Issie. ‘Just ringing to see how things went with Bale today. Give me a call later if you want to. I’ll be home from the gym at about ten.’

I smile, knowing that she’s slipped in the words ‘the gym’ to impress me. Much to Josh’s and my surprise Issie is following through on her New Year’s resolution. She has a place in the London Marathon and is training hard for it. The second message is from Josh.

‘Hey, Babe, how are you? How was the north? I’m going to the cinema tonight. Some sub-titled bollocks that Jane wants to see. I’m sure it will be very worthy and depressing. It’s on at one of those arty cinemas that don’t even sell Häagen-Dazs. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

Poor Jane sounds as though she’s history. I am beginning to relax. The third message is from my mother, complaining that I didn’t visit on Sunday. A spasm of guilt shoots through me. So all’s well on the Western front – these are the messages that I often come into on a Monday evening. I am back on familiar territory. Darren has been a bizarre distraction but now I’m fine. I’m safe.

‘Cas, it’s me.’ His voice saws into my sanctuary and I’m delirious. I’m disgusted. ‘I guess you are still at work. If you are there, please pick up.’ The voice pauses. ‘I guess you’re not there. I got your note.’ He makes a sad little sound which sounds strangled somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. ‘I knew you would do something like this. I knew you’d panic. But if you’ll let me talk to you—’ His voice breaks and he coughs. ‘Look, I had a great time the last two weeks. So did you.’ He sounds urgent now, a mix between anger and frustration – which I’m used to inciting, and tenderness – which I’m not. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m scared too.’ Then the tape runs out. I stand perfectly still and try to understand what I’m feeling. My God, there we have it, I’m feeling already. Not thinking, like I was a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly I’m feeling!

He did sound genuine. What does he mean, he’s ‘scared too’? As well as who?

I listen to the message again. And again. And again. In fact, I listen to it twelve times. By the twelfth time one thing is clear. I’ve lost it. I press the erase button and go to bed. Darren who?

Smith.

14

Being in love is just as painful as I always expected it to be. I wake up every morning and my first thought is of Darren. In fact, as my dreams are also littered with him, I’m beginning to find it difficult to distinguish between the two states. They smudge together. I’ll be driving into work and I’ll see him in every car and on every street. The excitement of spotting him is tremendous. The disappointment that it never is him is side-splitting. I walk into the TV6 building and always look around to see if he’s in reception, which is a ridiculous thought, considering how much he loathes the studio and all it stands for. I listen to weather forecasts for Whitby, even though I know he’s in London. How could I ever have thought that Whitby was Smallsville? Now it’s everywhere I turn. TV6 is setting a new drama there; on the news yesterday there was a small piece about the myth of Dracula and there was a shot of the cemetery we visited. Issie’s parents have just bought a caravan and Whitby was one of the first places they visited. Whitby is suddenly the centre of the universe. Every time the phone rings I leap and whilst I always listen to his messages, several times, I haven’t returned any calls.

Initially he called often and left complicated messages. Jaki begged me to return them.

‘Call him, Cas. He doesn’t believe you’ve left the firm.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to him.’