Game Over

by Adele Parks

  ‘If not him, who?’ I laugh but my voice is unnaturally high.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If my father couldn’t love me, which man can?’ I’m going for closure.

  ‘I’d like to have a go.’

  Bingo.

  Fuck no.

  It’s unnecessary. I want to sleep with him. But he doesn’t need to lie to me. He doesn’t need to give me a cheesy line about love. I’m surprised. I thought he was above that. And it is obviously a cheesy line because he can’t mean that he wants to have a relationship with me. I’ve spent the last three days telling him how little I believe in, or care for, such things. Not that this is the first time that I’ve been faced with this kind of declaration. Men are always telling me they love me. Always have done. But I know they don’t mean it and sometimes they know they don’t mean it, too. It’s just a rather rudimentary ritual. It’s more polite than just asking for a fuck. I rarely sleep with men who go for the love angle, unless I’m certain they don’t mean it. If I suspect they do mean it, I forgo the sex and turn them into good friends – using their devotion for practical purposes whenever my lawn needs mowing or my garage needs clearing.

  But Darren’s different.

  I don’t think he would talk of love unless he was serious. But then, how can he be serious after all I’ve said? I do want to sleep with him because I fancy him like mad. But I can’t possibly sleep with him if I think it means more than just sex to him. It will only get complicated. I don’t want to hurt him. He’s a nice guy. I must be absolutely transparent about how I feel about him.

  If only I knew.

  ‘I don’t think you are the right man to try and love me, Darren,’ I grin brightly. It’s a fake grin and fake brightness.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, you’re not my type.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Why not! Why not? God, this guy is arrogant. ‘Well, you’re a bit too serious and, erm, homely, for me.’ Darren looks at his empty cup. I feel like the bitch everyone says I am. I try to make amends. ‘I’m not saying I don’t fancy you. I do fancy you. I’d be happy to fuck.’

  ‘Sex is not supposed to be separate from love.’ Darren stares at me horrified and yes, I think it is disgust I can see there. Well, that should make things simpler.

  ‘Aghh, but I’ve had great uncomplicated sex.’ I try to cheer him.

  ‘Yes, but have you ever made love? All that variety. The flings, the shags, the affairs, the nameless wonders—’ He waves his hand, dismissing the men in my past, just the way I do. ‘You’ve never had love. It’s just too easy to avoid.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ I say matter-of-factly.

  ‘You think you are so brave, don’t you, Cas?’ I never indulge in these conversations. They lead nowhere. They lead to— ‘Well, you’re not. Being brave is trusting. Being aloof is easy.’ I stifle the yawn. Go, Einstein. I reassure myself that it is only his pride that is hurt. ‘You use your parents and your career to avoid intimacy because you are scared.’

  ‘Did you go to college to come up with that?’

  We glare at each other over the single bud vase with the plastic flower and the empty wine bottle that is doubling as a candleholder. I know enough about men to realize that pursuing this scenario is going to waste my time. Darren’s too intense. Someone would get hurt. Yes, he’s a shag, undeniably fanciable, but it’s not worth it. He has bunny boiler written all over him. He obviously cares for me and I simply can’t allow myself to feel the same way. I admit it would be tempting to allow myself to believe that the intensity and the caring could last. But it simply doesn’t. And what if I do feel the same? What if I do… care for him? Where would it lead? Nowhere, that’s where. I’ve got to be brutal to be benevolent.

  ‘You are obsessed with love. It’s not your fault. It’s popular culture. You’re right, TV does have a lot to answer for. This ridiculous ideal, which doesn’t exist, is touted in every song, poster and book. I’m sure if the Beatles had sung songs about world peace we’d be war free by now.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Oh, well not just the Beatles, then, but everyone.’ I try to joke but he remains deadly serious. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook.

  ‘Do you know what I think? Searching for love, the One, it’s such a lot of wasted energy. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for the human race. I think we should move on. I blame Shakespeare! Love, it’s insane. Get the bill.’

  It’s excruciating. Darren and I travelled home from the restaurant in silence. I went to bed immediately. This morning I had my breakfast with Linda; Darren was out walking the dog. It’s pouring. I packed and he came home to drive me to the station. We’ve travelled the entire distance without using a double-syllabled word. It’s a disaster. Being here is a disaster. Opening up is a disaster. Teasing Darren is a disaster. I take solace in the fact that soon I’ll be on the train to King’s Cross. I can go directly to the studio and make my peace with the increasingly irate Bale. I can finish the filming and manage the editing for this week’s show and by Saturday night I won’t even remember Darren’s name. I am determined that he’ll be consigned to history.

  We arrive at Darlington station. The only sound is the swish of the overworked windscreen wipers. Darren gets out of the car with me. He goes to see when the train is expected and I wait on the platform. He comes back, looking yet more miserable and pitiful than before.

  ‘We’ve got nearly an hour to wait. I’m sorry, I should have checked the timetable before we set off.’

  ‘It’s OK. I should have done that.’ We fall silent again. ‘You don’t have to stay. I can wait in the café.’ The plan is that Darren is spending the rest of the week with his family. He isn’t due back in London until Sunday night. I’m relieved – I couldn’t stand having to do the entire journey with him in silence.

  ‘I’d rather wait. To see you safely on the train.’

  ‘Make sure I do leave, hey?’ I try to joke but I suddenly feel horribly lonely. Inexplicably, I realize I don’t want to leave things like this. I don’t want to get back on the train and go home to my flat. I don’t want never to see Darren again. I’ve been kidding myself. This wasn’t ever about whether Darren appeared on the show or not. His appearance would have made a strong show. His devastating good looks would force me into tuning into The Generation Game, so I can only imagine the meltdown effect he’d have on the rest of the British population, yet he’s not, nor was he ever, essential to the show. We have replacements. I came to Whitby because I wanted to be with him. I don’t understand why I did, but I did.

  I still do.

  Is he going to leave me alone here on the platform? If he does, I’ll scream. He’s staring at the ground. I follow his gaze and try to concentrate on what he’s saying.

  ‘As a child I used to think petrol puddles were rainbows that were a casualty of a nasty road accident.’ He smiles shyly, seeing how I’ll relate to such an intimate confession. He’s expecting something cutting that would prevent an outpouring of memories. After all, memories only lead to knowledge and intimacy. The danger of liking the person. But suddenly I face it. I want to know more about this man. I want to know everything. What was the name of the teacher he had his first crush on? There must have been one. Who are his friends? Why does he have that little scar above his eye? Does he like pesto? Does he hate mushy peas? What does he think about amusement arcades? What does he fear most? What’s he like in bed? Who is he going to fall in love with next?

  Is there still a chance it could be me?

  What?

  ‘Should we go for a coffee?’

  I agree immediately.

  Darren doesn’t want to go to the station café but opts for a small ‘Italian’ café run by Iranian refugees. Their Italian accents are worse than mine but their cappuccinos are convincing. We sit on the sticky wooden benches and face each other over the tiny Formica table. So tiny that our heads are almost touching. But then this is OK, as the ca
ppuccino machine is making so much noise that I’d have to lean close to hear him anyway.

  ‘About last night – I want to apologize,’ I offer. I’m not sure what I want to apologize for but I know that I feel awful. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for my toing and froing. I’m sorry for my ice-maiden act. And most of all that I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to trust him.

  ‘No, I should apologize. I rushed things.’ And whilst the words are kind the tone is curt.

  ‘It’s just that we hardly know each other.’ This comes out sounding like another criticism and I want it to be an explanation for my caution.

  ‘I wasn’t proposing, Cas. I was just suggesting that we could try to get to know each other. I admit I was a bit hamfisted. But look, it doesn’t matter. You made your feelings perfectly clear.’

  But I didn’t, did I? I couldn’t have because I can’t. Make things clear. It’s mud. I want him. I fancy him. I respect him. I like him. He intrigues me. I’m in trouble. It strikes me, as I sit in yet another one of our silences, that our relationship to date, such as it is, has been a series of rows and silences. Which proves my point that intimacy always leads to cruelty and aggro. I look at Darren and he looks dejected and delicious. I am unaware of anything other than my pulsing sex, aching breasts and throbbing lips, all of which could be relieved if he’d just kiss me. He’s not going to and I can’t be tortured like this any longer. I stand up and I swear the room is partying. I put my hand on the table to steady myself. It’s hot in this tiny café.

  ‘Look… goodbye… and… thanks for the coffee.’

  It’s frantic and hurried and amazing. He touches my hand. He’s not trying to restrain me. But he has. I’m rooted. His finger is resting gently on my wrist. I’m shackled. I’m ignited. I kiss him. He kisses back. Strong and dark. Engulfing. I’ve never kissed before. Or if I have, they were poor dress rehearsals. This is it. All the words that have fallen between us suddenly disappear, they are superfluous. We’re left with naked silence. Stripped to desire. He tosses a few quid on the table and, not waiting for the change, we dash out of the café, into the rain. He points to an alleyway behind the station. I’m already heading that way; I have an in-built mechanism that helps me to locate dark streets and other possible places for fornication. The rain is still pelting down, hitting the pavement and vaulting up again. It falls through the afternoon darkness in nasty, spiky, drops, but I don’t care. In fact, I’m grateful: the vicious elements mean that the streets are empty. I’m boiling over with anticipation. He takes a tight hold on my arm. We cross the road, not checking for traffic. Darren flings me up against the wall, barely pausing to check for privacy, I wrap my coat around him. His lips mesh into mine and we’re kissing so hard I can’t tell them apart. He scrabbles with his flies and then sinks into me. I stare into his eyes and he stares back, never losing me. Not for a second. It feels amazing. It feels important. It feels right.

  He’s climbing, he’s filling, he’s plugging. He completes me.

  It’s over in minutes.

  I’m already scared that this will never be over.

  12

  Someone is holding his or her finger on my door buzzer. One of the inconveniences of my loft apartment is that it has nothing as old-fashioned as a spyhole. It is impossible to know who is at the door without talking to them, by which time it is impossible to pretend not to be in, if that is the desired course of action.

  I long for the visitor to be Issie. Possibly Josh, but ideally Issie. And yet I am terrified it is. What will I tell her? What can I say? How can I possibly begin to explain my behaviour over the past two weeks?

  Buuuuzzzzzzzz.

  This persistence demands my attention. If I ignore whoever, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon wondering who it was. I drag myself towards the intercom praying it’s not Bale or Fi.

  ‘It’s me,’ says Issie. ‘Where the hell have you been? Open up instantly.’

  I’m relieved and press the release button. Within moments she is pushing open my door. She’s really pissed off with me, so much so that she doesn’t bother to kiss me. I’m aware that offence is the best form of defence so I demand, ‘Why didn’t you use your key?’

  ‘Lost it,’ she shrugs, immediately apologetic. I tut and start making noises about the security risk and the inconvenience of getting a replacement cut. Once she’s appropriately subdued I ask, ‘Have you looked in your dressing-table drawer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s in there. With the socks.’

  ‘Why would I keep keys with my socks?’

  ‘Beats me, Issie, but you do.’

  This exchange takes place whilst we move towards the kitchen. It’s four thirty on a Sunday afternoon. Which seems the perfect time to pour not just healthy but bionic G&Ts. I certainly need mine. My interlude with the key doesn’t throw Issie completely.

  ‘What’s been going on, Cas? It’s not so surprising that you disappear but normally it’s work-related. I called the studio and they said you had laryngitis. I called here but there was no reply. You weren’t hospitalized, were you?’

  I take a proper look at Issie for the first time since she arrived, and I feel pretty dreadful. She is extremely drawn and nervous-looking. I realize I’m a worry to her. Then again so are lost puppies, the axeing of trees, and the absence of clean, running water in India. Considering the issues Issie involves herself with on an on-going basis, my going AWOL for over a week is small fry. We look at one another and she pauses, immediately suspicious.

  ‘You don’t look ill. You look really well.’

  It’s true, to be direct – I’m a goddess. My hair, black and shiny as a matter of course, is positively glistening. My smile, previously used only for effect, is now a permanent fixture. My skin has always had a pale and interesting hue, but now I’m sporting rose-red cheeks.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me, or Josh, or your mum? We were demented. What the hell is going on?’

  She’s going on and on and on. Question after question after question. Few of which I’m inclined to answer and those I am more willing to respond to are far too complicated. I’m relieved when she abruptly stops mid-conversation flow, but only momentarily, as I soon realize she is staring at the dirty crockery left over from this morning’s breakfast. Normally anally tidy, I have not cleared up. This and the fact that the assorted debris discloses that the breakfast was saturated fat endorsed (as opposed to freshly squeezed orange juice and an ounce of Bran Flakes – my usual) astounds Issie.

  ‘It’s not just the eggshells that have been broken, is it?’ Her tone is both suspicious and delighted. I shake my head and look at the slate tiles. I wonder if I can distract her by pointing to the grime under the fridge. I doubt it. ‘You’ve broken precedent, too, haven’t you? You never feed men breakfast. Who’s been privileged like this?’

  ‘Darren.’ Simply. Unusually I haven’t the energy or inclination to fudge. In fact, I want to talk about him.

  ‘Darren?!’ Uncomprehending. ‘The last time I spoke to you, you’d had a huge row. He was about to take you to the station. You were coming back to London alone. What happened?’

  I thought I’d explained: Darren happened.

  I tell Issie about the train ride to Darlington, the swimming baths, and the walks on the beach and in the graveyard. I know I’m giggling, blushing and gushing (even in this state of near-hysteria I’m gratified to note she also thinks a walk through gravestones is odd). I tell her about the pub, the restaurant and finally the hissing cappuccino machine. I tell her that suddenly (whilst sitting over an itchy, orange Formica table) it occurred to me. Suddenly I knew, more clearly than I’ve ever known anything in my life, that I wanted him. I wanted him beyond reason or rationale.

  ‘Whoa there.’ Issie holds her skinny hands in front of her, trying to block the overload of incomprehensible information. She used to do this when we studied Russian language at night classes. Although I am trying to be clear, it’s understandable t
hat Issie feels she’s neck high in the sludgy waters of an unknown territory. She naturally assumes that when I say I wanted him, I mean sexually. Exclusively sexually. A fair assumption in light of my history.

  Inaccurate.

  She lights one of my cigarettes, without asking.

  ‘I thanked him for the coffee and tried to walk away but—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He put his hand on mine and said, “You’re welcome. The pleasure really was mine, Cas.” ‘I repeat this conversation in a stupid drawling voice, which is actually nothing like Darren’s voice. It’s just that I am aware that what I’m saying is serious stuff. I hope the ridiculous voice will serve to make the story funnier, less intense.

  ‘Noooo.’ Issie latches on to the idiotic voice, hoping it’s a lifeboat. She assumes I’d find this action inane. Any man, trying to get inside my knickers, should know never, ever to appear sentimental once, never mind twice. I can’t stand it.

  Usually.

  ‘And did he say your name like, Kez.’ She says my name as though she is a drunk David Niven impersonating Jimmy Tarbuck. Unaccountably, her mocking makes me ashamed. It’s always felt fine to be harsh and heinous; now it seems puerile. Darren deserves better.

  ‘Er, to be frank, no.’

  ‘But his hand was clammy.’ Issie, understandably disconcerted, is still holding out for the reassurance of one of my ‘scathing dismissal’ stories, as supplied on countless occasions. Scathing dismissal stories make Issie feel better about the fact that she is horribly needy and couldn’t be stinging to save her life. My cruelty to the opposite sex evens things up for her. It’s no use. I’d like to help but I can’t lie.

  ‘Actually, it was cool and smooth.’

  Issie nearly spills her G&T on the floor as the shock makes her overestimate the size of my coffee table.

  ‘Careful,’ I grumble, thinking about the Purves and Purves carpet.

  ‘When you say you wanted him…?’

  I take a deep breath. I force forward. ‘I just couldn’t leave him.’