Game Over

by Unknown

  ‘No, don’t offer to sleep with him. Appeal to his better side. Say that I’m cool with his decision and would like to take him to dinner later, to show there’s no hard feelings etc.’ I’m sure he’ll agree to dinner. He’s too polite not to.

  ‘That’s big of you,’ says Trixxie, beaming at me. ‘Really cool. Like you could be pissed off and whatever.’

  I don’t bother explaining that in reality I’d like to dissect Darren into small pieces and feed him to the lions at London Zoo for inconveniencing me so. I don’t think Trixxie is up to the deception. In fact, I’m not sure she is up to delivering the message. And there’s something else that I don’t mention. As irritating as I obviously find Darren, I’m also absolutely fascinated. He said no to me. He said no to me. Not the type of no which really means ‘yes’ or ‘maybe’. A flat, final no. Try as I might, I can’t think of him as the moralistic tosspot loser that he so obviously is.

  I interview the two women involved in the other liaison for next week’s show. It calms me somewhat. I predict that the guy being tested will fall. I always think that there is a better chance of unfaithfulness if the men are being tested. It’s not that women are fundamentally more faithful, it’s just that women are more involved in the wedding preparations and are less likely to jeopardize their big day. I check my watch. It’s 8.15 p.m. I call Fi and as I feared she’s not hopeful about finding a reserve at such short notice. I threaten, cajole and bribe her into working through the night. I tell her to use the overtime quota and call in any reserves from the research department that she thinks are necessary.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m going to take Darren for dinner.’

  There’s a silence. Eventually she comments, ‘Tough work, but someone’s got to do it.’

  ‘It really is work,’ I insist. ‘I expect he’s going to be fabulously dull.’ I’d like to mean this but my groin obviously disagrees, as my knickers think it’s 5 November. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to, but we do need a show,’ I insist. ‘I’m going to persuade him to see our point of view.’

  ‘Well, I could go instead of you,’ volunteers Fi, with an enthusiasm that has been notably lacking in the past.

  ‘You are not manipulative enough. You’d want to sleep with him.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘But you’d fall for him emotionally. I never do that.’ She can’t argue with this. I continue, ‘We need to understand where he’s coming from. He doesn’t want to do the show because he realizes that his actions will have consequences, people will be hurt and humiliated. Irritating as hell. I think all we can do is try to appeal to his disproportionate and displaced sense of decency. I’m going to explain how a programme affects more than the people on the show; advertisers will be inconvenienced, audiences will be disappointed and you and I will lose our jobs.’ I hope it won’t come to this but Bale is unpredictable. My head aches. I squeeze my temples.

  I’m desperate to see Darren again.

  But only because I need a show. I think his moralistic approach is misplaced.

  Quite attractive.

  Bloody irritating.

  ‘Fi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What should I wear?’

  We arrange to meet at the Oxo tower. Trixxie has booked the restaurant rather than the brasserie. Good work. He can’t fail to be impressed by the spongy leather tub chairs, the complicated wine list, the blue-white linen tablecloths, the huge, elegant wine goblets which are designed so that even Ten-ton Tessie would feel delicately petite – or maybe that’s an exclusively girl thing.

  I arrive before him. I survey the restaurant. It is 9.00 p.m. and the restaurant is full of people cheerfully initiating voyages of the heart. By 2.00 a.m. the streets will be littered with the grieving casualties. This is true of every restaurant in London. I am wearing a black roll-neck jumper and an on-the-knee black wool skirt. Heavy biker boots that are so chunky my legs look matchstick-thin. I have a hunch that this is more Darren’s cup of Typhoo than low necklines and high hemlines. This is currently my sexiest outfit, albeit understated sexy. I keep it in the office, if not for this exact occasion, then certainly for something similar. Issue is I’m not sure what the exact nature of this occasion is. I’m clear that I want him in line, on board, part of the family. I do need a show.

  But.

  Or rather and. And, whilst I’m not sure why, I am sure that I want to see him again.

  I see him arrive and I’m gratified to notice he’s changed clothes too. He’s wearing a light grey suit and a wide-collar, open, white shirt. It shows off his olive skin brilliantly. He looks gorgeous. He walks confidently to my table and leans in to kiss me.

  Kiss me.

  On the cheek.

  I nearly knock over the bottle of mineral water that I’ve ordered, which by anyone’s standards would be uncool. His kiss scorches my face. I’m sure I’m branded like an animal. It takes every ounce of courage, sense and control I have to stop myself snogging him on the spot. I feel an overwhelming pull internally. It starts in my thighs and moves upward, enveloping my lungs, intestines and throat. What is wrong with me? I have experienced sexual attraction before. Keen sexual attraction, but this… This is something new.

  I’m not threatened.

  I know I’m cool as long as he’s either tediously dull or arrogant.

  I already know he’s neither.

  He sits down and smiles at the waitress. I notice that she nearly keels over on the spot. He orders the wine, giving me a cursory opportunity to offer up a preference, but he has taken control.

  ‘I’m really pleased that you suggested this dinner, Cas. And somewhat surprised. I didn’t expect you to take my views so well. Anyway your “runner” ‘– he manages to say the term using inverted commas, which is exactly how I describe Trixxie – ‘your runner informed me that you’d like to take me for dinner. Well, that’s daft. I’m very aware that I must have inconvenienced you and I insist this is my treat.’

  ‘But I can get this on expenses,’ I offer weakly. My being weak surprises me. I rarely am. In fact, the last recorded example of my being weak was pre-toilet training. But Darren is breaking all the rules. He’s not overwhelmed or intimidated by me, nor is he excessively combative. Every other man I’ve ever met has fallen into one of these categories.

  ‘I know that but, really, I’d hate to profit from your show in any way and’ – he pauses and raises one of his eyebrows – ‘I’d really like to buy you dinner.’ He has a soft, velvet voice, so I have to lean close to him to hear him. As I lean close I note that he smells amazing. If I hadn’t met him in these circumstances I’d think of fucking him.

  No. I wouldn’t have to think.

  But the thought is irrelevant, as the business I have to concentrate on is not funny business. It’s not funny at all. I have four days to get the next show in the can.

  I think he’s wearing Issey Miyake.

  I am extremely aware that the balance of power is definitely not in my favour. I remind myself again: the primary reason for my being here is that I must persuade him to be on the show. And even if he is drop-dead gorgeous, so what?

  He’s drop-dead gorgeous, that’s what.

  I stare at the menu, pretending to be interested; a toss-up between wood-roasted squid stuffed with chilli, or red mullet in white wine, parsley and garlic sauce. No, not garlic. Really I need to broach the subject of the show.

  ‘Why would you want to buy me dinner?’

  He blushes and then drags his eyes to meet mine. ‘Any man would want to take you for dinner. You’re stunning.’

  Bang.

  I am delighted, thrilled to my core. Yes, I’ve heard it before. Yes, I’ll hear it again but really it’s never been quite so thrilling. Or terrifying. His up-front approach propels me into a unique position. I’m honest in return.

  ‘Look, Darren. Cards on the table, I’m not here to be social. I’m here to try
to persuade you to be on the show. I need you. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I need a show and you’re it.’ I stop and take a deep breath. The bread arrives. He doesn’t comment for a while. Instead he chooses his bread. He selects the walnut one. In an effort to ingratiate myself I do the same.

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t want to have dinner with me.’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘I’m not going to be on your show.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t face myself in the mirror every morning if I did so. Myself or my parents or siblings, friends, nieces, nephew.’

  No girlfriend. He didn’t mention a girlfriend.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you are peddling the destabilization of family values.’

  I sigh. I’ve heard it all before. Somehow the general public has convinced itself that TV is responsible for the disintegration of the family unit. It’s a way of avoiding responsibility. It’s not fair.

  ‘The family unit is under pressure for myriad reasons. Television is only one, ‘I argue. ‘There have been countless surveys that have tried to assess the effect television has on modern society but net net, bottom line, psychologists, educationalists and moralists have failed to agree that there has been any effect at all. How can you expect little old me to have all the answers?’ I’m trying to appear girlish and agreeable.

  ‘You are endorsing the gradual deconstruction of decency. You are encouraging the trivialization of love and sex.’ He butters his bread ferociously. He has magnificent hands. Very strong-looking. I reach for my wine.

  ‘Darren, no one needed me to do that. There were Blackpool postcards long before TV.’

  ‘So you accept your show is in poor taste, indecent and a contributor to the erosion of public standards?’

  The waitress interrupts to take our order.

  ‘Taste is arbitrary, it changes according to fashion. Good taste is revised with every issue of Vogue. Decency I understand – a regard for cultural and religious issues, i.e. sending sympathy cards when some old dear pops her Patrick Cox.’ I fall back on familiar territory, sarcasm. ‘But standards, are they somewhere between the two? Like giving up your seat to a pregnant woman when travelling by tube, or more emphatically not travelling on public transport at all. And who is the standard setter? The law? The Independent Television Commission? The public? You? Are you the judge and jury in this, Darren?’ I’m raising my voice. He’s got me riled. The seating is tight; there’s no room for hysteria. I lower my voice in an effort to regain control. ‘I’ve always avoided racism. I don’t patronize people with disabilities. There’s no violence, we beep out the bad language and we don’t show actual penetration.’

  ‘How magnanimous of you.’

  I’m not sure he means this. I take a deep breath. This conversation is not going in the direction I expected. It’s wrong by about 180 degrees, and Issie isn’t even navigating. I had planned to be beguiling, flirtatious and coquettish. This is usually a successful ruse. Instead I’m behaving like Attila the Hun’s more ferocious big sister. More peculiar still, I actually do want this man to see my point of view. Not simply to get him on the show: suddenly I want him to respect me. Wanting his respect makes it impossible to flirt. How much have I drunk? We both take a break as we sip our wine. It’s a ‘96 Puligny-Montrachet. It’s very fine.

  ‘Nice wine, good choice,’ I comment.

  ‘Thank you.’ Darren is not going to be side-tracked. He pursues his line of reasoning. ‘TV has exercised an unanticipated and unprecedented influence. Not since the invention of the wheel has anything been so transforming.’

  Someone’s dropped an Alka Seltzer in my knickers. Although I don’t like his argument I am delighted that he sees the importance of TV. So few people do and as I’m passionate about it, I’m thrilled to find someone else who has an opinion, even if it is so condemning. I’m also ecstatic to be debating with him. The sparks, intellectual, emotional and sexual, are all but visible. Darren stares right at me; his divine eyes lock on mine so tightly that I can’t, however hard I try, break his gaze.

  ‘You must see how influential TV is, and therefore what a responsibility you hold. Your programmes articulate the world we live in. You’re saying that deception is OK, infidelity par for the course.’

  We sit, sulky and silent. Listening to the clink of bottles and cutlery, and the hum of indistinguishable voices. Indistinguishable, that is, except for the table next to ours, where I can definitely hear the nervous pleas of a guy who is being ditched. The waitress brings our food. I sip my soup, carrot and coriander. It’s not particularly a favourite of mine but it was top of the menu and I didn’t have time to think about my selection. He is chasing skinny bits of courgette around his plate. He doesn’t seem much interested in his food either. The silence is thunderous.

  ‘So what else do you do, Cas?’

  The sudden change of conversation throws me. Else? Else? Er. I’m too exhausted to think of anything creative, flirty or interesting so I plummet for the truth.

  ‘My friends Issie and Josh, the gym and men. Oh, and my mum – on a Sunday.’

  Darren laughs. ‘So nothing conventional like stamp collecting or mud wrestling then?’

  I smile. ‘I’ve tried mud wrestling.’

  He laughs again. ‘Tell me about the men, Cas.’

  There is another tiny pulse in my groin. Is he flirting with me?

  Please.

  ‘Men fall into three categories for me. Those I’d sleep with. Those I wouldn’t and Josh.’

  ‘So who wouldn’t you sleep with?’

  He is flirting!

  Or maybe he’s just trying to get a handle.

  Why don’t I know? I always know men.

  ‘My friends’ boyfriends and husbands, ugly or stupid men, and men I’ve already slept with.’ He moves his fork fractionally, indicating that he is interested and that I should carry on. ‘My friends’ boyfriends are safe because, despite the world being awash with infidelity and deceit, I don’t do that to my friends.’ This is true and the nearest I have to a moral code. ‘Besides which they just aren’t appealing.’

  He raises an eyebrow again. Which is such a cliché and, regrettably, soooooo sexy.

  ‘I’m not saying anyone who would go out with my mates must be unattractive, far from it. It’s just that my friends and I tell each other everything. By the time I know about their boyfriends picking their toenails, the filthy tricks they get up to with loo brushes, the farting in bed then going under the sheets to smell it, they just aren’t sexy.’ He’s grinning. I’m being serious. ‘Intimacy breeds revulsion. The reason for not sleeping with ugly or stupid men is transparent. Men I’ve slept with have no allure for me. I rarely do repeat performances.’ I pause.

  I wonder if he’s noticed that, by definition, he is a man I’d sleep with?

  ‘You seem to have it all worked out.’ I nod. Which causes his grin to broaden into a smile. Is he being ironic? ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away and then I’ll decide if I’ll answer.’ In my experience, the questions people ask are just as telling as the answers they give.

  ‘Have you been unlucky in love, as they say?’ He blushes. ‘I mean, I only ask because I was wondering why you have such a mercenary attitude towards love.’

  I choose not to take offence.

  ‘Of course I’ve been unlucky in love. If you meet a woman who hasn’t been unlucky in love, look for the little electronic chip behind her ear.’ I always use this line. I grin and fork a mound of food into my mouth. I wonder if he’s the type of man who finds a voracious appetite on a woman a turn-on?

  ‘So who was he?’ Same old question that all men ask. I have an answer rehearsed.

  ‘Er, my first lover,’ I bluff. I pause with my fork halfway between my mouth and plate.

  The implication is that the memory is so painful that momentarily I can’t eat. Men like to think women are too sensitive to ever fully rec
over from a broken heart. It fits in with their view of us as delicate flowers.

  ‘Was it a long-term relationship?’

  These incessant questions. I hesitate. ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘A couple of weeks.’ His tone is somewhere between incredibility and hilarity. That’s not the script. He’s supposed to be touched by the intensity of the affair. ‘But you said your first lover.’ He seems confused. ‘That must have been—’

  ‘A long time ago. Yes. I don’t get over things easily. I’m very sensitive.’

  He stares at me. We’ve only just met but we both know how untrue this is. Darren’s too polite to openly refute my statement.

  ‘But you can’t still be getting over an affair that took place over a decade ago and only lasted a few weeks.’

  Good point. First time it’s ever been made, which goes to show that the scores of other men who I’ve said the same to weren’t paying attention.

  ‘What really hurt you?’

  This is unique and I haven’t got a practised answer to hand. I look at Darren and his face surprises me even more than his original line of questioning. He seems genuinely concerned. I’m genuinely perplexed. I mean, what can I say? ‘My first lover irritated me but frankly my heart hasn’t ever been broken. I’m just a bitch.’ It seems an unlikely solution. After all, it is the truth. He tilts his head a fraction in my direction. He’s astonishingly close. His long hair is falling in front of his eyes and, although not quite touching my skin, it is touching the hairs on my forehead. There is acid in my knickers. My throat is dry and my breasts are straining upwards, obviously hoping he’ll swoop down and kiss them. Hello, sexual tension. I shake my head.

  ‘Hmmm?’ he prompts.

  ‘What?’ My mind has undergone a spring clean and I can’t remember what he asked me. His eyes are fabulous. Brown. A cluster of really rich browns, like autumn leaves piled up under a tree. Suddenly Darren appears embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. Erm—’ He scrambles around for a recovery conversation. ‘Tell me about Josh.’

  I’m grateful that he’s let me off the hook and garble, ‘Josh is my only male, platonic friend. I’ve known him since we were kids. He has too much dirt on me to risk me falling out with him. He could sell to the press when I’m rich and famous.’