by Adele Parks
Issie realizes that she’s not going to change my mind so instead settles for changing the subject. As I stuff a hairbrush and knickers in a bag she tells me that the sad loser guy from New Year has called. They’ve seen each other a few times. Issie’s excited because they play Connect 4 together. I can’t forgive him for letting his mother fix him up. Issie chatters on but I can’t keep track. I’m sure it’s delightful but I’m not sure I care. How has this terrible thing happened to me? How has this wonderful thing happened to me? How can it be both at once? I’ve seen enough to know that it is a messy, complex, filthy state of affairs at the best of times – i.e. when you want to be in love. This is by no means the best of times. I thought I was immune. I thought I was somehow better or different – certainly cleverer. Now I understand no one is immune.
As we put on our coats, Issie sighs, ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?’
‘I’m sorry, Issie. I’ve spent my entire evening forgetting about Darren,’ I smile sadly.
‘Why are you doing this? Don’t you think there’s a possibility that you are snuffing out a genuine chance of happiness?’ she coaxes.
‘No. It’s an exercise in damage limitation.’
‘I don’t understand you, Cas.’
‘Really? How odd. I thought I’d made myself crystal clear.’ Except of course I’m lying. I don’t understand me either. The bit I do understand, the fact that I am in love, only serves to confuse me further.
I lock the door behind me and Blu-tack an envelope to the door. It’s addressed to Darren and the letter inside simply says:
Don’t call.
13
Work is as foul as I thought it would be. Bale didn’t swallow the laryngitis story because Fi, the bitch, showed him a photo of Darren.
‘Laryngitis, my arse.’
‘No, actually it’s a throat infection,’ I snipe back. It is a weak retort but I’m out of practice. I’ve been being nice to people for two weeks, for God’s sake.
‘I saw his picture, Jocasta. You were shagging. Getting your end away whilst the rest of us carried the can. It’s shoddy. It’s unacceptable. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Bale has selected his glass office for this public flaying. I know that however angry he is, he has to appear more so for the benefit of the rest of the team.
‘Nigel, you are getting this out of proportion.’ I only ever call him Nigel when things are desperate. I consider leaning over his desk and creating an illusion of intimacy by touching his arm, but I can’t bring myself to do it. ‘OK, so I trailed a candidate for the show and OK, it turned out to be a duff call because I couldn’t persuade him to be on the show, but it was worth the gamble. If he’d appeared, it would have been the biggest show ever.’
‘Why?’
I knew that would get him.
‘This guy objects to the show on moral grounds: social and individual. He’s startlingly handsome and very articulate. If he’d agreed to be on the show there isn’t a person in the country who would have wanted to oppose his decision. Not the lace industry, the manager of the John Lewis wedding gift service or that bishop.’ I toss the latest list of complaint letters to Bale. ‘The viewers would have united. He’d have taken away the last shadow of doubt about the show. People would have clambered to appear.’
‘But you couldn’t persuade him?’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ I reply to my hands.
‘You tried everything?’ He holds on the word ‘everything’ and we both know what he is asking. Did I sleep with Darren to get him to appear on the show? Yes and no. This answer is far too subtle for Bale to comprehend.
‘Everything.’ My face is aflame.
Bale leans very close to me and I can see the blackheads nestling in the crease between his nose and cheek.
‘Maybe you’re losing your touch.’
‘What an arse!’ I complain to Fi, as there is no one else around. Most of my team have decided that it’s wiser to keep out of my way for a while. Fi is either braver or more stupid than the rest.
‘I thought you’d need some company.’ She hands me a double espresso. I wince as I swallow it back. It’s some time since I’ve drunk such strong coffee. It tastes like creosote.
‘It’s not as though anything went wrong whilst you were away,’ comments Fi.
She really is a bitch. I think it’s time to remind her who the guru is.
‘Yes. Well done, Fi. I saw that the ratings had stabilized at 9.1. Don’t worry that you didn’t get an increase with your shows. I thought they were very competently filmed, no matter what the punters thought.’ I smile at her and she hesitates, not knowing whether she should smile back or not.
‘You’re pleased, then?’
‘You held the fort. Well done.’ The words say one thing, the tone another.
‘Have I upset you?’
I sigh. I know I’m being a cow. Fi has produced two good shows. Without her there would have been no possibility of my taking off to Whitby, never mind staying for a week and then pulling the laryngitis stunt for another week. She’s made a few minor cock-ups with the paperwork, she hasn’t responded to any of the log-room calls and she hasn’t helped Ricky or Di with any of the decisions they needed to make on scheduling or marketing. But, all in all, she’s done a fine job. It’s not her fault that I feel like crying, laughing, shouting, dancing and howling, whilst smashing and kissing everything in my eye’s view. I’m turbulent. And misunderstood. Most notably, by myself.
‘No, really, you have done a great job,’ I assure and this time I do it with a bit more enthusiasm. Her face breaks into a massive grin.
‘I hoped you’d be pleased. Now tell me what really went on. I want details.’
Fi pulls up a chair and we huddle around my PC. It is not my usual style to indulge in girly confidences but I haven’t said Darren’s name aloud for hours. If I don’t say it soon I’ll erupt. I tell her some of the things that I told Issie. I tell her about the train journey, his family, the swimming baths, the walks and the ‘restaurants’. I’ve been talking for about twenty minutes solid and I’ve only just caught Fi’s expression. She looks bewildered.
‘What?’
‘Cut the foreplay, get to the shagging.’
I stare through her and think of the lovemaking. I can’t tell her. For one thing, some of the language is potentially shocking, even for a Scand. And two, it’s private. It’s Darren’s and mine. I can’t turn him into a character in a short story. The phone rings and Fi reaches for it.
‘Jocasta Perry’s line, Fi Spencer speaking.’ I turn to my e-mail and let Fi deal with the call. I note that she’s blushing. Then she giggles. Finally she says, ‘I’ll just check.’ She covers the hand set and behaves like a pantomime dame.
‘It’s himmmmm,’ she mouths.
‘Whoooo?’ I mouth back; it appears it’s contagious.
Fi flaps her arms up and down and rolls her eyes. In less enlightened eras she’d have been consigned to the ducking chair for less.
‘Darren.’
‘I’m not here.’
Fi looks perplexed. She makes excuses to Darren and then carefully copies down all his contact numbers. As she hangs up she passes me the note with the numbers on.
‘So you did sleep with him.’ Her tone has changed considerably from before the call. I don’t deny it; I just shrug. ‘And now you’ve lost all interest,’ she concludes. I wonder if this is what Darren has surmised. ‘Christ, Cas, you are such a love-them-and-leave-them merchant that I’m beginning to think that you were born a man and had a sex change. How can you resist him?’
I take the numbers from her and put them in the bin. ‘If he calls again, tell him I’ve left the company.’
Because of the bishop’s letter, Bale and I spend the entire day working side by side. The directors are metaphorically urinating all over the leather chairs in the executive suite. It’s not that any of them are particularly godly – far from it. But one or two of them
are hoping to be mentioned in the Queen’s next honours list. Offending the Church is only one stop away from offending the government. Bale and I talk to the duty officers who work in the log room and fully analyse the complaints and compliments that the show has received since its conception. The duty officers are loyal and pragmatic and go some way to reassuring Bale that everything is cool. I suspect the loyalty is inspired by George, the duty office manager, who talks to my breasts.
‘People are always more likely to complain than praise. The Great British Public complains about everything.’ George shrugs; my breasts don’t comment but let him continue. ‘This bishop thing, don’t sweat it. It’s always the mad ones who complain. I’ve had letters saying that we are biased against smokers, that they don’t like the colour of the dress that the newscaster is wearing.’ I don’t interrupt to say I have some sympathy – our newscasters are sartorially challenged. ‘During the Rugby World Cup we received complaints about the TV angles, that the Union Jack was upside down.’
‘Was it?’
‘I don’t know. They said Shirley Bassey was miming, which was definitely a lie. That the action was too much for epileptics and migraine sufferers. We are no longer a nation of shop-keepers but a nation of whiners.’
I’m pleased – these examples discredit the people who complain, they seem petty and small-minded. I thank George for his time, with my special smile. It’s wasted because as wide as it stretches it doesn’t stretch to my breasts.
Bale and I also meet the scheduling and marketing departments. By midday we have a convincing response for the executive committee and, although we have the entire afternoon scheduled for debate, I know it won’t be longer than an hour before the meeting breaks down and someone walks out. It’s inevitable, with so many egos in the room. I’m delighted when my prediction comes true. The only director who really does object to my show is bullied and humiliated sufficiently for him to leave in disgust within an hour. We agree to take our response to The Times. I am packing away my electronic Filofax when Gary, the commercial director, taps my arm.
‘Well done, girl.’ I smile. He nods enthusiastically and his mop of blond curly hair bounces up and down, putting me in mind of a cherub. It strikes me that I wouldn’t have drawn this comparison before my foray into sentimentality. I’m disgusted with myself. I try to concentrate on what he’s saying.
‘Buoyant term one. Going gangbusters. Twelve up. First stab, six up. The star performer in the quadrangle. Product categories are all up. Deal credit no deal debt. All thanks to ambitious penises. Well done, girl.’
I haven’t a clue what any of this means. The language is deliberately ambiguous. But Gary smiles at me and as I have only ever seen him smile when he talks about football, I figure that the commercial director is happy.
Next I plough through my mountain of e-mail. It’s hard to concentrate, because although I’ve instructed Jaki to divert all my calls through to her, I still jump every time my line rings. Which it does about every four minutes. At the end of the day Jaki relays the messages she’s taken. Despite my instructions Darren has rung twice.
I spend the early evening running through interview tapes in the editing suites. I need the best available material for next week’s show. I’m not leaving it to the editor. I’m being conscientious plus to make up for going AWOL.
And to avoid thinking about Darren. It should be easier not to think of his gut-churning smile if I’m busy.
‘You’ve quite a way with these stooges,’ comments Ed the editor.
‘You think so, do you?’ I don’t take my eyes off the monitors.
‘Yeah, you resist being patronizing, talking in short sentences and in single syllables. Quite a gift – the common touch.’
‘No one’s ever accused me of that before,’ I comment drily.
‘No one would guess how terrifying you are.’ Ed looks at me. Nervous, never sure how I’ll take his jokes. I smile mildly and we both concentrate on the interview.
The monitor is showing the film I made the day before I met Darren. The case is one where some bloke left his wife for some girl. The girl is now unsure if she can keep him, even though they plan to marry in a month. She thinks he wants to go back to his wife. This, I suppose, disproves the theory that one wife is as good as the next. I’m interviewing the wife. She’s a rare breed, a shy Scottish woman. Her abrasive vowels rasp, ‘If I were famous it wouldn’t bother me so much – the stained carpet and chipped skirting board. I’d accept that he chose her.’
‘I might be able to give you both.’
That’s my voice on the monitor, offering her false hope. At the time I had thought that a bit of fame and glamour would make her happier. And there was a chance that he’d choose her. But rewatching the tape, just two weeks on, leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Is it right to—? I stop the thought as it’s forming, and for the zillionth time today, I curse Darren.
‘They hate my accent,’ she’s wailing.
‘No, they hate your long legs and massive tits. That’s their motivation. Objecting to your accent is a diversionary tactic,’ I assure.
‘You are a true pro,’ says Ed. ‘Dishing out that sort of compliment is certain to get them on side. She’ll get your man for you now.’
‘Actually, Ed, I just meant it,’ I say as I close the door behind me.
Unusually I decide to take a bus home. I don’t want to be alone in a cab. I don’t want to be alone with me. I don’t want to be me. I’ve never felt so confused and miserable in my life. And yet I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. That’s the worst of it.
I look at my watch and allow myself two minutes thinking about Darren. Twenty minutes later the bus arrives. There is a huge advert for aftershave painted on the side of the bus. The model has a look of Darren. Similar eyes but not as beautiful.
The bus is a mistake because the driver won’t accept my £50 note and laughs when I explain that I don’t carry loose change as it ruins the shape of your pockets. In the end some skinny guy behind me offers up the £1. It’s embarrassing. I am about to glare at him for his impertinence but as I catch his eye I notice that he also looks tired. Maybe he isn’t paying my ride in hope of one in return. Perhaps he just wants the queue to move along.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. He briefly nods, self-conscious about his own act of goodness. He’s probably aware how very un-London he’s being.
I go upstairs and sit at the front. I wish Darren were here with me – we could pretend to be driving the bus. As soon as I have this thought I hate myself. There. See. That’s where this kind of shenanigans leads. Pathetic sentimentality! How do I know that Darren would pretend to be driving the bus? I’m acting like an arse.
Usually public transport is anonymous. That’s why we are happy to pay inflated prices for an unfeasible short ride – it’s part of the deal. No one will talk to you and if they can possibly help it, they will avoid looking at you too. Except for drunks who use public transport for the exact opposite reason. I rarely notice whom I’m travelling with, but today it’s as if I am looking with new eyes. Nothing is anonymous; everyone seems to be acting significantly. The guy next to me, besides suffering from terrible BO, offends me on another front. He’s wearing a headset, which he’s singing along to. Naturally he’s singing a song about everlasting love, which frankly is a load of crap. Not just his voice. I move seat and find myself sitting behind two teenage girls. They are reading Cosmo. They do the quiz to find their perfect men. If only it was so easy. As they read the questions aloud to one another I mentally answer them. I’m mostly Bs. By the end of the quiz the girls discover that their boyfriends are mummy’s boys and misogynists respectively. I discover Darren cannot be improved upon.
When I get home I see that the answering machine light is flashing. I listen to the messages as I run a bath.
‘Cas, it’s me,’ chimes Issie. ‘Just ringing to see how things went with Bale today. Give me a call later if you want to. I’ll be home fr
om the gym at about ten.’
I smile, knowing that she’s slipped in the words ‘the gym’ to impress me. Much to Josh’s and my surprise Issie is following through on her New Year’s resolution. She has a place in the London Marathon and is training hard for it. The second message is from Josh.
‘Hey, Babe, how are you? How was the north? I’m going to the cinema tonight. Some sub-titled bollocks that Jane wants to see. I’m sure it will be very worthy and depressing. It’s on at one of those arty cinemas that don’t even sell Häagen-Dazs. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Poor Jane sounds as though she’s history. I am beginning to relax. The third message is from my mother, complaining that I didn’t visit on Sunday. A spasm of guilt shoots through me. So all’s well on the Western front – these are the messages that I often come into on a Monday evening. I am back on familiar territory. Darren has been a bizarre distraction but now I’m fine. I’m safe.
‘Cas, it’s me.’ His voice saws into my sanctuary and I’m delirious. I’m disgusted. ‘I guess you are still at work. If you are there, please pick up.’ The voice pauses. ‘I guess you’re not there. I got your note.’ He makes a sad little sound which sounds strangled somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. ‘I knew you would do something like this. I knew you’d panic. But if you’ll let me talk to you—’ His voice breaks and he coughs. ‘Look, I had a great time the last two weeks. So did you.’ He sounds urgent now, a mix between anger and frustration – which I’m used to inciting, and tenderness – which I’m not. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m scared too.’ Then the tape runs out. I stand perfectly still and try to understand what I’m feeling. My God, there we have it, I’m feeling already. Not thinking, like I was a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly I’m feeling!
He did sound genuine. What does he mean, he’s ‘scared too’? As well as who?
I listen to the message again. And again. And again. In fact, I listen to it twelve times. By the twelfth time one thing is clear. I’ve lost it. I press the erase button and go to bed. Darren who?
Smith.
