Game Over

by Adele Parks

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s time,’ he confirms. A cold finger traces its way along my spine. I shiver; it feels a lot like fear. Josh marry? I’d lose him. Or rather I’d lose my position as numero uno in his life. I share Josh with Issie but that’s different. Issie isn’t competition, she’s complementary. I’d miss him.

  ‘You’re pissed. You don’t mean this. I tell you what, you can retract it in the morning.’ I smile. I wait for him to smile back and he doesn’t, so I move on to Issie. ‘OK, what’s your resolution?’

  ‘I like that one about running a marathon. And you?’

  ‘I’m beginning to feel cheap and bored.’ She cocks her head to one side, waiting for me to elaborate. I can’t. I’m amazed I’ve said this much. I don’t mean it. Or do I? I do.

  ‘I’m giving it up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Casual sex, shags without thought, impulsive sex, shags with limited thought, acting on drunken whims, sleeping with someone to celebrate a promotion, or the ratings, or a pretty frock in Armani.’ I pause to be certain that covers all scenarios. It does.

  ‘What will you do?’ asks Issie, with the scary honesty that only best friends can employ.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply with the same tone. ‘Celibacy?’

  8

  ‘What happened? Why did you do it, Susie? What made you do this?’ Jed is being unusually dignified, under the circumstances. After all, a quarter of the British adult population have just seen his fiancée kiss her ex-lover almost in the vestry of the church, fifteen minutes before their wedding rehearsal, a week before their wedding. The film clearly shows her adjust her skirt as she emerged from behind the tombstone. Bale’s terrified of lawsuits so we are not explicit but it doesn’t take a Mensa IQ to work out that kissing wasn’t where the action stopped.

  Susie is whiter than the wedding dress that she’d proudly shown the audience just before the advert break. But then that was another lifetime. That was a pre-public outing lifetime. Susie was still playing happy families, Jed was still living in cloud cuckoo land and Andrew was still standing in the wings waiting to expose Susie’s infidelity.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ whispers Susie. Which I think is a good move. Her only chance of winning the audience over is to be immediately and totally contrite. After all, Jed’s a good-looking guy and natural instincts are to root for him.

  It’s an interesting moment, this one: when all three stooges are on the floor and they have to deal publicly with the consequences of a very private affair. Jed had thought he was in control. He hadn’t actually believed Andrew was any real competition. He’d imagined that it would be exciting to be on TV, something to tell the grandkids. He’d expected Susie to choose him, despite the fact that all their friends still whispered about Andrew and Susie being a great couple, so much more passionate. I bet he’s now wishing he’d simply stuck to the wedding video.

  Andrew thought it was his game. He had little to lose as his and Susie’s romance ended in a veil of tears and reprimands some years ago (FYI, and it’s worth noting, the reason why they finished was because Susie found Andrew in bed with another woman). Andrew had happily agreed to tempt her. If he hadn’t, it would look as though he was chicken shit, and that foxy detective who’d approached him would think he was only half a man.

  ‘Why did you do it, Susie?’ pleads Jed.

  ‘I wish they’d ask more probing questions,’ comments Fi. We are both standing in the wings watching the action, live.

  ‘No, this is the crux,’ I whisper back. The reasons why the partners fall are massively interesting. The list is endless. Closure, revenge, consolation, opportunism.’

  Susie has finally found her voice.

  ‘I am sorry, Jed. But I couldn’t not. For the last three years since Andrew and I split up I saw him in every square jaw and broad shoulders. Sometimes I’d see him in front of me on the tube escalator and I’d run to catch him up, my feet pounding on the wooden slats, my heart vibrating against my tonsils. And for that heady thumping moment I wouldn’t worry how I’d explain it to you. Or why I was forgiving him. I just wanted to heal myself by resting my eyes upon him. I thought then that the throbbing might go away. But it never was him. It was always someone less. Because everyone is less. Even you.’

  How curious.

  The audience knows that Andrew doesn’t deserve such devotion, but they are thrilled. Other than Susie’s very deep ugly sobs, you can hear a pin drop.

  Tears are streaming down Fi’s face. ‘Aren’t you moved, Cas?’

  ‘Yes, I’m delighted there isn’t a dry eye in the house. It’s great television. What’s next?’

  She hands me a clipboard.’ Interviews for next week’s show.’

  I walk towards the interview room, ushering away a few giggling research girls who are cluttering the doorway. ‘What’s up with them?’ I ask Fi.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Your thinking man, he’s a Greek god.’

  ‘Not very tall, then, and with several heads?’ I quip. But my sarcasm is whipped out of me as I open the door and see Darren. I can understand why Marcus is insecure. I met Marcus this morning. He is fine. He is bright enough, more interesting than most, average-looking and extremely wealthy. He obviously adores Claire. Claire realizes this is not a bad deal and I figure she adores him back. However, besides my personal belief that everyone will have an affair given the opportunity, Darren is breathtaking.

  He’s tall, about six foot two, with long, gypsy hair touching his chin. I don’t normally go for long hair. Because, more often than not, it is accessorized with an entirely denim wardrobe and a Meatloaf album collection. But, right now, all I want to do is lose my fingers in his locks. More, I want to lose him in my Conran bâteau wooden bed. He has wide shoulders that taper to slim hips and the cutest bum. He is wearing a pale grey sweater and some old Levis. Just the right amount of effort, without suggesting he is conceited. His eyes are huge, deep brown and framed with the most stunning Bambi lashes. And best of all is his smile. He has the cheekiest smile that provokes his entire face. His eyes, his cheeks, his laugh lines.

  He’s a babe.

  For a moment I am at a complete loss. I don’t know what to say, what to do or how to stand. I am absolutely dispossessed of common sense, thirty-three years of precedent, or even a simple grasp at etiquette. I can no more think of the correct words than I could bungy jump from… God I can’t even think where people bungy jump. My mind is blank. He smiles and I think I can hear music, which is such a cliché that I’m ready to shoot myself. My nipples are getting hard, which I think is a filthy betrayal. Can he tell? I’m literally salivating. Get a fucking grip, I instruct myself.

  ‘Jocasta Perry,’ I say in a confident, don’t-think-I’m-going-to-be – impressed-by-your – stunning – good-looks-I’m-impenetrable voice. It’s entirely fictional.

  ‘Jocasta, how Oedipal.’ He smiles, taking my hand and shaking it very firmly. I’m amazed not at the firmness of the handshake but at the reference. ‘Jocasta or Ca—’

  ‘Cas,’ I confirm. Is this man psychic?

  ‘Darren Smith.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ I indicate the clipboard, which has all his personal details. Telephone number, address, date of birth. I wonder if we should start including some more intimate questions in the briefing session. Like favourite sexual position, which side of the bed he sleeps on. Mentally I pinch myself. He’s just a man. I quickly draw attention to his short-comings. We both need to be aware of them.

  ‘Daz or Dazza?’ I smile icily.

  ‘Darren,’ he confirms without the slightest hint that he’s taken offence. I wonder if he realizes that I am trying to be rude. He doesn’t seem stupid. He grins at me. Exposing a row of teeth which the Osmonds would be proud of. How can anyone be this gorgeous?

  ‘Well, Darren, to business.’ I sit next to him and accidentally bang my knee against his. His touch blisters through my Joseph trousers. I actually flinch. Shaki
ng, I reach for a glass of water.

  ‘You OK?’ He moves quickly, reaching the water before I do. Genuinely concerned, he hands me the glass. I’m incapable of telling him I’m OK. The glass slips an inch. He thinks I’m going to drop it and so guides it to my lips, watching me the whole time. His eyes bore right into me. Is he reading my mind? Does he know my knickers are in flames? I take a gulp of the water. And place the glass back on the coffee table. ‘It is hot in here,’ he comments and springs up to play with the air conditioning switch. He is so confident. So in control. And I’m…? I’m so lost. Maybe I’m sick. I glance at Fi. She’s grinning. This brings me back to my senses with a jolt.

  ‘Something funny, Fi?’ I glare at her. She shakes her head and retreats to a corner of the room. I force myself back to my guest notes and back to Darren. Only one of those actions presents a problem. ‘As you know, Marcus Ailsebury is about to marry your ex-girlfriend, Claire Thomson, on Valentine’s Day. Just over two weeks’ time. Marcus wrote to us to tell us that he feels’ – I correct myself – ‘fears that Claire may still hold a torch for you.’ I blush. This script, normally adequate, suddenly appears to be exactly what it is. Bloody awful. I hope Darren doesn’t think I’d normally use an expression like ‘hold a torch’. Regardless, I carry on. ‘Marcus needs to know whether his fears are founded. Now are you familiar with the format of Sex with an Ex?’ I look up at him.

  ‘Sex with an Ex? Sadly, yes.’ He nods seriously. His hair falls over his left eye. I can’t think of anything more attractive. He blows out of the side of his mouth. Except that. The hair almost magically falls back into place.

  ‘Good, well, what we need you to do is—’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have.’ I smile, quite happy to engage in a conversation with him. Answer questions and queries. He can have all evening. I want to hear everything he has to say.

  ‘I’m not going to do this.’

  Except that.

  ‘I don’t want to be on your show.’

  I stare at him, amazed. Arsehole.

  ‘I feel terrible that I’m letting you down and that I’ve probably inconvenienced a lot of people, but I had no idea, when your studio invited me here, it was for Sex with an Ex.’ He spits out the title with undisguised contempt.

  ‘Didn’t the private detective explain it all to you?’ I ask bitterly.

  ‘No. She just said that Marcus needed some help with the wedding preparations. I thought I was being invited on to a show similar to Surprise Surprise.’

  I consider this. It is possible that our researchers and detective deliberately misled Darren. Or at the very least kept him in the dark. They too must have recognized that Darren would be great for ratings.

  ‘Nothing on this earth would induce me to be on Sex with an Ex.’

  ‘Why not?’ Frankly, I’m stunned. He’s saying no. No to the opportunity of being on TV. No to the opportunity of seducing an ex. No to me.

  ‘Because you are undermining everything I hold dear. Love, marriage, fidelity, constancy. I can’t do it.’

  I’m amazed. A man who owns up to feeling these things must be gay. But I know he’s not. I mentally shake myself. Fuck. Twat. I haven’t got time for this. I’m busy. I don’t need some half-average-looking bloke, who has too high an opinion of himself, screwing things up for me now. I glare at him. I breathe deeply.

  ‘But Darren, why not? Marcus wants this,’ I say reasonably.

  Then Marcus is wrong.’

  ‘He wants to test her.’

  ‘He’d do better to trust her.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Deadly serious.’

  I check my watch. I have to speed this along. I still have the other guests to meet. First interview of the New Year and I run into a hitch immediately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d think it was an omen. But I’m not.

  ‘Look, Darren, is this a question of money? You see we can’t offer our guests hard cash, our lawyers won’t let us. But we can make this worth your while in expenses. Clothes, travel, entertainment, etc.’ I mentally calculate what I can up the budget to. We normally expect an outlay of up to £600 per guest.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with money.’ Darren rests his head in his hands and leans back against the sofa.

  ‘We can go up to eight hundred pounds.’

  ‘I just think it’s ignoble.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred.’

  He shakes his head fractionally. And casually crosses his legs. They are extremely long. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Two thousand.’

  He doesn’t acknowledge my offer. I make a quick calculation. This man is extremely intelligent, sensitive, stunningly good-looking. Even I, fleetingly, had found him attractive. Until he started arsing around like this. Now I realize he’s a wanker. But, generally, people aren’t as perceptive as I am. Audiences will like him. Bale will love him. How much?

  ‘Four thousand pounds.’ I hear Fi gasp. Darren smiles pleasantly, too astute to be insulted. He looks extremely confident. He shakes his head. I lean close to him. My mouth is only inches away from his ear.

  ‘It’s my final offer,’ I whisper. He smiles. I look closer. He’s resolute. Damn.

  ‘Big prick,’ I comment to Fi, as I charge out of the room. I don’t even check if the door has banged shut behind me.

  ‘Almost certainly has,’ she comments.

  I glare at her. ‘I wasn’t commenting on his equipment,’ I snarl. ‘More his manner.’

  ‘I thought he was utterly charming,’ she confesses, blushing.

  I sigh, irritated. ‘What exactly is charming about fucking up our shooting schedule?’ I rage. ‘Do you think Bale will be charmed?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  I begin to charge down the corridor towards the other interview rooms. We are on an extremely tight schedule. We’ve moved Sex with an Ex from the Monday slot to Saturday, which has cranked up the pressure by one more near infeasible notch. We have to complete the interviews tonight. For both liaisons, pre and post advertisements break. We have to choose the location for the temptation scene. Tomorrow we have to arrange all the logistics for all the parties in each liaison. Film on Wednesday and Thursday and then edit on Friday. The entire team regularly work at the weekends. I don’t need spanners in works. I don’t have time for mistakes, misgivings or misjudgements.

  ‘So who do we have on reserve? Give me the briefing notes.’ I hold out my hand waiting for the relevant file.

  ‘Err.’ Fi looks a bit shamefaced. ‘We haven’t one.’

  I stop abruptly. ‘What?’

  ‘We did have. But we don’t now. Mr P. Kent marrying a Ms L. Gripton were in reserve but he called the wedding off. I actually think he was using the show as a way to get rid of her. But he found the courage to do it without us.’ Fi smiles brightly and I consider murdering her. I don’t have time. When did she become stupid?

  ‘How fabulous for him. What a shame for Ms Gripton and what a bloody disaster for us.’ I’m not shouting. I’m too angry to shout. ‘We always have two reserve options. Who are the others?’

  ‘Well, there’s a bit of a problem there too,’ mumbles Fi. ‘The bride-to-be broke her leg. She’s unlikely to try to conduct an illicit liaison when she’s in a toe-to-hip cast.’

  ‘Such bad luck,’ I snarl.

  ‘Isn’t it? The wedding photos will be ruined.’

  ‘I mean ours. Fi, go back to your office and paw over every letter we’ve received. See if there is anyone who we can reach tonight. Who’s on next week’s show? Is there a case we can bring forward? Leave no stone unturned. If you can’t find anyone in the letters pile, go on the Internet and set up an emergency telephone line; run it tonight.’ Fi starts to dash down the corridor. I call after her, ‘Fi, do you know anyone who’s engaged? Check your Filofax. I’ll check mine.’ Fi starts to object. I sweep away her squeamishness. ‘This is important.’

 
I check my watch. It’s 6.30 p.m. I bleep for the Sex with an Ex runner. I know it will take some time to locate Trixxie because our policy for employing runners is another one of Bale’s economy-driven strategies. Instead of recognizing that the runner on a show is a lynchpin and needs to be astute, willing, energetic and proactive, TV6 employs the defective offspring of our big advertisers. More proof that Bale is a sycophantic stinge. He gets to suck the cock of his most important clients and at the same time is able to pay below the minimum wage, in the knowledge that Daddy will supplement with an allowance. I wait nine and a half minutes for Trixxie to respond to my page. She is undoubtedly doing something really pressing, like smoking hash or fixing her make-up or choosing the correct piece of metal to put in her eyebrow. When she eventually does show, I realize that ‘respond’ is probably too kind a description.

  ‘Like can I do something?’ she asks with a tone that is somewhere between careless and gormless. She is in reality about twenty-two but looks about six, as she is anorexic-thin, wears her hair in bunchies and has a number of bruises on her legs. The bruises are not, however, the result of playground bullying but UBIs – unidentified beer injuries. Unrestrained partying is part of the job. In fact, she thinks it is the job. She’s paid a pittance but she’s worth less. I tell her to go directly to Darren and delay him.

  ‘Delay him?’ she drawls. Redefining the adjective non-comprehending.

  ‘Yes. He wants to leave.’

  ‘But he can’t, he’s filming this week and whatever.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to film,’ I explain with what absolutely must be my last ounce of patience.

  ‘That’s bad.’

  I sigh, far too aware that incompetents surround me. Trixxie stumbles on an obstacle. ‘I can’t force him to stay against his will or whatever.’

  ‘I know that. You have to persuade him to stay by making it worth his while.’

  ‘Sleeping with him?’ she asks.

  I look at the specimen in front of me. Darren wouldn’t. I think on my feet. I need Darren on the show. He’d make a great show and more urgently, because of Fi’s incompetence in securing a reserve, he’s our only chance at any show. I have to keep this lead, as tenuous as it is, warm until we’ve explored all other angles.