Game Over Read online

  ‘You realize what I’m saying. There will be no one to fix your washing machine, or check the oil and water in your car. No one to send out for pizza in the middle of the afternoon because you and Issie are too engrossed in your movie to move your arses.’ He’s trying to sound angry, but I can still hear the tears in his voice.

  ‘I’ll miss you. I love you. I’m sorry,’ I squeak and I put the phone down.

  I know I can get in a plumber, take the car to the garage and order my own pizza. I can do it alone, but I’ll miss him. I’ll miss his stupid jokes and his stories about court. I’ll miss his hugs and his cooking. I’ll miss our shared history. I’ll miss his friendship.

  Darren.

  His face cuts into my consciousness, explodes and sends tiny particles of emotion hurtling into my heart, knocking me sideways. It doesn’t feel secure, it feels risky, but it feels safe too. I don’t feel certain, but I am sure. It’s right and it is fractious. I can’t marry one man knowing I am in love with another.

  The odd thing is, I’ve lost Darren.

  Quite literally.

  I have spent the last four days trying to track Darren down but he’s vanished. His mobile is switched off. And when I went to his house his flatmate told me he hadn’t seen him since the night before the TV6 party. I went to his laboratory and office to ask for him. No one had seen him for a few days. It was suggested that he might have been consigned to an away job. But if anyone knew where that might be, they weren’t going to tell me – public enemy number one – no matter how much I cajoled, threatened or pleaded. Issie sees his disappearance as an admission of his involvement in the set-up; Mum’s reserving judgement but as the days have slipped by, and there’s been no contact, her face has become increasingly fraught.

  I know he wasn’t in with Bale and Fi. I don’t know why he’s disappeared but I know he didn’t betray me.

  So, after all my years of scepticism, mistrust, selfish hedonism, I find I have landed here, exactly where I was scrupulously avoiding.

  In love.

  But alone.

  I guess that’s evidence that there is a God, or at least my fifty-three cast-off lovers would think so.

  I return to the office on Thursday. It’s a difficult journey into work as journalists are constantly trailing me. One of them is more tenacious (or junior) than all the others and has been camped outside my door since Saturday. He’s obviously unsuited to sleeping rough and now looks as bad as I feel. Seeing his chilled and crumpled state this morning, I take pity on him and pass a few pleasantries and offer him a cup of tea. He looks at me suspiciously but is too cold to turn down the tea. It may be July but it’s a British July.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read, you know. I’m not Cruella De Vil.’ He takes the tea. ‘Are you planning on trailing me all day?’ He nods. ‘Well, I’m driving to work. I might as well give you a lift.’ He doesn’t know whether to accept my offer. Naturally he’s trying to discern what my ulterior motive could be. There isn’t one. I’m too worn out to formulate a come-back strategy. I’m not even sure that I want to.

  I arrive at the office by 8.15 a.m., and although I haven’t managed to go to the gym I enter with my kit bag over my shoulder to give the impression that not only is it business as normal, but I am healthy and sane. I’m wearing a charcoal-grey Armani suit – emotional armour – and dark glasses to hide the bags under my eyes, induced from lack of sleep and endless crying. But then I do work in media and as long as the glasses are designer no one thinks twice about my wearing them inside.

  I walk through the glass, open-plan offices, cursing (not for the first time) the architect. Had he considered my public humiliation when he put together his design? I nod to a few faces and ignore the sniggering and whispering. I walk the marathon to my desk, sit down and put on my PC. I ring Jaki’s extension number.

  ‘Jaki, can you bring me a double espresso, please,’ I ask, as I do every morning.

  ‘You’re back!’ She doesn’t trouble to hide her disbelief.

  ‘I am. I had summer flu. But I’m back now.’

  ‘Er, glad to hear you’re better,’ she stutters.

  ‘Thank you, Jaki. Can you bring me my diary? Oh, and can you make room in it so that I can see Bale today?’

  ‘Well, actually your diary is clear.’

  I get it, but pretend not to.

  ‘Fine, then I’ll have time for some invoicing and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to get me an appointment with Bale.’ I hang up.

  Bale agrees to see me at 11.00 a.m. In the meantime the entire staff studiously avoid me. My leper-like state is due to the widely held belief that luck is catching – both good and bad. When I was fast-tracking my way through promotions I’d been an extremely popular girl. Trixxie is the only exception. She does pop by my desk to say hi. But then I suspect that in her drug-induced state she has no idea what happened on last week’s show.

  I choose to wait until five past eleven before I walk into Bale’s office. Fi is sitting there already.

  ‘Bale, you’ve put on weight,’ I smile. Pleasantries over, I close his office door. He reminds me of a walrus, his pink fleshiness indefinitely merging nose into lip, lip into chin, chin into neck into chest and suddenly we arrive at his feet. I try to think of his good points. I can’t. He doesn’t even close his mouth when he chews his food. I turn to Fi. She, on the other hand, looks magnificent. Triumphant, glowing. I think of Lady Macbeth. She’s wearing an Alberta Ferretti suit, which, as I’ve never seen it before, I can only assume was bought from her ratings-achieved bonus.

  ‘Nice suit, Fi,’ I comment. ‘I didn’t realize that they took blood money at Harvey Nics. Thought it was just charge cards.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Cas. You know the game.’ She looks sensational and I know for certain that my team will now be worshipping at the temple of Fiona. They can’t see through her. Because they are dazzled. She’s dazzling.

  ‘Have a seat, Cas,’ offers Bale. I note it’s the low one. They’ll tower inches above me if I sit in it.

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  ‘Oh, not stopping?’ asks Bale. They start to snigger.

  ‘Did you catch the show on Saturday?’ asks Fi. Which sends them into raptures.

  ‘Have you seen the runs? Aren’t you going to congratulate us on the ratings? You always said a show with Darren Smith would break all records,’ pursues Bale.

  ‘Ratings? Ratings? Is that all you think about?’ I snap. Despite my vows to remain cool and calm throughout.

  ‘Yes, Cas.’ He thumps the desk and suddenly turns serious. ‘Ratings are all I think about. And up until recently, when you fell in lurve, that’s all you thought about.’

  Slapped face. Even this repulsive cliché knew more about me than I did. I don’t think there’s any point in my trying to explain that the cost of ratings rocketing is hearts plummeting.

  ‘You let us down, Cas. Running up north after that hippie gypsy. Coming back with loads of mumbo-jumbo ideas on emotionally profitable programmes. You’re a disappointment.’

  ‘Just because Darren isn’t a materialistic, hedonistic, Fascist, that does not make him a hippie gypsy,’ I yell back. I think about it for a moment and then add, ‘And anyway what’s wrong with hippie gypsies?’

  Bale and Fi roar with laughter. Her boobs and his belly bounce up and down as their laughter ricochets around their bodies. I stay still.

  ‘I expect this type of thing from you, Bale, but you, Fi – you’ve surprised me. How could you do this to me?’ Fi stares back, insolent and unashamed. ‘You knew that Josh and Darren would both be hurt and that I’d become public property.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that Dazza did a runner,’ sneers Bale. ‘Bad luck, Cas.’

  ‘Still, look on the bright side,’ comments Fi. ‘There’s been so much publicity about your abilities in the sack that, besides Darren, absolutely every man in the country wants to shag you.’

  ‘And the bright side is?’

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nbsp; ‘Oh, come on, Cas. You’ve never been one to turn down a shag.’

  ‘No,’ I sigh and rub my forehead. ‘Not in the past.’ I’m sick of the small talk. ‘Well, as jolly as it is passing pleasantries with the pair of you, I think it’s time I got to the point. I’m resigning.’

  ‘Accepted. I was going to fire you, for your recurring absences without doctor’s certificates, but then we’d have to negotiate severance pay. It’s so much cleaner this way. Although not as financially advantagous to you,’ he taunts.

  I don’t care about the money. I turn to Fi.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Fi. I thought you were going to have to fuck Bale to gain his favour. Instead all you had to do is fuck me. Good choice – I’m far prettier.’

  I let the door slam behind me.

  I walk out of the office, past my desk. I don’t even bother to empty my cupboards. I walk to the lift, through the reception and keep walking out of the door.

  And I surprise myself, because as the door swings behind me, I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time.

  So I get my hair cut. All off.

  ‘My God, your hair!’ squeals my mother when I pop round to see her and Bob on Thursday night.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not an act of self-loathing or penitence. I just wanted… I don’t know… a change.’

  My mother looks as though she’s about to cry and so I’m grateful when Bob says, ‘It’s very fetching, Cas.’ Bob’s OK, quite a decent bloke, once you look past the brown cords.

  ‘Thanks.’ I force a smile across the fish fingers and beans. I see him gently nudge my mother.

  ‘Well, I expect it’s a good idea to herald a new beginning,’ she stutters heroically. ‘You might shake the press for a day or two.’

  My head’s much lighter – I estimate that my hair weighed pounds – but my heart is still heavy. After supper I turn down the offer to stay the night and hurry to catch the tube.

  I spend the next day on the telephone. I re-call Darren’s mobile, flat, lab and office. No joy. I make a list of National Parks and call each one of them to see if he’s working with any. He’s not. I then start on London’s parks and when I still don’t unearth him I try twenty or thirty others up and down the country. There are plenty of sick trees but Darren’s not ministering to any of them. I walk the streets hoping to spot him. It’s futile. I then gather my courage and call the Smiths in Whitby.

  His father answers the phone.

  ‘Hello, Mr Smith. You probably don’t remember me.’ I had the impression that my stay at the Smith household passed Mr Smith by. I was merely an interlude between Countdown and the chat shows. ‘It’s Cas Perry. I’m a friend of Darren’s. A sort of friend.’ Somewhere between archenemy and fiancée.

  ‘Hello, pet, of course I remember you. When you came on the telly, I said, “Wasn’t she the one who was up here, chasing our Darren?” And Mother said I was right.’

  I’m a bit stuck for what to say next. The fact that Mr Smith referred to my ‘chasing’ Darren is bad enough but my worst fear is confirmed: Darren’s family saw the show.

  ‘I’ve seen your picture in the paper, too.’

  Marvellous.

  ‘Well, I was just ringing – it’s a bit awkward really. You see, I need to talk to Darren and I can’t find him.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, erm, I was wondering if you’d know where he is.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And whether you’d tell me.’ I cross my fingers. In fact, they’ve been crossed for days now, which makes it very difficult to hold a cup of hot coffee and almost impossible to tie my trainers.

  ‘Well, that’s something else. I’m not sure I can do that. I’ll have to ask Mother. Mother,’ he bellows.

  I have a vision of Mrs Smith running along the corridor in a waft of baking smells and fury. I am terrified and want to put the phone down. But if I do I’ll never find Darren. Mr Smith has put his hand over the handset but even so I can still distinguish distinctive wrathful mutterings: ‘No better than she ought to be, the cheek of her, I’ll give her what for.’ I am paralyzed with fear and now can’t put the phone down, even if I wanted to.

  ‘Yes?’ she barks. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Cas Perry.’ Meek.

  ‘Who?’ Insincere.

  ‘Cas Perry, Darren’s friend.’ Tentative.

  ‘Hardly!’ Outraged.

  ‘Mrs Smith, I can imagine how angry you are—’

  ‘Oh, you can, can you?’ She sniffs. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘But I really do need to talk to Darren,’ I persist.

  Silence. I can hear the cogs of her mind whirl round.

  ‘I won’t help you.’

  The phone goes dead and I’m left with the cold, continuous tone that tells me no one wants to speak to me.

  I wonder if he is there? Perhaps he was in the yard kicking a ball around with Richard. Oblivious to the telephone wires that I am trying to crawl through to reach him. Or perhaps he did know I was on the phone and just didn’t care.

  Saturday is red hot. The sun is pouring in through my windows. Insensitively cheerful. I consider that this is the fine weather I hoped I’d wake up to on my wedding day; now the sun’s mocking me. I pull down the blinds. I look around my flat and try to think of something to do to while away the next fifty-odd years. Throughout the last few days I have tidied, ordered, arranged and rearranged every aspect of my life. My cereal packets are arranged in descending size order, my knickers are arranged in colour and date purchased order, my cosmetic bottles are separated into sections – face, body and hands, and then subdivided by brand, and my CDs are alphabetically categorized. Everywhere I look is tidy, neat and trim. It’s ironic that I know exactly where to locate the list of who I sent Christmas cards to in 1995, but I’ve no clue as to where to find my fiancé.

  Besides the physical tidying up, I’ve had time to do a bit of mental cleaning out, too. I’ve written a list of the things that have gone wrong. Or more specifically, and much more humbling, the things I’ve done wrong. I approached my list methodically, subdividing my crimes into categories: ‘Darren’, ‘Mum’, ‘friends’, ‘work’, ‘lovers’, and an all-encompassing ‘general’. The same themes recur in each section. I’ve selfishly pursued my own peace of mind, ruthlessly trampling on the feelings of others. Worse, I’ve justified my behaviour by sulkily holding a grudge against my parents for having the audacity to make their own decisions and live their own lives. I think of Fi’s question, asked in some grotty pub after we’d both become careless with alcohol. ‘Couldn’t you have just, I don’t know, muddled along like the rest of us?’ Yes, in retrospect I suppose I could have. Should have. After all, I was given enough chances. Why didn’t I see that my mother was teaching me about love, not restraint? She loved me so much that she put me before anyone else for years. Why did I have to resent that and see it as a pressure? I had amazing friends, and how did I repay them? By bossing one and using, then humiliating, the other. Issie’s and my friendship is held together by a very slight thread right now. I know that the only way I can possibly hope to keep her as a friend is to learn to deal honestly and fairly. Josh, my dearest friend, is lost for ever. I can’t see how either of us can ever recover from this. Too much hurt pride on his side. Too much shame on mine. I used my power at work childishly, thoughtlessly. I was so heady on the success of ever-increasing ratings and advertising billings that I was blinkered to the destruction the programme was wreaking. I now force myself to consider every aspect: from the woman weeping in my reception on Christmas Eve to the silk farm that had to close down after their exports decreased so significantly. I wonder how many lives I altered the course of with Sex with an Ex? Was it fair to involve myself, and the general public, in people’s loving and living? Would those people have muddled up the aisle if it hadn’t been for my intervention? And if they had, would it necessarily have ended in disaster, as I’d always maintained? Perhaps it was unfair putting such emotional
pressure on individuals just before their weddings. Perhaps it hadn’t been a flat playing field. I realize now that Sex with an Ex was not much more than an elaborate way to try to prove that my father was the rule rather than the exception.

  I had boasted about dealing in desolation, but I hadn’t a clue what desolation was.

  I feel sick. I stand up and walk into the kitchen, trying to put some distance between me and the ugly list.

  I pour myself some Evian and hold the cold glass to my forehead. It soothes the aching momentarily, but I’m aware that my actions are similar to those of an air hostess asking ‘Chicken or beef?’ seconds before the plane crashes.

  I pick up the pen. My ex-lovers. I’m resolute that the majority knew where they stood with me. Hearts and flowers were not part of our dialogues. These men were mostly the ones with wives or girlfriends. The ones who wanted a quick-no-questions-asked bonk, and I supplied it. But had the wives and girlfriends been in on the deal? Unlikely. Now, I wonder how many times I caused a heart to sink as those women found my telephone number scribbled on a scrap of paper. And what if some of the men, especially the single ones, were surprised that I never called back, and a little hurt, perhaps insecure? Is it possible that Issie is right and men have feelings too? I think of Darren, I think of Josh. Of course it’s possible that they have feelings.

  My neat list has become a random mind map, with arrows and circles like Venn diagrams connecting one action to another. Looking at the amount of ink I’ve spilt this morning, it’s not surprising that Darren has walked away from me. I don’t deserve him.

  I am so sorry. And this isn’t simply because the press are trailing me, the show exposed me, the country and most specifically Darren hate me. I’m sorry because I got it wrong.

  I don’t deserve Darren, but he does deserve an explanation. I have to find him.

  The phone rings and I fall on it.

  ‘It’smelssie,’ says Issie quickly, establishing that it’s her rather than Darren. She knows I really only want to hear from him. ‘I didn’t know whether to ring.’