Game Over

by Unknown

  At first I’d been embarrassed by Mrs Smith’s insistence that I stay in their family home. I don’t do family homes. I occasionally stay over at Josh’s but his parents’ houses (note the plural) are so big that there is never any danger of bumping into a parent on the stairwell. Anyway, you can’t justifiably call Josh’s places ‘family homes’. His parents are only together in a nominal sense, negating the term family. And the term home. They both take advantage of the size and number of their abodes to avoid each other. If his mother is in the country, you can put money on his father being ‘up in town’; if his father is in the country, his mother is ensconced in their Spanish villa. Married bliss. Yet despite my reservations about accepting Mrs Smith’s invite I do have an inexplicable, but overwhelming, curiosity with regard to Darren and so I am delighted at the prospect of sleeping in his childhood bed. I casually try to establish if the room I am about to be shown has always been Darren’s and Darren’s alone. Linda assures me that it has: ‘This room has seen everything from bed-wetting to’ – she hesitates – ‘well, bedwetting, I suppose.’ Too much information.

  She pushes open the heavy wooden door and we both struggle to get my (extremely large) case into the (extremely small) room. Like a lot of parents, Mrs Smith has lovingly preserved the shrine of her eldest son’s childhood. I feel I’ve just been handed Darren’s diary. The room is a thumbprint. There is a skinny, hard-looking bed pushed up to the wall under the window. It gives the impression that sleeping was a low priority for the youthful Darren. I can’t help but wonder if the same still holds true. There’s an ancient wardrobe and a small hi-fi/dressing-table unit. It’s from MFI and I expect the twelve-year-old Darren demanded it as an act of rebellion against the fifties’ bedroom suites. There are posters on the wall that I would expect in the room of any male who had grown up in the seventies and stagnated in the eighties. Original Star Trek, the A Team and Starsky and Hutch, then Debbie Harry and Pam Ewing. These are the only nods towards a conventional bedroom. The rest is an Aladdin’s cave meets Treasure Island meets Batman’s cave. There are zillions of books. They line the windowsill and countless shelves, and the overflows are piled in precarious, wavering, waist-high stacks around the walls of the room. There’s everything from Beano Annuals to a Reader’s Digest collection of Charles Dickens’s work. His taste is wide but the thing that all the books have in common is that they are well thumbed. Lying on top of the books are a number of models that have obviously been made by a young Darren. I think his mother has arranged them in date order as the ones nearest to the door are childish (although charming in their naïvety) – rockets and submarines, made from loo rolls and cornflakes boxes. Then Darren must have introduced elastic bands and Dairylea tubs to make helicopters and combine harvesters. The models grow in complexity and size until finally, in the corner opposite the door, there is a massive Meccano model about three foot high and two wide.

  ‘It’s a replica of NASA,’ explains Linda. She must realize that I’m none the wiser because she starts dropping small marbles into buckets, which turn a wheel, which activates a pump, which motivates an engine, which launches a rocket etc. It’s fascinating and it’s more complicated than Mouse-Trap.

  ‘It must have taken him hours to build.’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘Didn’t he have any friends?’

  ‘Hundreds,’ she grins cheerfully, oblivious to my implied insult. ‘But he’s always been fascinated by ecology and wider than that, the universe, and—’

  ‘The reason we are here.’ I can hardly keep the smirk out of my voice.

  ‘Absolutely,’ enthuses Linda. She reminds me of the Americans – they don’t get sarcasm either.

  She smiles at me expectantly and, unusually, I’m shamed. I’m forced to mutter, ‘It’s very good.’ Which is honest enough.

  The pièce de resistance is the ceiling. Darren has painted a night sky. I look closer at the pattern of the stars and realize it’s an inaccurate rendition of the Milky Way. Scientific accuracy aside, it’s gorgeous. Linda smiles.

  ‘Mam won’t paint over it. Darren did it when he was thirteen and Mam loves it.’

  I can’t decide if this interior decorating proves that Darren is the saddest man I’ve ever met or…

  The most amazing.

  No, definitely a loser.

  I look out of the window, which is encased with sparkling net curtains, hanging straighter than Issie.

  ‘Is that his tree house?’

  ‘Yes, it’s mine. I built it myself,’ says Darren. I jump and turn to face him. Linda looks infuriated that he’s crashed our girl time. I, on the other hand, can’t help but be pleased to see him.

  ‘It’s very fine,’ I say. ‘Most people settle for one storey and forgo the plumbing.’ But I beam, making it clear that I’m impressed. Darren smiles back, and I, for once, am devoid of a sparkling putdown.

  We return to the kitchen, which appears to be the epicentre of the Smith household. Mrs Smith hands me a huge mug of strong, sweet tea. I mean to tell her that I prefer black coffee or Earl Grey but I can’t quite find the opportunity. The kitchen is a hive. The radio is tuned into some local station. The DJ has the strangest accent. The washing machine, dryer and dishwasher are all whirling at once. Yet despite this industry there are also great mounds of dirty plates in the sink and clean ones draining on the draining board. There are piles of ironing on at least two chairs. No one is sitting on any of the other chairs, as they are inhabited by fat, lazy, sleeping cats. Intermittently the dog, an aged Labrador, jumps up from its basket and barks at some sound outside. It amazes me that he can hear a sound outside. I can barely hear myself think. There isn’t a pause in the conversation. In fact, conversation is a generous description. It seems to me that everyone is talking at once, about different things and without regard for anyone else. Yet despite this no one, except me, seems to be struggling to keep abreast and answer the correct people at the appropriate time. Linda and Mrs Smith regularly try to force food on me, which I try but fail to decline. I quickly realize that it’s easier to accept the cakes, biscuits and sandwiches and leave them untouched, on the side of my plate. I do quietly sip my tea, which is surprisingly pleasant. Sarah and her husband and kids explode on to the scene. Sarah unceremoniously drops the baby she is carrying on to Mrs Smith’s knee and flings her arms around her brother. The two older children, girls who are probably between three and nine years old (it’s hard to guess, unless you’re into kids), follow suit and climb all over Darren. Sarah’s husband quietly melts away and goes to join Mr Smith watching TV in the front room.

  The kitchen, bubbling before, is positively effervescent now. I desperately need a glass of champagne, or at the very least, some soluble aspirin – ASAP. My head is simply throbbing with all this noise. Darren’s nieces are demanding ‘twiz-zies’, and Darren is obliging them. Sarah is demanding a cup of tea and wants to know if her mother’s baked this morning. Mrs Smith assures her she has, which accounts for the delicious smell that’s wafting through the house. Mrs Smith is balancing the baby on one hip and feeding it with one hand, whilst setting up the ironing board with the other hand to iron dry a skirt for Linda. Shelly and Richard arrive. There is more noise and more kissing. Shelly has brought a chocolate cake, which is cut into immediately – with no regard to whether it is a mealtime or not. Richard wants to know if Darren is ‘up for a kick about’ in the back garden. Shelly shows her nieces-to-be samples of material for their bridesmaid dresses. Delighted, they squeal their approval. Sarah is unpacking groceries, recalling some incident to do with her eldest daughter’s (turns out to be Charlotte) school teacher, and throughout all this everyone is interrogating me about who I am and why I’m here.

  Mrs Smith, Sarah and Shelly have jumped to the understandable conclusion that I am Darren’s girlfriend. Understandable that is, if you don’t know me. I’ve never been a girlfriend and I have no desire to be one. And if ever I did have the desire to be one, it wouldn’t be with someone like
Darren. He may be good-looking, sexy, funny and intelligent but he’s definitely not my type.

  I’m sure he’ll make someone a lovely boyfriend.

  The kind of someone who wants a lovely boyfriend.

  However, it’s easier to allow the Smiths to think that I’m a girlfriend than explain that actually I want Darren to seduce his ex for the edification and delight of the now astounding 8.9 million viewers. The Smith women take advantage of Darren and Richard’s exit to quell their curiosity.

  ‘So you and our Darren are friends, then?’ Sarah hovers over the word ‘friends’ for about ten seconds. I concentrate on choosing a biscuit from the heaving plate proffered by Linda. I barely nod my head.

  ‘Known each other long, have you? It’s just that I don’t recall him mentioning you,’ adds Mrs Smith. I’m glad I’m not into this man – his interfering family would be a nightmare. It’s obvious that they don’t think anyone is good enough for ‘their’ Darren. I imagine that a number of years hence Mrs Smith and Sarah will be checking Darren’s bride’s ability to wash whites whiter than blue white. Awful thought. She’d probably have to sit an exam in pastrymaking before they’d hand him over. Poor Shelly, I imagine that she was subjected to the same hostilities when Richard first brought her home. I look at Shelly, expecting to see the browbeaten shrew of my imaginings. She grins at me cheerfully and confidently kicks a cat off a chair, plonking her own bum in its place.

  ‘Move it, Tabby.’

  Hmmm.

  Charlotte’s interrogation lacks subtlety, but then this is forgivable because she’s still wearing Winnie the Pooh matching vest and pant sets. She cuts the preamble. ‘Are you Darren’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Er, no, I’m not.’ I knew the question was brewing, so why am I blushing?

  ‘Oh.’ Charlotte is unimpressed. The others are simply perplexed. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ she continues.

  ‘No.’ I would never, ever have come here if I’d realized that I was going to be humiliated in this way.

  ‘Poor you,’ says Charlotte, ‘I have. His name is Alan Barker and he sings to me.’ I smile at her encouragingly. She persists, ‘I’m six and a half. Lucy is four. Ben isn’t really a baby. He’s nearly two. How old are you?’

  ‘Don’t be rude, Charlotte. You should never ask a lady her age,’ says Sarah. Yet she pauses expectantly, waiting for me to answer.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ I oblige.

  I notice that Shelly, Sarah and Mrs Smith exchange furtive glances. They think there is something suspect about a single thirty-three-year-old woman. I wish Darren would stop farting around with that football and come and rescue me.

  ‘Do you have a sister?’ pursues Charlotte. We haven’t lost eye contact since the interrogation began. I wiggle on my seat trying to get a better view of the back of her scalp; I’m looking for a tattoo of 666.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A brother, then?’ asks Lucy.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Lucy climbs on to my knee, as if to console me. I’m a bit nervous – I don’t think I’ve ever had anything so young on my knee before, not even a kitten or a puppy. How will she balance? It appears that Lucy has got experience in this sort of thing. She expertly cuddles into me and begins to suck her thumb. I can feel her breath on my neck. I look around for approval. No one else seems to think it is at all unusual that I have a child on my lap. But it is. People don’t touch me. Not unless they are paid to or it’s sexual. An important distinction. I’m touched by my hairdresser, masseur, acupuncturist and personal trainer for hard cash and by men for a more amorphous fee. But this child is sitting on my lap and holding my hand, and doesn’t appear to want anything from me at all. How odd.

  ‘So what do you do for a living?’ asks Sarah. I am about to offer to fill in a questionnaire but I notice that Darren and Richard have just come back inside. I bite my tongue.

  ‘She works in TV,’ jumps in Linda. Linda is the only one who is impressed by my career choice.

  ‘What exactly do you do in television, then, dear?’ asks Mrs Smith. I give my dummied-down job description, which I assume will be adequate. No one ever really understands what someone else does for a living.

  ‘I think up ideas for programmes.’

  ‘Ooohhhh,’ the kitchen choruses.

  ‘Did you think up Friends?’ asks Shelly.

  ‘No, it’s American.’

  ‘Did you think up Blue Peter?’ asks Charlotte.

  ‘No, before my time.’

  ‘Did you think up that game show with the nice Mr Tyrant? The one that makes people very rich?’ asks Mrs Smith.

  ‘Or Cold Feet?’ asks Linda hopefully.

  ‘No, not my channel,’ I add apologetically. Clearly I’ve failed to impress anyone.

  ‘Oh. Well, what did you think of?’ asks Sarah.

  Mercifully the doorbell rings and this causes such concern that everyone, other than Darren and Lucy, leaves the kitchen.

  ‘No one ever rings the door bell,’ he explains. They all come round the back. It must be a delivery.’

  I nod as though this outlandish behaviour was second nature to me, rather than the extraordinary adventure it is.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them the name of your show?’ he asks.

  I stare at him sulkily. ‘I guess I didn’t think it was their cup of tea,’ I mutter.

  ‘Oh, you took a guess that they weren’t part of your 8.9 million. Very astute.’

  I glare at him.

  He is so smug. He is so cocksure. He is so sexy.

  I think it’s the mouth.

  10

  I am unsure how I got myself into this predicament. I can’t remember the point when I actually agreed to accompany Darren, Charlotte, Lucy and baby Ben to the swimming baths. The noise and confusion that reign in the Smith household are so extreme that it is possible I didn’t agree at all but simply was unable to resist their collective force.

  I don’t do public baths. I do health spas and private gyms. I can feel the foot diseases waiting in the cracks of the tiles and despite the gallons of chlorine that the local council has tipped into the pool, I am sure that I am about to swim in neat child’s wee. To add insult, I catch a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror. It’s bad. I didn’t bring a costume with me and therefore I’ve been forced into borrowing Sarah’s. Although there is evidence that Sarah has been a very attractive woman in her time, she has had three babies and has let her figure go somewhat. I get the feeling sartorial elegance is not the top of her list of priorities. The bathing suit is high street rather than high fashion. I did explain to Sarah and Shelly that I only ever wear black. They smiled and handed me this monstrosity. I think that initially it was a mass of fluorescent flowers, which thankfully have faded. The cut is all wrong. Damn, why didn’t I bring my Calvin Klein costume? It’s cut to maximize the length of the leg and minimize the waist. It’s padded at the breast, creating a look that is undisputedly flattering. The floral number is baggy at the crotch and hips, plus the straps keep sliding off my shoulders. As if the possibility that I might fall out of the suit altogether isn’t terrifying enough, suddenly I find that I’m alone in the changing rooms with two small people.

  The panic rises. Not just because I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week, but because Charlotte and Lucy are both looking up at me with expectancy in their eyes. It appears that everyone – Darren, his mum, Sarah, Shelly and these kids – all seem to think I am in charge.

  And that I’m capable of it.

  Which, I am, of course. I mean, I run a show that pulls in millions of viewers per week, for God’s sake. I control budgets of hundreds of thousands of pounds, create revenues of millions. I can undress two small children and dress them again in suitable attire.

  Surely.

  They don’t stand still. They slither and slide all over the place. They don’t want to wear costumes anyway, much less their armbands, which I abandon altogether. It seems that no sooner have I got the appropriate limb in the appropriate hole th
an they take it out again. I do manage to get the costumes on but one is inside-out and the other is back-to-front. I realize that above all else, I must remain calm. Like any confrontation it is important not to let the adversary know that you feel menaced or panicked. I can outstare four-and six-year-olds – definitely. If only they would stay still.

  ‘Charlotte, don’t run. The floor’s slippery. You might hurt yourself.’ I try to make this sound like advice or a warning. It comes out sounding like I’m threatened or threatening. ‘Lucy, we didn’t bring your pink costume. You have to put this blue one on. Now please, stop crying. Just one more arm. Please.’ Both the girls are crying (although I suspect Charlotte’s are crocodile tears) and I am closer to tears than I’ve been in twenty-five years, when another mother offers to help.

  They’re not yours, are they, pet?’

  ‘No.’ I’m irritated and relieved all at once. They aren’t hers either, are they? But, in a blink of an eye, she has managed to get them both into their costumes, the right way out, and facing the right direction. Why couldn’t I? Can it be that there is a mother gene that makes this stuff easier once you are a mum? Not that I ever want to be a mother, not in my wildest dreams. In fact, it’s close to my worst nightmare. But I do like to be able to do things properly. I don’t like to fail.

  I bribe the girls into not telling Uncle Darren that the nice lady had to help with dressing them. I offer them each a pound but Charlotte informs me that the going rate is a new outfit for her Barbie doll and a trip to McDonald’s. I would be annoyed but actually I admire her business acumen and I’m sure that she’ll go far.