Game Over Read online

  But then I don’t.

  ‘Well, you know, it was bound to be difficult because we’ve known each other so long, in such a different context.’ I look at Fi again. From her face it’s clear that my explanation is mud. ‘And so we thought we’d wait until after the… you know—’

  ‘Wedding?’ prompts Fi. I’m grateful.

  ‘Yeah, the wedding.’

  ‘But the real reason is because you’ve still got the hots for Darren.’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were.’

  Another cab. This time to Josh’s. I find him in front of his PlayStation. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he tells me that there’s beer in the fridge.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he yells through to the kitchen. ‘What’s on your mind? If it’s the ushers, don’t worry, your mother’s already called me. And she mentioned the honeymoon, too. I’ve cancelled the bungy jumping from Sydney harbour.’

  I bring my beer back into the living room and don’t waste any time trying to work out if he’s kidding or not.

  ‘No, nothing to do with wedding arrangements, I just – look put away the PlayStation. I’ve a couple of other dials for you to play with.’

  I sort of dive on to him, quickly fastening my mouth on to his before he can comment on my terrible seduction line. I hastily unbutton his shirt and push it back off his shoulders. I frantically kiss his chest and neck whilst tearing at his buckle.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ he asks as he tries to turn my hasty pecks into lingering kisses.

  ‘It’s time now,’ I insist. ‘We’ve waited too long.’

  It’s encouragement enough. After all, he is male. He jumps up and walks to the bedroom. I follow him. We undress ourselves quickly. He folds and hangs up his clothes. We get into bed and have sex.

  He wants to please me, that’s obvious. He strokes my head and thighs and caresses my breasts. I bury my head into his neck and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s pointless. Darren is tattooed on to the inside of my lids.

  It’s fine, absolutely fine. I even have brief waves of orgasm, although I don’t quite achieve a full climax, but then, I rarely do.

  I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Josh props himself up on one arm and lies facing me. I pull the duvet up to my armpits. He strokes my hair.

  ‘I’m sorry that was all a bit quick.’

  ‘No, no, it was – fine. Great.’ I’m desperate for a cigarette.

  ‘Really, you, er, enjoyed yourself?’ He wants to believe it. ‘I mean, did you, er—’

  ‘Yes, really, I came. Well, just about.’

  Relieved, he reaches for his cigarettes. ‘Well, that’s good, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He hands me a lit fag and I edge up the headboard so that I can smoke it. I’m gripping on to the duvet like a Victorian virgin. We smoke in silence and then we stub out in silence.

  ‘Do you think we are doing the right thing, Josh?’

  ‘What a big wedding, rather than something small and intimate? Absolutely. It’s going to be a great party and we’ve both got loads of people we have to invite – my family, your colleagues – and a few we actually want to invite. A big wedding is definitely right for us.’

  I hold my breath. As I let it go, unscheduled words tumble out. ‘No, I mean by getting married at all.’ Double jeopardy. Gin-induced soul-searching, the worst kind.

  ‘Well, even if we simply lived together you’d still have to have sex with me,’ jokes Josh. I turn to him and see he’s terrified. He coughs. ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘No,’ I smile, messing his hair and planting a big kiss on his cheek. ‘You are every bit as good as you’ve always said.’

  We laugh, me and mymateJosh. I feel more relaxed with Josh than I have done since the engagement. Obviously it was the sex thing that was stressing me out. It’s better to have got that over with. I feel I can talk to him again. I push on.

  ‘I just worry that neither of us knows how to do this. Neither of us has ever sustained a relationship for any length of time—’

  ‘That’s because we were with the wrong people. We are meant for each other.’

  Of course.

  ‘But my parents are divorced and yours just stay together to spite one another. Hardly ideal role models.’ Why am I trying to reach for the self-destruct button? Marrying Josh is what I want to do. Why am I putting doubts in his mind?

  ‘Loads of people manage.’

  ‘Loads of people mess it up too,’ I counterargue grimly. But then I remind myself: those who don’t make it through are the ones who marry for the wrong reasons, for lust, for passion, because they are irrationally in love. Josh and I are quite different. We are marrying because we are alike. We are compatible. We are comfortable.

  Fine.

  Josh puts his hand under the duvet. He rests it on my thigh. He moves his thumb in circles. It feels like he is dragging my skin in the wrong direction.

  ‘Again?’ he asks.

  Again? I hadn’t thought about again. But of course there’s an again. And again and again.

  ‘I’m a bit tired actually.’

  ‘No worries. We’ve got all the time in the world.’ Josh turns away from me and is asleep in seconds. His breathing is deep and relaxed.

  A lifetime of doing it again.

  My feet are ice blocks.

  17

  Bale has come up with his most ridiculous, irritating and inconvenient idea yet.

  ‘A party?’ I’m incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Jocasta, you know the sort of thing – music, drink, merriment.’

  ‘But what for?’

  ‘For the troops, of course. To thank them for all their hard work during the difficult times, to celebrate these delightful ones.’

  Bale, nearer the bile of human meanness than the milk of human kindness, has never been within miles of being altruistic. I can’t credit it now. I wonder which young PA he has his eye on. I assume that there must be someone he wants the opportunity to befuddle. Even so, it’s a lot of expense to run to just to get someone drunk.

  ‘Come off it, Bale. What’s really going on?’

  He comes clean. ‘It’s a tax break. I have to spend a certain amount on staff training and recreation.’

  ‘I see.’ I consider it. A party isn’t a bad idea. If it takes place after I get back from my honeymoon I’ll be tanned. I begin to mentally run through my wardrobe, considering what I should wear to cause the biggest sensation.

  ‘All right, I’ll look at organizing something in August.’

  ‘Too late. All the invoices need to be through by the end of July. The party must take place this month.’

  ‘In that case, no can do.’ I can use this phrase with Bale – he still thinks ‘ciao’ is an acceptable greeting. ‘Someone else will have to organize it. I’m getting married on the twenty-first.’ I point out the obvious to him. ‘Less than three weeks’ time.’

  ‘We’ll do it before the wedding.’ Bale reaches for his Playboy desk calendar. He concentrates on the numbers in amongst the cleavages and tight butts. ‘Today is the second. Let’s have the party a week on Friday – that’s the thirteenth. You’re not superstitious, are you? No, you’re not the type. That gives you another week before your wedding to clear the invoices.’ Bale stares at me. ‘You always throw such good parties.’

  I want to tell him that this isn’t in my job description. I want to tell him that I have a number of other projects that need completing before I go on holiday. I want to tell him to go and screw himself. But there’s something in his eyes that tells me this isn’t up for debate. I know I’m being tested. Am I efficient and committed enough to pull off a huge corporate event the week before I get married? Or am I demob happy?

  The bastard.

  ‘No problem,’ I smile and skip out of his office.

  ‘Bugger!’ I yell, once I’m safely behind my screensaver.

  ‘What’s up?’ asks Fi as she passes my des
k.

  ‘The usual. Bale,’ I groan. ‘He’s piling up my workload just to see if I fuck up. I could really do without it.’

  ‘What’s he asked you to do?’

  ‘Arrange a party.’

  ‘A party? Great,’ enthuses Fi, miscalculating the reaction I want by about as much as is humanly possible. She sees my thunderous face and adjusts her jubilant one accordingly.

  ‘Not great.’

  ‘No, not great,’ I snap. ‘Besides all the final touches for my wedding, I have to close the books on this quarter’s budgets, write a presentation to the executive committee, oversee the production of The Murder Trilogy drama, secure the contract on the coverage of the Tour de France, get the final episode of this series of Sex with an Ex in the bag and approve the casting of the Scott family in Teddington Crescent!’

  By the time I finish my list there’s more than a passing resemblance between my face and Barbara Cartland’s wardrobe.

  ‘OK. OK, I get the picture. Calm down, pink’s not your colour,’ says Fi. She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I have some capacity at the moment. I’ll help.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Sure.’ She sounds nonchalant and not at all like the life-saver she undoubtedly is. I want to kiss her. I settle for something more conventional.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Fi and I make a great team. She takes charge of arranging the party: decides the theme, arranges caterers and alcohol. She finalizes the guest list, which extends beyond staff, to include the press, minor celebs and competition winners; she sends all the invites. Fi works around the clock for two weeks. I am really impressed by her commitment and friendship. Whenever I see her, she’s awash with project plans, inventories, rosters and registers. She is nearly continuously on the phone trying to drum up guests, PR interest, entertainers and glassware or she is sending e-mails, faxes and couriers to cajole, influence or sweet-talk whoever into doing whatever.

  This leaves me free to tackle all my other tasks. It’s imperative I leave work in shipshape condition. I really don’t want to have to be making long-distance calls throughout my honeymoon. I work like a madwoman. Long hours and high levels of concentration cause my head to ache, eyes sting and temples bulge. By the time it gets round to the thirteenth I have emptied my in-tray and signed off all the projects that are imperative. The only thing left to do, in the week between the party and the wedding, is close the books on this quarter’s budgets. Then after the honeymoon I can come back to—

  Well, to whatever is in my in-tray.

  ‘All done!’ I send my last e-mail of the day with a flourish of satisfaction.

  ‘Oh good. I was worried that Cinders wasn’t coming to the ball,’ says Fi. She’s scrabbling under her desk trying to retrieve a kitten-heel shoe. We are both high on the spirit of having achieved what was demanded of us. Despite the unreasonable nature of the demands.

  ‘What, and miss your party? Not for the world.’

  She’s dressed in a white sequined Moschino number. Very ice maiden meets LA débutante. I couldn’t have chosen better myself. She’s obviously taken great care and spent her dowry.

  ‘Are you getting changed?’ she nags.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’ Fi pulls a face. ‘OK, OK, I’ll look through my filing cabinet. There’s bound to be something to wear in there.’ I know she’s worked hard and wants everyone to appreciate her effort by making an effort.

  Fi has plumped for a theme of black and white. She said this was largely to do with the invitations being sent out so late in the day; the guests are mostly media luvvies, and a dress code stipulating one or other of these colours won’t cause any problems. Despite the brief, I emerge from the loos, fifteen minutes later, with freshly applied lipstick and a scarlet Johanna Hehir dress. It’s clingy, flowery and feminine. I believe in the importance of an entrance.

  I follow the noise of laughter and clinking glasses and the heady perfume of fat waxy lilies up to the roof terrace where we are holding the jamboree. The lift parts and my first impression is top. Waiters, dressed in Paul Smith, carry trays of champagne. There are dozens of lanterns and fairy lights everywhere and whilst it’s still too light and warm for them to be anything more than decorative, they are certainly that. There are sculptures of huge chess pieces scattered about. I’m not sure what their original purpose was intended to be but they are being used as giant ashtrays and bar stools. There are luxurious, white, faux-fur rugs hanging on the walls. The food looks exquisite; it also follows the theme of black and white – piles of scrumptious-looking caviar followed by attractive miniature summer puddings, made entirely with blackberries and served with heavy dollops of double cream. Fi has done the correct thing by serving small amounts of delicious-looking food. It barely matters what it tastes like, as most of the guests would rather polish the shoes of the entire British army than consume unanticipated calories. Still, the media luvvies look the part; as my mother would prosaically say, ‘They scrub up well.’ The room is awash with every label in the alphabet, from Armani to Versace.

  The effect is magical.

  I help myself to a glass of champagne and look for someone useful to talk to. Fi prevents this by hurtling towards me.

  ‘OhmygodOhmygod,’ she screams.

  ‘What? Have I lipstick on my teeth?’ I ask, rubbing my teeth with my finger. As I do so I notice there’s soap stuck in my engagement ring; I take it off and start to gouge it out with my fingernail. Something is certainly upsetting Fi. She looks as though she is hyperventilating.

  ‘I am so sorry. I can’t think how it happened. We used mail merge. His name must have been on the wrong list,’ she gabbles.

  ‘Whose name?’ I ask. But Fi can’t answer because she’s staring at something behind me. She looks like a rabbit terrified and trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck. I turn.

  I’m the rabbit.

  ‘Darren? Darren?’ I can hardly believe it is him. For months I’ve been trying to convince myself that seeing Darren again would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to me, but now I’m actually facing him, I have to admit it feels like the best. The crowds around us dwindle and there’s just the two of us. Which is a nightmare because my tongue is cleaving to the roof of my mouth and I can’t think of anything at all suitable to say. I slip my ring in my pocket.

  He’s breathtaking. He’s everything I’ve been imagining and remembering for the last six months, but more.

  I’m expecting an onslaught of anger and recriminations and try to head them off by putting us on a polite and formal note immediately.

  ‘Are you here for the party?’ Then I shoot myself. Or at least that would be a suitable penalty for such a banal conversation starter but I don’t have a gun handy.

  ‘I suppose I am,’ he says, half grinning and wincing at the same time. My La Perla hiccups.

  ‘Good, good. I’m so pleased.’ I like this sentence more. It is at once honest and straightforward. Honesty and the ability to be straightforward are things I know Darren admires. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I rush to clarify. ‘Not that I invited you.’ That sounds awful. ‘I mean. I didn’t send out the invites.’ He looks confused. ‘Well, it’s not your sort of thing, is it?’ My voice finally falters and then draws to a halt. I suspect we are both relieved.

  We stand awkwardly watching other people enjoy themselves, until eventually Darren asks, ‘Will Trixxie be coming along?’

  I’m crushed. He’s here for Trixxie. Not me.

  Not that he could be here for me. Not after I’ve ignored him for six months.

  Nor should I want him to be. I’m engaged to Josh and I don’t do casual sex any more. I try to tell myself that my jealousy is a lazy hangover from my other life.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think even Fi knows who she’s invited, judging by the look of confusion on her face when she saw you. If Trixxie is coming she’ll be late,’ I add sulkily. He’s grinning. No sign
of disappointment that Trixxie may not appear. Maybe he just thought of her because I was behaving like an incompetent. I add, ‘It’s quite a select gathering.’

  ‘I’m touched.’

  In case he thinks I am, I clarify, ‘And your name got on the list by mistake. A fault with mail-merging the wrong list.’

  ‘Ha,’ he guffaws. He actually throws his head back and laughs out loud. As ever, I’m not sure if he’s laughing at me or with me. But I don’t care. I just like hearing his laughter. It cheers me. It is definitely the most exhilarating sound I’ve ever heard.

  ‘You don’t change, do you?’ he asks.

  In fact, I do. I have. And if I tell him I’m engaged that would prove it.

  My mouth is welded together.

  I wait for him to walk away but he doesn’t. Instead he asks, ‘What did you think about that article on Ian Schrager’s latest hotel?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Or the one on the Balinese spas?’ He is referring to the web pages he’s e-mailed to me. The one on the spas was the last one he sent, nine weeks ago. ‘It’s just you never said.’ Darren stares at me and his stare could shatter granite. Every one of his e-mails had been selected with peculiar care. They always referred back to some conversation we’d had in the halcyon period. The two weeks when we behaved as a couple. The two weeks when we were a couple.

  I cough up my voice. ‘I – I often visit the Starsky and Hutch site.’ The side of his mouth twitches a fraction. ‘And the one about historical Oscars. In fact all the articles were interesting.’

  Darren nods. It’s a tight, tense nod. Hardly perceptible. I need a drink. I daren’t move towards a champagne tray, in case Darren takes the opportunity to leave, so instead I flag down a waiter and insist he fetches us a couple of glasses.

  Darren accepts the glass but he doesn’t look comfortable.

  ‘What should we toast to?’ he asks.

  I consider suggesting that we could toast to my engagement.

  But I don’t.

  ‘To, er, you. You look well. Let’s toast to you,’ I suggest.