Game Over

by Adele Parks

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ I am. I am indescribably grateful that Issie was only able to sustain her state of acute pissed-off-with-me-ness for about two hours and has allowed her fury at me to fade somewhat. I guess that’s the only good thing that came out of the show. Issie couldn’t possibly turn her back on me in my hour of need; the fact that the rest of Britain loathes and despises me serves to increase Issie’s commitment to our friendship.

  ‘Has he called?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You still think he’s going to?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  I realize that I’m in serious trouble. If Issie, the last of the great romantics, has no faith in this ending in a tulle and organza number then I must have more chance of winning the lottery, on a roll-over week, than ever getting an opportunity to talk to Darren.

  ‘I’ve told you, Issie, I trust him. He proposed to me. Darren wouldn’t do that just for TV.’

  ‘And I’ve told you, he might do it for revenge. After all, you did sleep with him for two weeks, all the time giving the impression that you were pretty committed, then you vamoosed. There’s not a man on earth who would take kindly to that type of behaviour. His pride was kicked into touch. Don’t you think that it’s possible he’s getting his own back?’

  ‘I know he had nothing to do with the programme, Issie.’ I’m trying not to become irate with her, but my personality transplant hasn’t been so entire that I can stay patient in the face of a constant barrage of criticism of Darren. ‘Look, Issie, why don’t you ask Josh if he thinks Darren was involved in stitching me up? He must know.’ I place a heavy emphasis on ‘he’; if I can distract Issie with Josh’s crimes for a while, maybe she’ll get off Darren’s case.

  ‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ she asks enthusiastically.

  ‘Do it for you, Issie, so that you believe in Darren. I don’t need anyone else’s word.’

  We sink into a huffy silence. I know I can outsulk Issie. I haven’t even counted to three before she offers her olive branch.

  ‘OK, supposing you are right and Darren wasn’t knowingly involved in your unrestricted and unmitigated humiliation, why do you think he’s done a disappearing act?’

  ‘It’s obvious, Issie. He thinks I set him up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Issie is far too straightforward to pretend not to see why he’d make this assumption. She doesn’t even blame him.

  ‘I should have told him about the engagement!’ I berate myself.

  ‘So what are you going to do from here?’

  ‘Good question. I need to talk to him but I’ve looked everywhere. Work, home, pubs. I’ve even walked the streets but it’s futile. London’s a big city; England’s a big country.’

  ‘Well, actually, it’s quite small in geographical terms—’

  ‘It’s colossal when you are hunting someone who doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘And of course he may not be in England, he may be abroad. He could be anywhere.’

  I wonder if the position of Job’s comforter is currently available in some other time dimension, because Issie has all the qualifications.

  I sigh. She’s right. I suddenly feel so small and the world feels so big.

  ‘Issie, there’s call waiting bleeping. Do you mind if I ring off?’ We both know I’m hoping it will be Darren. We both know it won’t be.

  ‘Fine. I’ll call you tonight,’ says Issie.

  ‘Hello,’ says a tiny voice on the line. I try not to drown in the disappointment that it is a female voice as I struggle to place it.

  ‘Linda?’

  ‘Yes. Hello, Cas.’ Linda sounds nervous and young. Even younger than her seventeen years.

  ‘Linda, I’m so happy to hear from you.’

  ‘Oh. Are you? I don’t know if I should be talking to you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you should,’ I urge. ‘Linda, I know things must look terrible from your point of view. I have done some very bad things, but you have to know I didn’t set Darren up on that programme.’ I’m speaking very quickly because I guess I have only a finite amount of time to convince her. She sounds on the edge of putting the phone down.

  ‘I know,’ says the tiny voice.

  ‘You do?’ I’m so relieved I can’t say any more. To have someone believe in me is an overwhelming relief.

  ‘I said to Mam that you loved our Darren. But Mam said I only believed that because I’m seventeen. No one else believes that you do.’

  ‘But you are right, Linda. You are right. I do love Darren,’ I repeat hysterically. It matters to me that she believes me.

  ‘Mam said I mustn’t call you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s just that Darren called last night and he mentioned that he might go to the Natural History Museum today and I thought you might—’

  ‘Linda, Linda, I could kiss you,’ I yell down the phone. Of course, his favourite building. That’s where he goes to do his thinking. Suddenly my mind is splattered with a vision of Darren’s childhood bedroom. Aladdin’s cave meets Treasure Island meets Batman’s cave. With the zillions of books, the cardboard models, the Meccano eco-system and the painted Milky Way. ‘Thank you, Linda. Thank you so much. I promise you you’ve done the right thing. I love you, Linda!’ I drop the telephone, grab my keys and fly out of the flat.

  20

  I run to the tube, my feet thudding on the pavement, my blood thundering to my heart, my heart pounding. I run all the way to Tower Hill station. I pass the happy crowds drinking pints in the street; they leer and jeer at me as I’m sweaty and not wearing a sports bra. I keep running. Although I usually run eight miles in the gym every day, I haven’t been since ‘the show’. Not that I’ve been afraid of the inevitable pointing fingers (they like notoriety better than celebrity at our gym – the receptionist nearly orgasms every time she spots Jeffrey Archer using the treadmill); it’s just I’ve had no motivation. Every moment has been consumed with finding Darren. So now I’m panting heavily. Then again, the shortness of breath isn’t just to do with the rapidly decreasing levels of fitness. It’s also excitement. Hope. Possibility. A long shot. But a shot.

  At the tube station I realize that I left the house in such a hurry that I didn’t pick up my purse. When did I become so disorganized?

  ‘Please can you let me have a ticket?’ I smile sweetly; it really is my most dazzling.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To South Kensington.’

  ‘£1.80.’

  ‘I have no money.’ The smile is frozen and stuck to my face.

  The ticket officer snorts. ‘We’re not operating a charity.’

  ‘Pleeeease. It’s an emergency. I have to get to South Ken.’

  I have abandoned my tone of pleasant authority and I’m begging. He’s impervious.

  ‘Mind along. There are other customers. Ones with money.’

  I stay still.

  ‘Pleeeeease.’ I think I might cry. Tears that I’ve managed to hold back for years are now constantly threatening and erupting. The officer doesn’t even look at me.

  ‘No money, no ticket. Bugger off.’

  That’s the proverbial straw. Huge, ugly overwhelming sobs storm out of me. I’m not sure where they come from – certainly not just my mouth, but my nose too and perhaps my ears.

  ‘I’ve got to get there. He’s there. He’s there,’ I sob, which is ridiculous on many counts. For a start, the Underground officer doesn’t know who I am or ‘he’ is, and anyway, he cares less. Secondly, I don’t know if I’ll find Darren there. There’s snot on my arm and days-old mascara on my cheeks. I’m blind with tears, bogies, regret, frustration, pain and loss. I slump to the floor. It’s too much. I can’t act any more. Years of acting as though I don’t care, then I care, and now I’ve hurtled past caring, straight, slap bang into despair. It’s too much. Life without Darren is not enough.

  ‘I’ll pay her fare.’ I hear the lazy, warm drawl of an American accent. ‘She sounds k
inda desperate.’ I daren’t believe someone is being kind to me. The recent, constant volley of abuse has left me bereft of hope. I can only assume this guy has just arrived in England or that he doesn’t read any newspapers. My Good Samaritan kneels down next to me and the crushed cans and cigarette stubs. This isn’t easy for him, because he’s obviously a man who enjoys a good breakfast, and lunch and dinner too by the look of it.

  ‘Hey, ain’t you that girl on the TV?’ he whispers as he hands me the ticket.

  ‘It wasn’t how it looked,’ I defend through my tears.

  ‘Nothing ever is.’ He staggers to his feet and offers me his hand. I let him pull me up.

  ‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’ I ask nervously. He shakes his head and then melts back into the throng of people busy sightseeing.

  I consider it. I look up and see a security camera. It is just possible that this is another set-up. That guy could be a plant.

  Get a grip. Only Linda knows I’m coming here. She would never be part of a set-up.

  But I could have been followed. I’m still breathing shallowly and quickly. The guy looked honest. Unlikely though it seems, I think he was just doing a good thing. I don’t waste any more time thinking about it. I push my ticket through the machine and dash to the platform.

  The sand and grey building creates a swell in my heart and I allow myself to hope, because, maybe, just maybe, he’s in there, the Natural History Museum. I realize I have the money problem to face again. At the desk I lie and say I’ve had my bag stolen. The staff are far too polite to laugh outright at my claims.

  ‘Have you reported the theft, miss?’ asks the huge, sauf London bird.

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘I am planning to.’

  ‘What, after you’ve visited the Tyrannosaurus rex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  I’m very short on patience, a life trait exasperated by recent events, but somehow I hold it together long enough to persuade the staff at the museum to let me ring Issie. She gives them a credit card number and they give me a ticket.

  I burst through the turnstiles and then run directly to the galleries. I charge up and down the three flights of stairs, constantly looking to my left and right. I can’t see him. I rush through the huge corridors, popping my head into all the exhibitions and restaurants as I pass by. I see innumerable creepy crawlies with their wings fettered; I see fossils, stuffed eagles and tigers. A taxidermist’s dream. But no Darren. I check the exhibitions on crystals, mammals and dinosaurs. I see every animal, vegetable and mineral in every state of growth, maturity and decay, except for Darren. I do all this twice. After an hour and a half of frenetic and futile searching I find myself back in the main lobby. Other than attracting numerous odd looks and lots of unwanted attention, my wild goose chase hasn’t achieved anything.

  Of course it hasn’t.

  I sit under skeletons of dinosaurs, surrounded by Gothic arches and earnest foreign voices reading to each other from the guidebooks. It’s pretty spooky. I’ve searched the entire building; he’s not here. It was ridiculously far-fetched to hope he would be. Why didn’t I ask Linda some more searching questions? Like what time had he planned to visit? Was it a definite plan? I’d been so delighted to get even a sniff of a lead that I hadn’t followed it properly. I can’t call Linda back. She’ll get into trouble if her mother knows she’s been in touch with me. I feel dumb and hopeless. The gargoyles obviously knew this all along because they look as though they are laughing at me.

  I need to get some perspective.

  I go to the cloakrooms. As usual there is a massive queue of women with bladders the size of peanuts. I stand listlessly, too exhausted to fidget impatiently or terrify anyone into peeing more rapidly. I catch sight of myself in a mirror and I’m shocked. I look like a down and out. My new crop requires minimum attention, a quick comb through, some gloss and then a ruffle to erase the effects of the combing. However, I haven’t thought to carry out this simple operation, so my hair is tangled and snarled at the back of my head. Nor have I thought to change my clothes, apply any make-up or eat since the show. Normally slim, I know I look emaciated. Up until now, I’ve been with Wallis Simpson, but now I see – a woman can be too thin. I’ve smoked to abate hunger, to distract and comfort myself. The smell of stale fags lingers in my hair and clothes. My skin is grey and my eyes have sunk to the back of my head. I am a human ashtray. I splash cold water on my face and then decide to revisit the dinosaur collection; at least they look rougher than I do.

  For three hours I slowly amble around the galleries and whilst I admit that fishes, amphibians and reptiles are interesting in their own way, they can’t compete with Darren for mind share. Whilst I learn that dinosaurs lived between 230 million and 65 million years ago, I can’t imagine it. I’ve been without Darren for a week and it seems like an eternity. I also learn that they lived on land and could not fly but walked on straight legs tucked beneath their bodies. I consider writing to the consistency editor in charge of film at the studio, because I’m sure I’ve seen blockbusters with flying dinosaurs, but I don’t have the energy. I visit the human biology gallery and watch a film on reproduction and the growth of babies, which makes me feel squeamish. Not just because of the blood but because it’s proof, if I needed it, that love and life and living that life are special and miraculous. I sigh and check my watch. Four thirty. I’m hungry. I decide to visit the Life Galleries one more time and then, reluctantly, I’ll call it a day. Go home, have some pasta.

  The Life Galleries are really spectacular. A series of exhibits demonstrating that each individual animal, plant and person is just one component in a complex system. There are some cool special-effects holograms of the atmosphere, hydrosphere and lithosphere. There’s a reproduction of a bit of the rainforest, with sound effects of pouring rain and screeching birds. There’s a bit about oceans and coastlines. The sound effects change to crashing waves and seagulls.

  Whitby.

  Him.

  It could be my imagination but I think I can smell the sea.

  Less romantically there is a stuffed rattlesnake and a decomposing rabbit.

  I walk through howling gales and head towards the funky bell music, which puts me in mind of the stuff that’s played in Camden market or in flotation tanks. I head along a dark corridor towards a series of mirrors that are arranged to reflect and refract light to create the impression that you are standing outside the earth and you are watching the hydrosphere. Water recycles endlessly, in all its many guises, water, steam, ice. I don’t quite understand it. But the scale and silver holograms are awesome.

  Darren.

  Suddenly there are hundreds of him. I can see Darren. He’s right next to me. He’s left, next to me. I reach to touch him but my hand plummets through space. I can see him. He’s in front of me, and he’s behind me too. I look up, he’s above me. Then he’s gone.

  My breath surges out of my body, creating a vacuum. I can’t breathe. It gushes back in again, nearly knocking me over.

  He was here. It was him. I try to work out where he must have been standing, and which were mere shadows and visions of him created by the mirrors. I can’t calculate it. But he can only have gone one of two ways: back through the rainforest to the Waterhouse Way corridor or forward towards the Visions of Earth exhibitions.

  Creepy crawlies or lost in space?

  I pelt towards the Visions of Earth exhibitions. A series of six statues, representing different aspects of life on earth, are dominated by a dramatic sculpture of earth, which revolves between two giant walls. The walls depict the solar system and the night sky. I collide with a party of overseas schoolkids, universally noisy, happy and overexcited. They’re all dressed in blue and merge into one homogenous mass of rucksacks, acne and ponytails.

  He’s in front of the party.

  He’s ascending the giant escalator that takes you up through the solar system.

  I have no time to consider English tradition. I
shove and barge and push my way through the queues of schoolchildren. They object noisily.

  ‘There’s a queue, you know, madam.’

  They try and elbow me back, but their attempts are pathetic in the face of my love and panic-induced strength.

  ‘Excuse me. You are going the wrong way.’

  But I’m not. I’m finally going in the right direction. I fasten my eyes on Darren’s head and don’t drop the link. He isn’t aware of me and I don’t call out. The schoolchildren dividing us may prove to be too much of an obstacle if he decides to run. The escalator rises through sheets of beaten copper, which represents the core of the earth, and we are accompanied by Indie music, which represents the poor taste of the curator. I pass the stars Ursa Major, Draco and Ophiuchus at an achingly slow speed. I want to stamp my feet and although I’ve squeezed past a number of other gallery visitors, by intimidating them with my sense of urgency, I’m stumped now I’ve reached a woman with a double buggy. Short of climbing over her, I’m stuck.

  At the top of the escalators I turn right and follow Darren through volcanic eruptions and earthquakes.

  ‘Darren,’ I scream. ‘Darren!’

  But my voice, usually powerful, doesn’t cut through the natural disasters or the fourth-form chatter.

  ‘Darren.’

  He turns.

  For a moment he doesn’t recognize me because of the haircut and the unfashionable grunge look.

  ‘Cas?’ As the word edges from his brain to his vocal cords I see his face flicker in surprise, disbelief, pleasure and then settle in irritation.

  ‘This is a coincidence.’ Darren puts his rucksack on the floor and folds his arms across his chest. My brain computes that he’s saying don’t come near. My stomach is oblivious; it becomes gymnastic as I see the muscles in his arms flex.

  ‘Not really. I’ve been looking for you.’ I don’t mention Linda’s tip-off. I don’t want to get her into trouble. ‘I’ve been here for hours,’ I stutter. He looks surprised. I push uphill. ‘I tried everywhere I could think of in the last week.’ I scratch my nose and pause. I’m looking for a credible place to start our conversation. He looks around too. I wonder what he’s looking for.