by Adele Parks
‘So where are the cameras?’
Ah, I see.
‘There are no cameras – well, none that I know of,’ I add nervously. He makes a sound, a mix between a snort of contempt and disbelief, which forces me to assert, ‘I had nothing to do with the show.’
‘Really?’ It’s just one word but I don’t think a half-hour soliloquy could have communicated his disgust and sarcasm quite so clearly.
‘I know it looks bad—’
‘Bad,’ he yells, attracting a number of curious stares from the wild children. ‘Bad isn’t how I’d describe it. I’d describe it as vile, corrupt, damning. You’ve made an arse of me, Cas, you’ve – ‘He’s shouting and stuttering. ‘You’ve fucking hurt me. I can’t believe you, even you, would sink so low. You slept with me for TV entertainment. You accepted my proposal for TV entertainment. What sort of animal are you? I can’t believe it!’ He’s spraying angry spittle and his face is contorted with pain.
He’s magnificent.
‘Well, don’t believe it, because it’s not true. I didn’t know that we were being filmed.’ I try to grab hold of his arm. He violently jerks away from me as though I’m insanitary.
‘You were engaged to Josh!’ he fumes.
‘Yes,’ I confirm simply, dropping my arms to my side again.
‘You were engaged and you didn’t think to mention it?’
He’s still shouting and we are now collecting a small crowd of onlookers. I don’t think he’s noticed. The teacher tries, but fails, to move the children along. She’s right – this may be a PG-certificate viewing; bad language and violence threaten.
‘Well, yes, I thought of it. But—’
‘And you accepted my proposal?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t lie to you. I was going to tell you—’ It sounds faulty, even to me.
‘When? Before or after you married Josh?’
He’s really furious. He is spitting, not blood, but pain and tension. His face is splintered into trillions of anxious particles and I can’t look at him and see the whole face. I can only see a hurt mouth, an angry nostril or a ferocious eyebrow. Desperate eyes.
‘I wasn’t going to marry Josh. Not after I’d met you again. I didn’t have anything to do with the show.’ I’m trying to sound reasonable and in control. It’s a tough act. ‘I love you. Just you. I’m in love with you and I have been since we were in Whitby.’
It’s a relief saying the big words.
‘So why were you engaged to Josh?’ Darren asks the floor this question. For the moment the anger has subsided and lapsed into a sadness. I like it even less. Deep breath. I know this is my last chance. And chance is probably far too generous a description. I choose each word carefully.
‘I was scared I’d end up like my mother. Or at least how I thought my mother was. Falling in love was too risky. I knew that I’d be safe with Josh. He loved me more than I could ever love him, so he’d never be able to hurt me.’
‘Didn’t you think how unfair that was on him?’
‘Not really,’ I sigh. There’s no option, other than to be honest. But the truth is so unflattering. I can’t imagine my looking more unsightly.
‘Jesus, Cas, do you know what you’ve just said?’ Darren suddenly looks up and his gaze punches me. ‘Josh is one of the few people I thought you truly loved. I had been heartened by your relationship with him because I thought it was indelible proof that you were capable of loving and the hard-bitch act was just that, an act. But you’ve just admitted you didn’t even think about him. He was just another piece in your game.’
‘It was what he wanted.’
‘I doubt he wanted a wife who didn’t love him.’
‘It wasn’t like that. I don’t think I knew how to love then.’ I try to wave the thought away.
‘I heard you, Cas. I saw the programme. You said sex with me, and I quote, was “risky, dirty, cheeky and above all fun”. I didn’t hear you tell the world you loved me. Why not?’ He doesn’t let me answer but gives in to his anger again. ‘Because you don’t. You’ve made all this up because Josh has dumped you, and the studio has dumped you, and all Britain hates you. I’m nothing more to you than your only option.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘How many kick-backs am I supposed to take, Cas? What’s an acceptable number? First I’m “too serious and homely”. Then you fuck my brains out. Then you disappear. You ignored my calls, threatened to call the police. Then you’re back and then you fuck my heart out and this time we get engaged and then that turns out to be for the titillation and edification of your audience.’
Put like this it sounds bad.
‘You act like a psycho. How do I know that this latest declaration isn’t just another publicity stunt? How can I trust you?’
‘I just know you have it in you, Darren. Some people have and you are one of them.’
I concentrate on the slight cleft in his chin, and on the exact colour of his eyes. I note the way he moves his hands and the precise shape of his wristbone. I consume it all because there is a real possibility that I’ll never see any of it again. If he walks away I’ll live in a permanent eclipse. I look at the group of schoolchildren, who are all but splitting with laughter and jeering. ‘Can we go somewhere more private to discuss this?’ I hiss through clenched teeth.
‘What’s the bloody point, Cas? Our relationship is public property. Posh and Beckham have more privacy.’
I get the feeling I’m being tested, but I’m unsure of the nature of the exam. I certainly haven’t prepared. I navigate through with as much sincerity as I can. I am conscious that behind me there is a reconstruction of an earthquake. Every fifteen seconds the world shudders and cracks up. I wonder if Darren also thinks this is ironic.
‘I was very scared, Darren. Loving you so much left me petrified. Ecology is your thing, isn’t it? Piecing things together for the whole picture? Come on, Darren, think about it. Think about where I was coming from. I’d never seen any good come out of loving. My father didn’t love either my mother or me enough to stay. He left her, us, brokenhearted. My mother did her best but it wasn’t just the money that was limited after he disappeared. She reined in her affection, or at least her displays of it. She was awash with caution and distrust. I wasn’t taught to love. I was taught to be wary.’
‘Wary, Cas, not wicked!’
I ignore his interruption. ‘I know it’s not an excuse, only an explanation. Before I hit puberty, I was certain sex and love were incompatible. And then the endless stream of lovers seemed to confirm my theory. There was man after man who was prepared to betray me or use me to betray someone else. I didn’t want to be a victim. I wouldn’t allow myself to love. I didn’t even think I was capable of it.’
There’s lead stuck in the pit of my stomach, but at least I have Darren’s attention and that of every member of year four, l’école de Sprogsville. Where is this going? How can I tell him that loving him seemed like the worst thing that could have happened to me, but at the same time the best? That I miscalculated lots of things when I was young. Now I see that to have a figure like Barbie’s I’d have to have an eighteen-inch waist, a forty-inch leg and a head the size of a beach ball. Spaghetti hoops are not the world’s most exquisite culinary delight and Donny Osmond isn’t sexy.
Being made happy by love is an option.
I notice that the neck of my T-shirt is wet. I touch my face and discover that I am sobbing. Fat, globular tears are falling at such a rate that I’m soaked.
‘I’m sorry it took me so long to get here but I’ve learnt I am capable of loving. I did not set you up. I know how you feel about the programme. And for what it’s worth, I see now that you were right. You have to believe me, Darren.’ I wonder if there is any point in telling him that I’ve left TV6. I doubt it. He’ll probably believe the papers and think I was sacked. My face is aflame. My heart literally aches, a filthy agony. I try to read his thoughts. I know he’ll be trying to understand, but will he be able to?
And even if he does, will he care? He leans back against a glass display case. The fact that he needs propping up can’t be good for me.
Can it?
He rubs his eyes with the balls of his fists.
‘Believe me,’ I plead.
He shakes his head. Very quietly, almost inaudibly, he whispers, ‘I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.’ And he looks it. He looks devastated. Wounded. ‘I wish I could.’ He bends down and picks up his rucksack and starts to walk out of my life.
For a week I have vacillated between regret, fear and desperation. I’ve howled and cried privately. I’ve fought to appear collected and not too indulgent in public. I’ve been dogged and exposed. Discussed and dismissed at a micro and macro level. The experience has left me weak. The small amount of residual energy I had left was consumed whilst reasoning with Darren.
Wham.
Suddenly I’m whacked with an emotion that is struggling between passion and ire. Anger refuels my body and the resurgence explodes in torrents of undefined fury. Not the premenstrual monster that inhibits my body for three days every twenty-eight. Not the spitting anger that I used to feel when the ratings weren’t robust or a production assistant had made some duff decision. Not the intense irritation I feel when Issie throws herself at some worthless oink. Or the scornful vexation that I’ve felt when Josh mistreated some bimbo. My anger is much more… painful than that. The storm of irritation and hurt begins to climb the Richter scale. Swelling up through my stomach, into my chest and heart, exploding – a veritable whirlwind – in my head.
‘Is that it then, Darren?’ I scream. ‘That was your crack at being in love?’
He turns back to face me. ‘Well, I think it was pretty crap actually!’
Being unreasonable is all I’m capable of again. I’m so bloody desperate. I don’t know how to stop this inevitable, needless disaster.
‘You’ve been loved and adored all your life. Swaddled. Protected. Encouraged to believe the best in people and here you are falling at the first serious hurdle. I thought you were better than that. You are better than that. Don’t you dare walk away from me.’ I stamp my right foot. ‘Don’t you dare stop trusting me.’ Then my left. ‘You said you loved me. Easy fucking words.’ He’s right in front of me. I spray some spittle into his face.
‘OK, so I came to it a bit late in the day but I do believe in love and I do think that out of the billions of people in this world you’re the one I should be with.’ I jab my finger at him accusingly and I want to stamp again and flay my arms. There’s so much anger inside me and it doesn’t know how to get out.
‘I’ve stopped being terrified by the “what ifs”. And I know you’re not my father. And I know that I shouldn’t judge everyone by his iniquitous standards.’ The hairs on the back of my neck stand viciously erect. Tears poke mercilessly at my eyes. ‘And I’m sorry that I’ve hurt so many people in the past before I came to this understanding. I am so sorry. But trust me now. I did not do this for the bloody, fucking, crapping, pissing ratings.’
I think that even if I’d gone to a posh school, I’d have been struggling to come up with more appropriate vocabulary, under the circumstances. I give in and stamp my feet, harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster. The tears explode from my eyes and fall harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster. Eventually I am worn out.
Exhausted.
Defeated.
I stop stamping and try to find some equilibrium. My breathing is fast and desperate, my feet are throbbing with the violence of my stamping and my head is sore with shaking. I cannot look at Darren or the schoolkids. It is so intensely embarrassing. Over the last few days I’ve lost everything: both my fiancés – one my love, the other my best friend, my job, my privacy and now my reason. I’ve been cheated, deceived and humiliated. I’ve felt despair and loneliness and regret.
I take stock.
All that and I still believe in love.
Which means that just when I thought I’d lost track of the game, I’ve won.
I have Mum.
I have Issie.
I have learnt a lot.
I force myself to look up at Darren. My heart cartwheels. I rub the back of my hand across my face, cleaning up the excess of smudged mascara and tears. I pick up my museum map from the floor, where I’d thrown it.
‘Do you know something, Darren? The irony is, I never stopped believing in you. I never thought you’d betrayed me. Not for a minute.’
We are both breathing deeply. Staring at one another. Our faces are a potent cocktail of anger and forgiveness, love and lust, trust and fear, potential and endings. Hope.
It’s all been so intense, right from the beginning. Euphoric, desolate, euphoric again, desolate plus. What now?
Minutes go by. Neither of us says anything. Neither of us moves.
‘Do you know the Camarasaurus weighs twenty-five tons?’ asks Darren.
‘Yes,’ I say carefully, and then add, ‘It’s a plant eater, so I suggest the grapefruit diet.’ It’s a weak joke but Darren’s face hints at a smile. He takes my arm and starts to lead me through the galleries. His fingers singe.
‘So you’ve seen the dinosaur exhibition?’
‘Yes.’ I’m shaking.
‘Have you seen the blue whale?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’ve seen enough of the Natural History Museum for one day?’ I feel as though I’m behind a number of veils but as he asks each question a veil drops and instead of feeling exposed, I feel more confident. I can see more clearly.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think you’d like to go for a beer?’
This time I nod. I’m incapable of finding my voice. We leave the museum and go out into the London sun. We stop on the steps of the museum and squint at the brightness and crowds. Darren turns to me.
‘Do you still believe in me, Cas?’ he asks. His voice is patchy with emotion but it is still velvety and I recognize possibility and opportunity glimmering there.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you give me another chance?’
‘Yes. I will. A huge, fat, full YES.’
I’m home.
Thank You
Jonny Geller, my agent, a unique blend of panache and sincerity. Louise Moore, more than just Editor of the Year to me. I feel extremely fortunate and honoured that you are both in my life.
My family, who have constantly and tirelessly spread the word. For the record, neither my sister nor her children are on commission, although I’m sure their friends think differently.
My friends, who have been enthusiastic and interested. You know who you are and how grateful I am.
Acknowledgements
People assume writing and producing a book is a one (wo)man show. It’s anything but. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all those involved in the success of Playing Away and those who currently have their fingers and toes crossed for the success of Game Over.
Especially Harrie Evans, John Bond, Tom Weldon, Nicky Stonehill, Peter Bowron and his entire sales team at Penguin. Everyone who ever sold a copy, everyone who ever bought one. I know none of this would have been possible without you.
Thank you to the people at Granada Media who gave up their time to talk to me, even though they are impossibly busy and work on a far tighter ship than TV6: John Creedon, Sally Blackburn, Martin Lowde, Ian Johnson, Bob Massie, Marina Webster and Keith Bryan.
Everyone remembers a good teacher; I’d like to formally thank a few of those who gave me challenges and chances and helped me become what I am (for better or worse!): Mrs Gunn (Durham Lane Primary School); Mr David Oliver, Mr John Beddow and Ms Margaret Maguire (Egglescliffe Comprehensive School); Professor Martin Stannard, Professor Sandy Cunningham and Professor Lois Potter (Leicester University).
Game Over and Playing Away are unlikely tributes to Colin Douglas, Mary Peacock, Dick Parks, Moyra Wilkinson and Emma Blythe, with love.
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