Unknown - Game Over

I am hopeful, expectant. I’m looking forward to being alone with my face pack, fridge and remote control. I sit down with a highlighter pen, the television section of the Observer and a bottle of gin. I circle my TV viewing for the night. Coronation Street, a documentary on Brooklyn Beckham (that’s our show), Brookside, Friends, and then I’ll switch to cable for a movie. I catch sight of the date and automatically calculate that it’s one month, three weeks, five days and eight hours since I last saw Darren.

Only quarter of an hour before Corrie starts.

Thirteen minutes.

Another nine minutes to go.

Still quite some time yet. I think I’ll ring Mum.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Oh, hello Jocasta, dear, how are you? I was just talking about you to Bob.’

‘Who?’

‘Bob, you know—’

‘Your neighbour.’

‘Exactly!’

‘What were you saying?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What were you saying to Bob?’ I’m beginning to regret the call.

‘I was just saying I wonder how Jocasta is.’

‘Well, I’m fine.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

‘And how are you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, except for the old problem.’ I have no idea what the ‘old problem’ is, although doubtless she’s told me on countless occasions; nor do I have any desire to find out. I move the conversation on.

‘I called to ask if you fancy going shopping tomorrow. Unaccountably it’s a Saturday and I haven’t got a wedding to go to.’ I hadn’t realized that I’d called to ask this; the fifteen minutes alone before my viewing started have obviously weighed in heavily. I wait for her gushing thanks that I’ve decided to offer up an entire Saturday, even though it’s not her birthday or anywhere near Christmas. Instead she surprises me.

‘I expect people are a little nervous about inviting you to their weddings, what with your show and everything. Well, dear, I’d love to go shopping with you, but Bob and I are going to a craft fair and it’s been in the diary for some time. I can’t let him down – I know he’d be most disappointed and I’m looking forward to it too.’

I don’t ask what kind of man enjoys a craft fair; nor do I commit myself when she adds hopefully, ‘How about next week?’

I put the phone down and turn the volume up.

Whilst it’s been a constructive weekend (I’ve filed my nails, both fingers and toes, I’ve tidied my cutlery drawer and I’ve descaled the kettle and the showerhead), by Sunday afternoon I’m beginning to wish I’d accepted the invite to lunch. I’ve read the Sunday papers, including the small ads for the removal of unwanted lines, fat and hair, as well as those for the addition to breasts and penises. I’ve watched a backlog of recorded programmes and all the soap omnibuses. In fact, most of my entertainment and all my food have been generated from radioactive boxes. Although I have ample time on my hands, I can’t be arsed to drag myself to Tesco’s or even Cullen’s. There really is no point in buying fresh herbs and vegetables, chopping and sautéing for one. Instead I search my cupboards for inspiration. I don’t find it. I can’t think of a recipe that happily combines peanut butter, Carr’s water biscuits and All Bran. The contents of my fridge are neither useful nor ornamental. There’s a mouldering jar of capers and another of anchovies (bought for a dinner party), Tabasco, Yakult and Red Bull. Of course, there’s the foundation bottle of champagne, but even I don’t like drinking Veuve Clicquot alone. Instead I defrost things unsavoury. Cardboard food from cardboard boxes – singleton’s food.

I can hear some kids playing in the nearby park. As far as I can tell the objective of the game is to see who can produce the most piercing scream. Very entertaining, if you’re eight. I wonder what Charlotte and Lucy are up to? An aeroplane passes overhead. In the mid-distance I can hear the intermittent hum of an articulated truck whizz from factory to storage warehouse. I’m depressed. I must be. The truck seems poignant. I look around for a vessel to use as an ashtray. All the ashtrays, saucers, teacups, plant pots that are in spitting distance of my sofa are full to overflowing with ash already.

Whilst me-time is all very educative, the most overwhelming lesson appears to be that I’m pretty miserable company. Even the fact that Saturday’s show was a corker, and the scheduling department have already rung to tell me we’ve reached 10.4 million viewers, fails to cheer me. The worst of it is, I’m not entirely alone.

As I move around my home I see Darren sprawled out on his stomach reading the Sunday papers, or I find him squeezing oranges in my kitchen, or I bump into him coming out of the shower. Naked and powerful with a white towel round his hips and water drops dripping from his hair to the carpet. But the carpet is never wet because he’s only in my head and he’s never in my bed.

I remember Darren first coming into my flat.

‘Nice pad. Did you buy it lock, stock and barrel from a style magazine?’ He’d grinned and turned to kiss me. I flung my coat on the back of my settee, not bothering to hang it in the cupboard. I kissed him back and didn’t take offence.

‘Funny. Issie thinks this place is impersonal, too. I think it’s anything but. I bought an empty shell and built my apartment from scratch. What could be more personal?’

Darren wrapped his arms around me and held me tightly. I breathed him in. I was shaking with the newness of it all. It was new that I was talking this way. It was new that a man was in my home and I was sharing my life, even for a week.

I stare at the windowpane, concentrating on the raindrop race, which Darren taught me. The idea is you choose a raindrop and the other person chooses another raindrop, both roughly at the same height and ideally at the top of the window. The winner is the one whose drop reaches the bottom of the window first. I win. Naturally – I’m the only one playing. I can’t think of anything to amuse, charm or hearten me. Not even the fact that Josh’s girlfriend will be having an even more shit time than I am. This just proves my theory about the insanity of getting involved. I pray Josh will call me soon with a debrief – I need a distraction.

I decide to replace the catchy tune of my clunking radiators and purring fridge. I force myself out of my cosy window seat and examine my cassette and CD collection. Uninvited, the memory of Darren discovering my CD collection barges into my head.

‘You put some music on whilst I pour some drinks,’ I’d instructed, moving towards the wine rack.

‘Interesting music collection,’ he commented.

‘Normally described as eclectic. It’s a testimony to ex-shags.’

‘Ah, I see.’ And he probably did, because I believe that he understood me entirely, past and present. Which is my problem.

‘The Smiths and the Cure represent your adolescent angst years.’

‘Correct. Actually I was an extremely buoyant adolescent but my lover was an anger ball so I faked an avid interest. Red or white?’ I held up both bottles, trying to ignore my own last sentence. I realized that by faking an avid interest I’d set a pattern for a lifetime.

‘Red. Something full-bodied, if you have it.’

It impressed me that Darren managed to politely knock back the plonk in Whitby without showing any snobbery or distaste when he obviously knows what he likes when it comes to wine. Maybe it was a mistake to make such a fuss about drinking Blue Nun, especially when Mrs Smith had bought it just for me. Not that it matters. None of it matters.

It still gnaws.

‘And I take it that Lloyd Cole, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Pet Shop Boys and Scott Walker are attributable to your student years?’