Game Over

by Unknown

  She’s far too innocent for me to be able to explain.

  ‘Josh, it’s clear to see that Jocasta is a bit of a flirt.’

  The words cut. A neat incision.

  ‘But why did you contact the studio? Is there a particular ex that you feel might threaten your relationship?’ Katie Hunt tilts her head to one side and smiles sympathetically. I’ve seen her practise that in the mirror in the loos.

  ‘There’s this one guy, Darren Smith.’

  The incision rips to a wider gash.

  They play a film of the TV6 party. Even in this stupefied state I have to credit the editor. It’s a fine piece of work. Because the cameras were concealed and I obviously haven’t signed a release form allowing TV6 to film me, they have had to use a black stripe to obscure my eyes. But since they have just shown numerous stills of me, the strip doesn’t conceal my identity. I just look sinister, a bit like a masked madame at a brothel. The film starts with a shot of me slipping my engagement ring into my pocket. This is repeated four times and then it shows me greeting (a masked) Darren. Cut to me beaming like a Cheshire cat. It shows Darren being attentive towards me, bringing me caviar and champagne. They speed that bit up and, because of my animated hand gestures and his vigilance, it looks as though I am bossing and directing him on an endless stream of jobs. Fetch this, bring that, go there and come here. Cut to Darren and me dancing together. We were actually dancing to an innocuous cover version of ‘Let’s Twist Again’ but TV6 have dubbed in the husky, throbbing voice of Rod Stewart singing ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy’. The camera angles are such that I look as though I’m gyrating my groin almost in Darren’s face. Cut to me trying to get through the crowd of women hanging round Darren. Again this is speeded up, and by shaking the camera, the effect achieved is one of violence. It looks as though I’m shoving away the competition. There’s a bit where we were chatting exuberantly, my hair cloaking our faces. It looks as though we were snogging, at it like hammer and tongs. We had openly left the party together. But by editing two different bits of footage, one of Darren going to the loo and another of me going out of the room for a moment to take a call on my mobile, it looks as though we deliberately left separately and then met furtively outside the building. If this were a film about anyone other than Darren and me, I’d be thrilled.

  Darren.

  I watch Darren and me walk along the river. I was right – we did start holding hands by the Mall. I see us get in a cab and arrive at a hotel. The masks hide the look of longing and apprehension in Darren’s eyes and blank out the moment where the caution rinsed from mine.

  It all makes sense now. That’s why we were able to get a cab so easily – a plant. The cabby knew which hotel to take us to. The one with hidden cameras in the lobby, bar and corridors. That’s why breakfast arrived even though we hadn’t ordered it. TV6 needed an affidavit from the bellboy that we were in bed together. That’s why the manager couldn’t let us stay at the hotel for another night. Too right they needed to clean the room out – more like they needed to collect evidence.

  I’m right. The film finishes with a number of shots of the debris of our love. A camera pans around the bedroom we left. Empty bottles of champagne, discarded sachets of bubble bath, crumpled sheets on the bed and used condom packets in the bin. The last two shots cause the audience to titter. There is no voiceover. No accusations are actually articulated because if they were I could sue the hides of TV6 but the implication is clear. The masked woman, identifiable as Jocasta Perry, has betrayed Josh, the smiley, affable chap on the stage. I feel betrayed. Exposed. Dirty.

  Katie Hunt is exhilarated. Her obvious excitement is bordering on sexual arousal. She tries to contain it as she turns to Josh.

  ‘So how does that film make you feel, Josh?’

  There are no winners.

  Poor Josh. Despite having watched every episode of Sex with an Ex, it is clear to me – his former best friend – that he had no perception of the humiliation, upset and pain he was about to bring upon himself by opening this Pandora’s box. The same could be said of me but doubly so.

  How had I ever thought this showing of bloodied sheets was entertainment? How could I have ever thought that it was OK to reduce love to petty gossip and to aggrandize betrayal to something glamorous rather than grubby?

  Josh looks worn and defeated. He tries, but fails, to summon his charming smile. The audience sigh collectively. He looks as though he’s going to cry. Oh my God, he is crying. It’s excruciating.

  ‘As I mentioned, Jocasta Perry was invited on to the show but refused to appear.’

  ‘That’s an outright lie. I’ll get my lawyers on to that,’ I snap, but I know the situation is beyond help or hope. TV6 have made a calculated gamble. Even if I sue for invasion of privacy, as this show has been much more intrusive than any other, they have a hit.

  ‘We do, however, have a recorded interview with her.’

  They show footage of me in a meeting, presenting on Sex with an Ex. I am not wearing a mask because I made this film for TV, to publicize the show. I gaze brazenly at the camera. I am in fact talking about the show when I comment, ‘Sex with an Ex is unbeatable. Risky, dirty, cheeky and above all fun.’ But I know that the millions of viewers watching think I am talking about Darren.

  ‘And let’s leave the final word with Darren Smith,’ beams Katie.

  Close-up of Darren leaving the station after having seen me on to the tube. Even the black stripe over his eyes doesn’t make him look comical – he looks more like a modern-day Lone Ranger. He leaps up the steps three at a time. He reaches the top of the steps and leaps into the air, punching it. Cut to me, winking and saying, ‘Cheeky and above all fun’, air punch, ‘above all fun’, air punch.

  Issie and my mother stay silent as the credits roll. I switch off the TV.

  ‘What did that last bit mean?’ asks my mother.

  ‘Do you, do you—’ Issie’s struggling. ‘Do you think Darren was in on it?’

  I pelt her with a silencing glance and she looks at her shoes. I finally find my voice.

  ‘How could they do that to me? I hate the studio. I hate the media.’

  ‘Er, you invented it. It’s your baby,’ points out Issie with uncalled-for reasonableness.

  ‘This isn’t a baby. Babies are cute. This is Frankenstein’s monster’s more vicious big brother.’ As I say this I know she’s thinking this serves me right. I also know she’s correct.

  My eye flicks with tiredness, my head aches. I’m suddenly freezing. I go to my bedroom and unearth a jumper and some socks. Back in the sitting room my mother and Issie are sitting still, like statues, where I left them. I pull my jumper tighter around me. The chill seems to be coming from the inside.

  ‘So do you think Darren set you up?’ persists Issie.

  ‘No.’ I’m horrified that this thought has entered her head.

  ‘You’re certain.’

  ‘I’m positive. Issie, I trust him.’

  ‘It’s just that he did seem to forgive you rather too easily. He might be a saint, but it seems more likely that he was part of the plot and wanted revenge.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ He couldn’t have faked it. I know it was absolutely real. Everything from the party, to the walk along the river, to the hotel. He’s my fiancé, for God’s sake.

  Hmmm.

  But even considering that, I trust him. I keep hold of my pictures, him singing into the bathroom mirror, my hands towelling dry his soapy back after our bath, him shining his shoes with the little polishing kit they leave in hotel rooms. I don’t allow the film to replace them. I know what I know.

  The telephone starts to ring. Foolishly my mother answers it. It’s a reporter from the Mirror. I take the handset from her and hang up. It immediately rings again. I disconnect the phone at the wall. Issie looks out of the window. She’s right to expect to see the pack.

  I start to think of the people who must have been involved in this set-up. Bale certainly must have given the g
o-ahead. But Bale has not betrayed me. Betrayal requires an atom of self-awareness. With Bale this kind of behaviour is closer to animal instinct. Unpleasant as I’ve always found him, I can certainly believe that he’d stitch me up in this way for ratings. He’d sell his mother to the white slave trade if he thought it would make good television. But he’s not bright enough to have come up with the idea. That must have been Fi. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but Fi knew how I felt about Darren. She was unusually keen to help me arrange the party. I bet she suggested the party to Bale in the first place. Of course – why else would she have enough time to help me out? Bale makes sure all his staff are on overdrive all the time. She sent out the invitations and she never makes mistakes, mail merge or otherwise. How could Fi do that to me? I thought we were friends.

  But were we?

  Was I ever a real friend to her? When she joined the station she had tried to be agreeable but I made it clear our relationship was strictly business. I recognized the fact that she was fiercely intelligent and ambitious. I was threatened. So instead of developing her potential, working her into the team, recognizing her achievements, I tried to contain her talents. All I’ve taught her is ruthlessness, selfishness and egotism.

  Still, she seems to have learnt those lessons pretty well.

  And it’s not just Fi. Debs and Di must have been working on the publicity for this. Jaki must have co-operated too, because the press have my telephone number and address – personal details that only Jaki has. Katie Hunt was having a great time exposing me as a bitch and I gave her her first big break! What could I possibly have done to offend her? Maybe she just thought I was fair game. Tom and Mark may have held a grudge because I slept with them and then dumped them. Gray because I didn’t. Ricky’s trickier. What have I done to hurt him? Failed to comment on how fetching he looked in his new Diesel shirt? I think of the time that he needed me to negotiate a schedule change with the homophobe executive. I’d agreed to go to lunch and then stayed with Darren. I didn’t even remember to cancel the date. The executive never forgave Ricky and has made his life hell in a thousand small ways since. Obviously Ricky felt I’d let him down. And Jack the cameraman? Ed the editor? Mike on sound? How we’ve laughed about that – ‘The mike Mike’, we roar. Jen on special effects? We’ve shared KitKats! And then, when it came to the crunch, they all betrayed me. These are depressing thoughts but the worst of it is I know that I deserve it. It doesn’t surprise me that I failed to inspire any loyalty anywhere with anyone. Because it has been my mantle: no trust, no honesty, no fucking possibility. I’m being treated badly because I treat people badly.

  My mother and Issie stare at me cautiously, waiting to see the result of mixing the mortal cocktail of resentment and humiliation. They are expecting me to swear that I’ll never, ever trust anyone again. Cautious before, impenetrable now. It wouldn’t surprise them if I insisted on leaving the country, where my impenetrable aloofness would be further enhanced by the fact that I’d be struggling with a phrase book. They are waiting for the fury and the vows that I will never, ever confide, trust, respect or love again.

  Instead I say, ‘I’d better call Darren.’

  19

  ‘Josh.’

  Silence.

  ‘Josh, it’s me, Cas.’ I guess that this is more information than necessary, in the light of our history.

  ‘Well, hello, little lady.’ He sounds suspiciously joyous, which I know can’t be the case.

  ‘Josh, are you drunk?’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll still be beautiful in the morning.’ He sounds wounded, regretful and disgraced.

  ‘Oh Josh, I’m so sorry.’ The inadequate words fall down the telephone line.

  ‘Which bit are you sorry about, Cas? The twenty-six-year friendship? Agreeing to marry me? Committing infidelity in front of 12.4 million viewers, or the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses?’

  I smile. I love him for being kind enough to joke with me, even though I am pretty sure I can hear his heart splintering at the other end of the phone.

  12.4 million. A record for the programme and TV6. It’s now unlikely that Sex with an Ex will be ousted into another time slot to accommodate blockbuster films. Fi’s done her job. The irony is that I helped her to bring about my fall. If I hadn’t been so determined to boost my own public image, by insisting on appearing in every tabloid, magazine and chat show, my marriage would never have been so interesting to the general masses. If I hadn’t created resentment in the journalists by manipulating them, maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t be so keen to put the Russell & Bromley in now.

  The press have jumped on the exposure story, inciting yet greater interest as each day passes. A number of the chat shows have run opinion pieces, asking their viewers to ring in and vote for who I should marry, Josh or Darren. The qualities also ran the story, turning it into a modern-day morality tale. And indeed all my ghosts have visited me: past, present and future. Josh is far too cute for anyone to want to consider his part in this, so the blame has been well and truly, and entirely, left at my door. The moral condemnation overlooks the fact that 12.4 million silently vindicated my infidelity by being entertained by it.

  I understand.

  The more vehement the condemnation of me is, the more entire their absolution. Clean hands. I don’t blame them. I haven’t exactly advocated collective responsibility in the past. Besides which, it is my fault – even I know that.

  The florist who had been booked to provide flowers for the wedding is suing me. He claims that as Sex with an Ex filmed a substitute florist, he was denied the publicity which was rightly his. I don’t think this will stand up in court, but a number of other suppliers have jumped on the bandwagon: the caterers, the cartoonist and the manager of the reception venue are demanding that they be paid in full. Even the vicar is looking for a public apology and, more secularly, compensation for the bellringers. But then I guess the fact that the number of weddings has declined by 35 per cent since the first episode of Sex with an Ex is reason enough for the Church to feel aggrieved.

  Past guests of Sex with an Ex have emerged in droves. Reselling their stories with a new spin, i.e. how I incited the infidelities (which is not true – there are enough careless people in the world without me having to do that). Some guests say the channel gave them money to commit infidelity (untrue); others say that I offered sex for them to co-operate (lie). Nothing is so bad that it cannot be said of me.

  Every one of my exes who could come forward, without jeopardizing his own relationship, has done so. Exactly how I give fellatio is now a matter of common knowledge. As is where I get my hair cut, how many fillings I have, how much I paid for my apartment, my bra size. I have been laid open, unmasked.

  ‘I take it the wedding’s off, is it, Cas?’ Josh asks.

  I think I hear hope in his voice. Which is worse than all the above. I know his heart rate and breathing have quickened. I know his mouth is parched and his stomach somersaulting.

  ‘Cas, I’m sorry about the show. I should never have agreed to do it. I didn’t know they were going to stitch you up that badly. I didn’t approach the studio, they approached me. They didn’t stick to the rehearsed questions. I didn’t—’

  ‘I know,’ I sigh, cutting him off. He needn’t explain. I’d assumed the best of him, blaming him for little more than naïvety. It is a pity that Josh didn’t have enough confidence and trust in our relationship and therefore put us both through this. But he was right not to trust me, so the pity and shame are mine. ‘It’s not your fault, Josh. I’m sorry they used you—’

  ‘Can’t we just put it behind us?’ Hopeful.

  ‘No. We both know I can’t marry you.’ Firm. ‘I am sorry they used you to get at me but I’m more sorry that I used you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I love you, Josh, but I’m not in love with you. I agreed to marry you for the wrong reasons.’ For the first time I understand what the expression ‘cruel to be kind’ really means; I’m not using it as an excuse to dump someon
e who’s outgrown his use, become tedious or whom I’ve simply stopped fancying. Dare I add the next bit? ‘And I don’t think you are really in love with me.’ I hear him take a sharp intake of breath. It sounds as though I’ve punctured his lung. I’ve certainly punctured his dreams.

  ‘What the fuck do you know, Cas?’ he snaps drunkenly.

  ‘Not much,’ I admit. I pause. There isn’t a gentle way. ‘But a bit more than when I agreed to marry you. I am so very sorry, Josh.’

  ‘But it’s so humiliating. The invites have gone out.’ He’s pleading with me, nearly begging, but instead of the cold delight that I used to derive from impassioned accounts of unrequited love, I hurt for him.

  ‘Please, Josh, don’t say any more.’ If I wasn’t so swollen with sadness I’d be amused that he hopes that anyone who’s received an invitation will still consider it valid. All Britain knows I’m not going to be wafting down the aisle in a cloud of silk and lace this Saturday.

  ‘You don’t believe that thing about the One, so aren’t I as good as the next one? Better than none?’

  ‘Josh, you’re wonderful. You’ll make someone a fabulous husband,’ I say truthfully.

  ‘But not you.’ There’s no need for me to comment. ‘And are you planning to keep the champagne on ice for your wedding to Darren?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Your adulterous friend.’ I try to be patient and remember he is within his constitutional right to be bitter and livid. I don’t say that sleeping with Darren wasn’t infidelity. Sleeping with Josh was.

  ‘You know we can’t ever see each other again?’ he threatens.

  This is complex. A fat tear splashes on to my telephone directory. Crying is now significantly more natural than breathing.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ I say, knowing this is not what I want but I have to respect his wishes now.