Game Over

by Adele Parks

  ‘Has he chosen his ushers and best man?’

  I stare at her with incredulity.

  ‘It’s not me who’s asking, it’s what the book says. Here, look: “Check your fiancé has chosen his ushers.” ‘She points to the page.

  ‘God, they assume we all marry simpletons, don’t they? The implication is that he couldn’t wipe his own nose unassisted.’ My mother and I treat the surrounding tables to looks of disdain and disbelief.

  ‘So has he chosen his ushers?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply and we both giggle helplessly. I like this relaxed Mum. When the giggles subside, I say, ‘I am grateful, Mum. Thank you. I know it’s a lot of work.’

  Mum glows and simpers. She carefully cuts her scone into halves and then quarters. There has been a mass of work and I don’t know how I’d have coped without her. I hadn’t expected to care about the fairy-tale day but as it approaches I really do want it to be perfect. I want a perfect bride with perfect hair, dress and make-up. Perfect Mum with all her friends attending and a hat that suits her. Perfect guests who are happy with the food and seating plan. And a perfect husband, which Josh is.

  ‘We’ve had a lovely day, haven’t we?’ asks Mum.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree.

  She doesn’t pause. ‘Issie mentioned a Darren to me. Pass the jam, dear.’ She’s desperately trying to be disingenuous but she’s had no practice. I, on the other hand, am a veteran. I reach into my bag and pull out, from acres of tissue paper, the shoes I’ve just bought for the wedding. They are covered in tiny beads, zillions of them. They are certainly the prettiest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen.

  ‘What do you think, Mum?’

  ‘They are beautiful. Wasn’t Darren the one from the north? Didn’t you go on holiday with him?’

  Issie really is rent-a-mouth.

  ‘It wasn’t a holiday. It was work.’

  Mum falls back on the etiquette we have used for a thousand years. She refills my teacup and cuts me a slice of cake. She does this with the precision of a geisha girl. I try to be patient until the little ceremony comes to an end. It is only now that I realize she always uses this ritual to buy time. She has something important to say and she is carefully considering how best to phrase it.

  ‘Josh is a lovely boy.’

  I smile, this is fine. We both know this.

  ‘He’s been like a son to me in some ways, over the years, and certainly like a brother to you. I’m sure he loves you very much.’

  ‘Er, Mum, this is hardly headline news. We are engaged to be married next month. Isn’t this the usual state of affairs?’

  Mum reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. ‘Do you love Josh?’

  ‘Mum!’ I’m shocked. When my father informed my mother about his affair, she could not believe it. Quite literally. I watched, from the doorway of the kitchen, as she ran to him and hung her arms around his neck. She smiled sweetly, hopefully, up at him and asked if he could possibly love the other woman as much, no more, than his wife and daughter. She had expected him to see sense and tell her, ‘No, of course not.’ That way we could all sweep the whole silly business under the carpet. Unfortunately, my father was unaware of the script. He’d replied that, yes, regrettably, that was the case. My mother reeled from the shock. It was at that moment that she began to construct the elaborate safety net that would protect her from any such horrors and indignities again. The most notable components of the net are that she doesn’t readily show affection (I can count on one hand the number of times she’s deliberately touched me). She never talks about love. And she never asks questions to which she doesn’t know the answers. It bothers me that in a single afternoon, sitting in the Selfridges restaurant, my mother has broken all three of her own rules.

  I figure it’s a bit late in the day for my mum to take up the role of adviser. Just because I’ve let her choose the flowers and menu doesn’t mean I want her opinion on every part of my life. She’s my mother and therefore understands nothing and knows less. She’s always let me pretty much make my own mistakes and learn my own lessons. Why start interfering now? Anyway, I am suddenly piqued with myself. Marrying Josh isn’t a mistake. It is the right thing to do. He’s kind and decent and easy-going and everyone likes him and he’s got great career prospects and he’s a good cook.

  And he’s not Darren.

  I glare at Mum but she won’t be intimidated into shutting up. Instead she says, ‘I’d hate to think that all I’d taught you was sacrifice.’

  I put Mum in a taxi, which very nearly spoils the day because she thinks a taxi is frivolous and sees it as yet another example of my decadence and ‘odd ways’. I simply think it will save her hat box from being crushed on the tube. We all but have a stand-up fight, but we are reunited when the cab driver is rude to us and tells us to get ‘bloody in, or bloody out, the bleedin’, bloody cab’. I take another cab and rush back to the studio in time to sit in on the interviews of a couple of possible candidates for next week’s show. The interviews finish at 7.45 p.m. and when I return to my desk I find the department empty, except for Fi.

  ‘You’re here late,’ I comment.

  She doesn’t reply directly but grunts and glowers. I remember my mild, but public, rebuke earlier this morning and calculate that she’s probably still sulking with me. I try to restore departmental harmony by telling her about the interviews.

  ‘There was this archetypal Essex girl…’

  It may be that she wasn’t from Essex at all, but from Edinburgh or Exeter or anywhere in-between. But it’s shorthand that Fi will appreciate. The girl had been describing her ex-lover. His CV read like the admission book to the Priory. A compulsive womanizer and gambler, whose idea of a day’s work was a sticky-fingered sweep round the local shopping centre; a louse in every way but redeemed in her eyes because he was ‘a real salt’.

  I stared at the girl, non-comprehending. ‘An Essex term, I presume?’

  ‘Salt. Salt of the earth. The real thing. A fucker,’ she elaborated.

  ‘Quite,’ I smiled. Knowing she’d make great TV and the warm-up act would be able to wallow in innumerable Essex jokes.

  ‘Hey, Fi, what does an Essex girl say after her eleventh orgasm?’ Fi shrugs. ‘Just how many are there in a football team?’

  It’s an old gag, but Fi appreciates my effort and finally allows herself to smirk. I know I’ve won her round when she says, ‘I’m just packing up. Fancy a drink? We could go to the Brave Lion.’

  I’m about to decline, as is my habit, and explain that I have thirty plus e-mails to clear, when I suddenly think of my mother’s fretful face in Selfridges.

  If only I could leave it there.

  I know that if I stay in the office on my own she’ll haunt me, so I shut down my PC and grab my bag.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I’m not. But what can I say? How am I going to explain it to Fi, of all people? We clink glasses and sip our G&Ts.

  I wonder what she meant? Sacrifice?

  Fi is using her fag to orchestrate the tune playing on the jukebox. It’s playing ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’, which seems poignant. Fuck, I’ll be reading horoscopes next. I wish pubs would stick to ambient music. Sentimental lyrics and alcohol are a lethal combination. I charge towards thoughts of work, and away from ones of my mum, or Josh or the wedding.

  ‘So tell me, Fi, if Sex with an Ex were your show, what would you be doing to “make it bigger”?’

  Fi looks shamefaced. ‘Er, sorry about this morning. I got wound up. I was being ridiculous. As you said, I should choose my battles.’

  ‘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?’

&nbs
p; 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.

  ‘Darren. You know, that stubborn git that I tried, and failed, to get on the show,’ I prompt Fi. I’m trying to give the impression that he was a no mark in my grand scheme. This is stupid. Talking about Darren is stupid. Why am I doing this? It’s dangerous. Fi hadn’t associated my peculiar and sudden squeamishness with Darren and I should be relieved. I shouldn’t be pursuing the topic. Because no matter what I am marrying Josh next month. Josh who isn’t a risk and isn’t a bad option. It’s stupid to bring up another man’s name in conversation.

  I can’t stop myself.

  Saying his name aloud is a relief.

&n
bsp; And anyway I’m only talking about him. Perhaps talking about him will help me clarify the situation. It does need clarifying because – I’m certain this is just the drink – but suddenly I can’t remember why I didn’t return his calls.

  The beauty? The horn?’ asks Fi.

  ‘Hmmm. Was he? Yes, I suppose, in a very obvious way he could be described as attractive. I’m referring more to his arguments on collective responsibility, taste, decency and erosion of public standards.’

  I force myself to look at Fi. She’s staring right back at me. It’s obvious that she doesn’t believe me. That’s because she wasn’t born yesterday. I suddenly sober up and know I have to change the subject. My mind is whitewashed. Blank. Vacant. Clean.

  ‘I slept with him.’

  ‘I know that.’ Fi waves my confession away with a beer mat. It strikes me that when other women confess this type of thing the reaction is usually a little more stunning. Fi goes on to explain why she’s not that astounded. ‘But you sleep with everyone.’

  ‘Actually I don’t. Not any more. I haven’t slept with anyone since Darren.’

  ‘Not even—’

  ‘Not even Josh.’

  Fi looks as though she’s just received news that there is intelligent life on Mars. More, that they are male. I take a deep breath.

  ‘We tried but – well, it was awkward, and so we thought it’s probably just the pressure.’ She doesn’t seem to be following me. ‘Josh says it doesn’t matter.’

  But patently it does. Josh must be wondering how, since I’ve slept with half the male race in London, I can’t have sex with him – my fiancé. It is a good question. He’s lovely. I’ve slept with men I barely knew, never mind liked. Why the sudden capricious nature? Sex has never been in my head, firmly staying where it should be, in bed. Except for the mind fuck games which I played, but that was entertainment. I don’t do sentimentality or lamenting lost love.

  At least I didn’t.

  I got on. So there was never any issue about, ‘I like him but I just don’t fancy him’. Now I have problems with every aspect. His smell. Not that he smells terrible – the reverse is true. Josh always smells beautifully coiffured and doused in aftershave. But I want to smell him. His fingers, his armpits, his feet, his sperm.