Unknown - Game Over

‘Apology unnecessary,’ I grin. ‘It’s good you are so passionate about your work.’ Or at least I think it is. ‘Tell me, what do you think of the show at the moment?’ I ask this to give the impression that I value her opinion. It’s a motivational thing I learnt on a course. Fi sucks the lemon slice from her drink.

‘Honestly?’

Suddenly I do value her opinion.

‘Yeah, honestly.’

I’m indignant that she’s implying that I like to hear anything other than honesty. Then I remember that I often accept half-truths, exaggeration, insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticism, knowing that they are blatant lies. It’s the oil that eases the wheels I call my life. Exaggeration – of anything from quoting the sales figures to qualifications on a CV – is routine. Insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticisms are always the result of someone else having an agenda. Usually the three Ps: promotion (securing theirs, ruining the chances of mine), pay rises (earning theirs, negotiating mine), promiscuity (all of the above).

Half-truths.

This is more uncomfortable.

This is horrendous.

I drain my G&T. Issie and I are dealing exclusively in half-truths at the moment. I find it totally impossible to be frank with her or, for that matter, with my mother or Josh. To be frank with them I’d have to be honest with myself and, although I have briefly considered this, I’ve rejected it as the lunacy it so obviously is.

‘Want another drink?’ Fi is up and halfway to the bar before I nod my response.

The full truth is I have not forgotten Darren. I had expected that by now his name, if mentioned, would call a blank. That momentarily I’d struggle to place him and on placing him I’d be indifferent, cool, unconcerned.

I think of him more or less continuously and a fleeting thought sends me into a flurry of, of, of… happiness.

Pure unadulterated happiness. I’m happy he’s on this planet somewhere. Even if that where isn’t anywhere near me. All this and I’m marrying someone else in four weeks. I force myself to return to Fi. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, honesty.

She puts the drinks on the table.

Tes. Honestly, what do you think of the show at the moment?’

‘Well, it’s fine.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Very good,’ Fi corrects. I raise the other eyebrow. This doesn’t create such a fetching effect but at least my expression corresponds with my thoughts. Fi sighs. ‘It’s lost its bite. There are no surprises.’ She’s right.

‘Any ideas?’

‘A few.’ I wonder if she’s going to share them. She must have invited me for a drink just for this opportunity. The opportunity to say, ‘Actually I’ve sketched out a couple of ideas and a business case,’ and then to reach for her satchel. I pause. She doesn’t do this. I’m surprisingly relieved. Frankly a ten-hour day is enough for anyone.

‘Another thing.’ Fi hesitates and examines her nails. I notice that, somewhat out of character, her nails are bitten, stubby runts of nails. I wonder what’s making her nervous. Or has she always bitten her nails? I can’t remember.

‘Go on, what other thing? Actually don’t, I’ll get the drinks in then you can tell me.’ Odd that our glasses are already empty. I engage in that necessary hand-to-hand combat with other pushy, over-aggressive and well-dressed Londoners. Luckily I’m served immediately. It takes a rare barman to ignore me (and a rare barwoman to serve me). I squeeze my way back to Fi. I feel as though I’ve just spent six weeks in army training. Sensibly I’ve bought us both two G&Ts; two doubles, actually. Well, it saves having to tackle the assault course for at least another fifteen minutes.

‘Go on. The other thing?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘You. You’ve changed.’

‘I’m wearing eye shadow – maybe that’s it. I read that eye shadow was in again,’ I defend.

Fi stares. She can’t decide if I’m being deliberately obtuse or uncharacteristically thick. The truth is, I’m nervous. I neck both my drinks as though they are water. Fi pushes her spare one in my direction.

‘Maybe it’s the engagement but—’ she’s steeling herself. Deciding whether to be brutally straight or not. She ploughs on. All I can do is admire her stupidity. ‘You just don’t seem as interested.’

‘I’m very busy,’ I snap with indignation.

‘Of course.’ Assuring.

‘I can’t be expected to do everything.’ Defensive.

‘Certainly not.’ Insincere.

‘You’re managing.’ Petulant.

‘Absolutely.’ Condescending.

‘I’m not as interested.’ Truthful.

Truthful. Fuck. That’s unprecedented. I swill back another huge glug of gin.

‘Oh shit, Fi, what can I say?’

Fi tilts her head, silently nods and I want to say something. I want to confide in her. I mean, I really like her. OK, it’s quite a sudden intimacy, I have been resisting becoming matey. It could be something to do with the several gins that I’ve necked in as many minutes, but I want to talk to someone. Anyone. And Fi is the one in front of me. Two actually. There are suddenly two Fis in front of me. And a whole pile of glasses. I shake my head gently from side to side.

‘Maybe because now you are getting married you are slightly less cynical and the programme is no longer as appealing?’ offers Fi.

Maybe.

She could be right. I want this to be the answer.

‘Or maybe it’s simply that you are really busy with other things. I mean before you got engaged absolutely everything came after work – your friends, your family. Maybe you are simply reprioritizing because you are busier now.’

Yes, the endless lists. I’m suddenly chilled as a flash of panic hits me. Have I given the list of hymn choices to the organist?

What does she mean – ‘everything came after’ my work?

Fi’s saying something else. I try to listen. The room is carousing. I touch my head but it still thinks it’s a spinning top.

‘When did you get engaged? March, wasn’t it?’ She doesn’t wait for my confirmation. She drags heavily on her cigarette. ‘Yet I’d say that your disinterest stems back further than that.’ I freeze. ‘Back to January. Did you make a New Year resolution not to work as hard?’

I glare at her. Both Fi and I know that she’s pieced it together. She isn’t absolutely spelling it out and this could be for one of a number of reasons. Either she’s not drunk enough, or she still has vague enough recollections that I whip hide rather efficiently and I’m her boss, or she hasn’t a lot of cash with her and she can’t afford to offend me as she needs me to buy her drinks. I pause and consider what her reticence can be attributed to. Fi takes advantage of the pause by going to the bar and buying some more drinks. So she has plenty of cash.

As she sits down I blurt, ‘It’s Darren.’

‘Darren who?’

‘Darren Smith.’ I resist adding ‘of course’. How can she not know who Darren is? How come his name isn’t embroidered on her consciousness? I feel gelded.

‘Smith? I always think that’s such a pointless surname. It doesn’t throw any light on the matter of identification.’

I scowl at Fi. Smith is a strong name. Where would England have been without black smiths and gold smiths and plain smiths? A slightly embarrassing recollection tickles my conscience. I vaguely remember thinking Smith (and Darren) were stupid names. Over the last few months this has changed somewhat; I’ve been associating Smith (and Darren) and, more specifically, Darren Smith with strength, goodness and downright horniness, rather than pseudo names for adulterous couples embarking on a dirty weekend. I hunt out the more familiar part of my nature, my ability to be Machiavellian.