Game Over

15

I have never worked so hard in my life as I have these past few months. Or, more honestly, work has never been so hard. I fail to notice spring; the bit of me that appreciates green buds and blue skies was only ever a small constituent of my make-up, and has now been snuffed out completely as I surround myself with schedules, deadlines, target revenues, TVRs and ARPs. I’m not busy enough. I decide that my social life needs new impetus, so I attend every party, reception, première, dinner and event that I’m invited to. Recently I’ve broadened my life experiences to include visiting Le Cirque du Soleil, participating in a pony-trekking weekend in north Wales and an all-day aerobathon for charity, attending two hen nights (both with essential stripping policeman) and joining Issie’s pottery class. For all this frivolity, I have no fun.

This indiscriminate acceptance of invitations has filled my hours, but there have been two annulling consequences. The first is that I’ve discovered that my previous opinion on mankind (considered by many to be harsh) was in fact generous. People are generally much more tedious than even I estimated. The women I meet are unilaterally obsessed with their waistlines and, as often as not, individually obsessed with some waster. The men I meet are as per my original evaluation. They are insincere commitment phobes or spineless and married. And whilst I personally am still resolutely avoiding commitment, I dislike this characteristic in others. In the past I was able to endure the trite lines and clammy hands at least until the morning after the night before. Now it’s impossible for me to fake interest for as long as it takes most of them to fight their way to the front of the bar queue. Issie is thrilled that I am sticking to my New Year’s resolution.

‘Other than Darren you haven’t had any casual sex this year.’ She blushes. ‘Well, including Darren you haven’t had any casual sex.’

I don’t comment.

The second consequence of my indiscriminate acceptance of invites is that by making myself more available I have made myself less desirable. I worry that I am gaining the reputation of being one of those people who attends the opening of a marmalade jar. For this reason I have resolutely turned down all invitations for this weekend. I refused an offer to fly to New York to ‘shop till I drop’. The guy who made the offer was being euphemistic. He actually wanted me to shop until my knickers dropped. I said no to a reception at the Tate Modern tonight and no to drinks with the team. I refused a dinner and fancy-dress party tomorrow, and a lunch on Sunday with friends. Issie is spending the weekend doing some intensive training with a group of people who are also running the London Marathon and Josh is taking Jane to the country. Not for a romantic weekend, but to bin her. He mistakenly thinks this is the gentleman-like thing to do. Issie and I tried to explain that, almost certainly, Jane would prefer to have her heart broken on her own territory, but Josh pointed out that he’d lose his deposit on the hotel room if he no-showed. As they are both out of town I’ll spend the weekend without human contact.

I am hopeful, expectant. I’m looking forward to being alone with my face pack, fridge and remote control. I sit down with a highlighter pen, the television section of the Observer and a bottle of gin. I circle my TV viewing for the night. Coronation Street, a documentary on Brooklyn Beckham (that’s our show), Brookside, Friends, and then I’ll switch to cable for a movie. I catch sight of the date and automatically calculate that it’s one month, three weeks, five days and eight hours since I last saw Darren.

Only quarter of an hour before Corrie starts.

Thirteen minutes.

Another nine minutes to go.

Still quite some time yet. I think I’ll ring Mum.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Oh, hello Jocasta, dear, how are you? I was just talking about you to Bob.’

‘Who?’

‘Bob, you know—’

‘Your neighbour.’

‘Exactly!’

‘What were you saying?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What were you saying to Bob?’ I’m beginning to regret the call.

‘I was just saying I wonder how Jocasta is.’

‘Well, I’m fine.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

‘And how are you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, except for the old problem.’ I have no idea what the ‘old problem’ is, although doubtless she’s told me on countless occasions; nor do I have any desire to find out. I move the conversation on.

‘I called to ask if you fancy going shopping tomorrow. Unaccountably it’s a Saturday and I haven’t got a wedding to go to.’ I hadn’t realized that I’d called to ask this; the fifteen minutes alone before my viewing started have obviously weighed in heavily. I wait for her gushing thanks that I’ve decided to offer up an entire Saturday, even though it’s not her birthday or anywhere near Christmas. Instead she surprises me.

‘I expect people are a little nervous about inviting you to their weddings, what with your show and everything. Well, dear, I’d love to go shopping with you, but Bob and I are going to a craft fair and it’s been in the diary for some time. I can’t let him down – I know he’d be most disappointed and I’m looking forward to it too.’

I don’t ask what kind of man enjoys a craft fair; nor do I commit myself when she adds hopefully, ‘How about next week?’

I put the phone down and turn the volume up.

Whilst it’s been a constructive weekend (I’ve filed my nails, both fingers and toes, I’ve tidied my cutlery drawer and I’ve descaled the kettle and the showerhead), by Sunday afternoon I’m beginning to wish I’d accepted the invite to lunch. I’ve read the Sunday papers, including the small ads for the removal of unwanted lines, fat and hair, as well as those for the addition to breasts and penises. I’ve watched a backlog of recorded programmes and all the soap omnibuses. In fact, most of my entertainment and all my food have been generated from radioactive boxes. Although I have ample time on my hands, I can’t be arsed to drag myself to Tesco’s or even Cullen’s. There really is no point in buying fresh herbs and vegetables, chopping and sautéing for one. Instead I search my cupboards for inspiration. I don’t find it. I can’t think of a recipe that happily combines peanut butter, Carr’s water biscuits and All Bran. The contents of my fridge are neither useful nor ornamental. There’s a mouldering jar of capers and another of anchovies (bought for a dinner party), Tabasco, Yakult and Red Bull. Of course, there’s the foundation bottle of champagne, but even I don’t like drinking Veuve Clicquot alone. Instead I defrost things unsavoury. Cardboard food from cardboard boxes – singleton’s food.

I can hear some kids playing in the nearby park. As far as I can tell the objective of the game is to see who can produce the most piercing scream. Very entertaining, if you’re eight. I wonder what Charlotte and Lucy are up to? An aeroplane passes overhead. In the mid-distance I can hear the intermittent hum of an articulated truck whizz from factory to storage warehouse. I’m depressed. I must be. The truck seems poignant. I look around for a vessel to use as an ashtray. All the ashtrays, saucers, teacups, plant pots that are in spitting distance of my sofa are full to overflowing with ash already.

Whilst me-time is all very educative, the most overwhelming lesson appears to be that I’m pretty miserable company. Even the fact that Saturday’s show was a corker, and the scheduling department have already rung to tell me we’ve reached 10.4 million viewers, fails to cheer me. The worst of it is, I’m not entirely alone.

As I move around my home I see Darren sprawled out on his stomach reading the Sunday papers, or I find him squeezing oranges in my kitchen, or I bump into him coming out of the shower. Naked and powerful with a white towel round his hips and water drops dripping from his hair to the carpet. But the carpet is never wet because he’s only in my head and he’s never in my bed.

I remember Darren first coming into my flat.

‘Nice pad. Did you buy it lock, stock and barrel from a style magazine?’ He’d grinned and turned to kiss me. I flung my coat on the back of my settee, not bothering to hang it in the cupboard. I kissed him back and didn’t take offence.

‘Funny. Issie thinks this place is impersonal, too. I think it’s anything but. I bought an empty shell and built my apartment from scratch. What could be more personal?’

Darren wrapped his arms around me and held me tightly. I breathed him in. I was shaking with the newness of it all. It was new that I was talking this way. It was new that a man was in my home and I was sharing my life, even for a week.

I stare at the windowpane, concentrating on the raindrop race, which Darren taught me. The idea is you choose a raindrop and the other person chooses another raindrop, both roughly at the same height and ideally at the top of the window. The winner is the one whose drop reaches the bottom of the window first. I win. Naturally – I’m the only one playing. I can’t think of anything to amuse, charm or hearten me. Not even the fact that Josh’s girlfriend will be having an even more shit time than I am. This just proves my theory about the insanity of getting involved. I pray Josh will call me soon with a debrief – I need a distraction.

I decide to replace the catchy tune of my clunking radiators and purring fridge. I force myself out of my cosy window seat and examine my cassette and CD collection. Uninvited, the memory of Darren discovering my CD collection barges into my head.

‘You put some music on whilst I pour some drinks,’ I’d instructed, moving towards the wine rack.

‘Interesting music collection,’ he commented.

‘Normally described as eclectic. It’s a testimony to ex-shags.’

‘Ah, I see.’ And he probably did, because I believe that he understood me entirely, past and present. Which is my problem.

‘The Smiths and the Cure represent your adolescent angst years.’

‘Correct. Actually I was an extremely buoyant adolescent but my lover was an anger ball so I faked an avid interest. Red or white?’ I held up both bottles, trying to ignore my own last sentence. I realized that by faking an avid interest I’d set a pattern for a lifetime.

‘Red. Something full-bodied, if you have it.’

It impressed me that Darren managed to politely knock back the plonk in Whitby without showing any snobbery or distaste when he obviously knows what he likes when it comes to wine. Maybe it was a mistake to make such a fuss about drinking Blue Nun, especially when Mrs Smith had bought it just for me. Not that it matters. None of it matters.

It still gnaws.

‘And I take it that Lloyd Cole, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Pet Shop Boys and Scott Walker are attributable to your student years?’

‘Spot on. Phil, Paul, Iain, Greg and, er, Mark respectively.’

I poured the wine and handed it to him. As I re-enact this scene I use a coffee mug, which is pretty inadequate.

‘Your music tastes are certainly wide and varied. REM, Blur, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Ruben Gonzalez.’ Darren sipped the wine and smiled at me. The smile then, as now, hit directly in my chest, exploded and hurled shrapnel to my throat, back of knees and knickers. I’d never felt so fine. I hurt all over.

‘Not my taste in music but in men. Those CDs are credited to Nathan, Andy, Tom, Dave.

‘The Judds!?’ Raised eyebrow.

‘I know – awful, isn’t it? Peter. Take heart, his appalling musical taste was compensated by his expertise in the sack. At the time I’d even have forgiven white socks.’

‘I can’t take heart. I’m jealous of every last one of them.’ He turned and kissed me ferociously, nearly causing me to spill my wine. He began to unbutton my shirt. His fingers teased my skin. First my collarbone, then trailing past my breast, threading down to my stomach.

I absolutely force myself back to the present.

It’s bleak. I thought I knew all there was to know about loss, but not having Darren in my life is so vile and final that I wonder how I get up in the mornings. I feel like Dorothy on rewind. Instead of hitting the yellow brick road and finding myself in Technicolor Oz, I’ve been shoved into a monotone existence. I don’t enjoy parties, or bars, or clubs. I don’t like being with people, I loathe being alone. I don’t zing, I don’t sparkle. I don’t slice with my tongue. Even work seems lacklustre. I wonder how I ever thought this life was fulfilling, let alone exhilarating. Life now sags around me. I’m nauseous with loneliness. It engulfs me.

I wish I’d never met him.

I don’t mean that. I hate myself for being so disloyal. I know that I would do it all again. I’d still get on that train. It was already too late the moment I collided into his eyes in the interview room. I’d thought I was so damn smart. So élite. So untouchable. Yet whilst it hurts that only his ghost – and not his irresistible self – is in my sitting-room, him in my towelling dressing gown, me in his jumper, both of us soaked in love and cum – I know I am still in control.

Oh, only just, I admit that.

I left him. He didn’t leave me. He doesn’t know how I feel. He doesn’t know how vulnerable I am.

Only I know that.

The phone rings, breaking the sound of being alone. I pounce on it. It’s Josh. I know this before I pick it up.

‘How’d it go?’ I’m ridiculously interested, as I’m desperate to break myself out of my own indulgent apathy.

‘Awful,’ he groans.

‘Mmm.’ I sound sympathetic because I am. ‘Did she take it very badly?’

‘She cried.’ Most of Josh is upset but a tiny bit of him is triumphant.

‘Mmm.’

‘It’s worse doing the dumping than being the dumpee.’ I doubt he means this.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I remind him.

‘No, of course not. You’ve never been dumped.’

‘What is the point of sticking around long enough to get your heart broken?’ I challenge, more cheerfully than honestly. I want this conversation to have away from me. Strangely I haven’t been honest with Josh about my feelings for Darren. Josh assumes Darren was another brief and unimportant encounter. I can’t tell him how I feel because saying it aloud makes it more real. I must bury my feelings for Darren. I must.

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff.’

‘It’s just not right?’

‘Yes,’ he agrees enthusiastically. Although I love Josh, I’m irritated by him. I sigh, thinking of all the women who’ve ever cried because of the words, ‘It’s just not right.’ Why do men only discover this when they roll off the sticky Durex?

‘I know what you’re thinking, but I really didn’t want to hurt her.’

I relent. After all, I’ve known him since he played with Action Men and I played with Sindy dolls. Now it’s the other way round, I can’t simply abandon him. He starts to tell me about the ditching. It doesn’t take long; he’s a boy. If Issie were telling me about her dumping some bloke or other, we’d spend hours. We’d start with describing what both parties were wearing. We’d talk about the location selected for the scenario. It’s very important to choose the correct ground. His place is good because then you get to choose when to leave and he doesn’t have to stumble home in a veil of tears. Or somewhere neutral, like a bar or a party. Not his mum’s. She simply won’t see it from your point of view. And not – under any circumstances – your own place. He might decide not to leave, insisting that it’s possible to make a go of it. It never is. Calling the police in is ugly. I know – I’ve done it. Now if this were Issie it would be a different story. Issie would tell me everything. She’d punctuate it with ‘and then he said’, ‘and then I said’, ‘and he looked as though…’ However close we are, Josh has too many Y-chromosomes to do this. Instead he has to act all disinterested and hard. He blows it when he asks me if I’ll go round.

‘I’ll be there in ten.’ Of course I’ll go to him. I’d walk hot coals for him.

Josh likes to think he lives in Islington but in fact he lives in King’s Cross. He lives in a ground-floor flat, which can most adequately and efficiently be described as ‘masculine’. Until his thirtieth birthday, Josh steadfastly refused to pay as much as a cursory glance towards interior design, cleanliness or comfort. He lived in squalor – not that he seemed to notice. In fact, he often joked that filth and disorder were his best friends. I was never sure if he was referring to his domestic arrangements or me and Issie respectively. Josh only ever washed up if the corner shop had run out of paper plates and he changed his sheets less frequently than his women. His bathroom never benefited from Ajax, Jif or Domestos, all of which could be Greek islands as far as Josh was concerned. His items of furniture were my mother’s cast-offs, the things she absolutely could not force into her home. This foulness was not poverty-induced, simply a male blind spot, as inexplicable as the fact that when men do become interested in their home (thirtieth birthday or marriage, whichever they meet first) they cover the squalidness in blue.

Blue walls and tiles, blue fabric, blue crockery, blue cutlery, blue loo roll, blue napkins and napkin rings (which have only ever been used once – the thirtieth birthday dinner party), blue settee, blue bed and bedding, blue dustpan and mop and finally a blue toothbrush. When Issie or I ever visited Josh whilst he was decorating we were always overly animated, fearing if we stood still for too long he’d paint us blue too.

As I walk into his flat, I’m thinking that if Josh introduced buttercup yellow in his hall or a deep red in his sitting-room it would be a vast improvement.

‘Josh, why are the lights dimmed?’ I ask and immediately turn them up. I start to laugh. ‘Oh, I see, to show off the candles. Are you indulging in a Druid-type self-loathing session?’ I kiss him on the forehead and wave the bottle I’ve brought.

‘It’s a ‘94 Château La Croix de Mouchet. I was saving it for a special occasion but I’m not sure when that’ll be so I thought I’d bring it round.’ I march directly to the kitchen to forage out some glasses.

I bump into the biggest floral arrangement ever.

‘Who are the flowers for, or should I say from? God, Josh, this place looks more like a seduction scene than a dumping ground.’ I suddenly guess what’s going on. ‘No, she didn’t buy you these just before you ditched her, did she?’ I’m shocked at the stupidity of some women. ‘And you accepted them.’ I’m less surprised by the callous nature of most men. ‘Bastard.’ I smile. He’ll know I’m joking. Josh doesn’t answer but takes the wine I’m offering and clinks my glass. I continue chattering, glad of the company, for what it is. Josh is not at his sparkly best.

‘God, I’ve had the loneliest weekend,’ I confess.

‘Really?’

‘Don’t look so pleased about it, Josh. You know you and Issie are indispensable to me. You don’t need to prove your point by both going away at once. I started having the most maudlin thoughts. I even wished there was a wedding to go to. Now isn’t that a hoot?’

Josh brightens. ‘Do you really?’

‘What?’

‘Wish there was a wedding to go to?’

‘Well, since my choice this weekend was that or eat Coco Pops, by the hand directly from the box, yes, I’d prefer the wedding.’ I pat the settee next to me. ‘Come on, then, sit here. Tell me all about chucking Jane.’ I stare at Josh. ‘Hey, you look quite shaken. Are you regretting it?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head definitively.

‘So?’ He pauses for the longest time. Something is definitely upsetting him. ‘Good God, Josh. You’re not ill, are you?’ I’m suddenly terrified.

‘No. Not ill.’

‘So what’s up?’ I link my arm through his. He shuffles awkwardly, pulling his arm away.

‘I don’t know how to put this.’

‘Just say it, whatever it is,’ I encourage. Why the sudden hesitancy? Josh and I have always spoken freely to one another. What can he have to say that’s so dreadful? Suddenly he lurches for my hand.

‘OK, I’ll just say it. Will you marry me, Cas?’

‘Ha ha.’ I sip my wine.

‘I’m serious,’ he insists.

I look at him. His eyes are shining earnestly.

He is.

Shit.

‘Well, it’s a bit of a surprise. I don’t know what to say.’

Probably anything but that. It’s a bit lame. It’s awful. Luckily Josh is too nervous to notice my inadequacies. He reaches behind a cushion and pulls out a Tiffany ring box. He magics a thick cream rose from somewhere or other.

‘Bloody hell, Paul Daniels is proposing to me.’ I laugh but my laugh is hollow and echoey. It doesn’t fill the silence. Josh notices the silence too.

‘Bugger, forgot the music.’

He jumps up and puts on his CD player. ‘Ground Control to Major Tom’ blares out, which makes me laugh and Josh swear. I know he’s spent the afternoon walking around the house with the strainer on his head, singing along.

‘Fuck, not very appropriate.’ He swaps to Frank Sinatra singing ‘I’ve Got you under my Skin.’ I’m grateful for this small diversion.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you, Josh?’ I ask his back.

‘I am.’ He tells the wall. After fiddling with the bass and the volume for a while Josh comes back and sits next to me. He doesn’t sit quite as close as he usually does. He’s not actually touching me, but he is close enough for me to notice that he’s shaking and there’s sweat on his upper lip.

‘Did you buy the ring for me or Jane?’ I ask.

‘You, of course!’ He sounds insulted.

‘Just checking.’ I grin nervously. ‘I wondered if this was impulse or if you’d given it a lot of thought.’ His face implodes. I rush on. ‘Well, it’s obvious that you’ve given it a lot of thought, but I wasn’t sure if it was me you were thinking of.’ He looks even more appalled. I realize I’m an arse. ‘God, I’m sorry, Josh, that’s a terrible thing to say. I’m nervous.’ I start to giggle. ‘I’ve never been nervous with you before, Josh.’

‘Well, I’ve never proposed to you before, Cas.’ Josh pauses. ‘Or anyone.’

‘So why?’

‘We’re good for each other. We are alike. We’ve known each other for ever. No other woman ever makes me laugh the way you do. Other women bore me.’

I’m still buying time. ‘So you are ready for monogamy? I assume we’d play it conventionally?’

‘Yes, I’m ready. I’m bored with attaching myself to the next thing that comes along and attracts attention. Other women seem sameish. You’re different.’ He pauses and I know he’s struggling. ‘I think it’s always been you. I think that’s why everyone else seemed inadequate. I think you are the reason I’ve bounced from one conquest to the next.’

‘Are you sure it’s you who thinks that? It sounds suspiciously like my mother’s theory. This proposal isn’t the result of her finally grinding you down, is it?’

Josh smirks. He doesn’t answer my question but continues, ‘And I figured that you don’t have any other plans.’ His smirk relaxes into a wide grin. ‘I mean you don’t let men hang around long enough for you to even learn their surnames.’

Smith.

‘It is true our getting married will delight your mum. Look, marriage is the logical next step – think government tax breaks.’

‘Very romantic.’ I laugh.

He turns suddenly serious. ‘I’ll make you happy, Cas. We love each other, don’t we?’

‘It’s just that this is so unexpected.’

Josh laughs. ‘Actually, not at all. I’ve been waiting for years to tell you how I feel. I suppose, conventionally, I could have started by kissing you or asking you out for a drink.’

‘We’re always going out for drinks together,’ I point out matter-of-factly.

‘Exactly. I’ve been at a loss as to how I should let you know how I feel. I don’t know if I’d ever have got the courage but recently you’ve changed. You seem more serious. I knew the time was right. What do you say, Cas? Can you imagine being my wife?’

Josh is my best friend. He’s mymateJosh. And here he is, mymateJosh down on one knee, a rose in one hand and a diamond cluster in the other. He’s right: marriage is a ceremony that is sanctified by logic, government tax breaks, law and thousands of years of repeat performance. Josh is kind, strong, wealthy, intellectually stellar, he worships me, he does not mind my tantrums or my unmade-up face and, if that wasn’t enough, he’s good-looking.

None of this would convince me to marry him. I look at Josh and suddenly Darren’s face looms.

Josh is safe. I’d be safe. I’d never end up torn and bitter in the divorce courts. Because much as I care for Josh, I’m not overwhelmed by him. He’ll never make my heart gallop, so he’ll never be able to splinter it. A network of middle-class lifelines would constantly buoy us up. Dinners out with our mutual friends, who are interested and interesting. Evenings in, playing Trivial Pursuit, and charades at Christmas. Then later there’d be prep school for the kids and exotic holidays. I like all these things. These beacons of sanitized security seem like a possibility.

I’ve tried to fill my Darren-bereft days in an assortment of ways. None of which has been successful. But if I were with Josh, if I marry Josh – I let the concept roll round my head – I’d be safe. Marrying Josh will stop me doing anything really terrible, like getting drunk, and calling Darren, and telling him how I feel. Marrying Josh is the ultimate protection. It’s complex. It’s risky but it’s my only chance.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what? Yes we love each other… or yes you’ll marry me?’

Yes and yes.’

‘Aghhhhhh. God, I’m the happiest man in the world. Oh my God. Should we ring Issie?’ Josh does a funny little star jump and as he lands he wiggles his hips, claps his hands and punches the air. ‘No, no, best ring your mum first, or my parents – what do you think?’ Josh is dashing round his flat, fitfully searching for his mobile, although there is a perfectly good landline.

‘Champagne? Do you want champagne?’ He keeps turning to me and blowing kisses and punching the air again. I’ve never seen him so happy. I had no idea. I had no idea I could make him this happy. And I’m… I’m happy too. Calm happy.

‘Well, isn’t it traditional for you to kiss me? Kind of to seal the deal,’ I offer.

‘Christ, yes. Sorry, Cas. I’ve been meaning to do this for twenty-six years.’

I pretend I haven’t noticed that he is now sweating profusely. I ignore the fact that he clumsily bangs my teeth and, for a moment, I’m behind the bike shed with Barry Carter. Soon we inch into it and soon I like his kissing. We’re both too practised for it to be anything other than technically brilliant.

I arrive early and seat myself facing the wall so that Issie can have the view of the restaurant. I take off my ring and put it under my napkin so that I can surprise her. Then I put it back on again – better to do the Taaaaddddddaaaa and hold my hand out as soon as she arrives. Maybe not. Back under the napkin. I’m nervous. I just wonder how Issie will take this. After all, Josh’s her one and only real chance of marrying. I’m joking. I know this isn’t the case, but it will irrevocably alter the dynamics. Well, does it have to?

No, it doesn’t.

Yes, it does.

Issie will be delighted for us both.

Surely?

Certainly.

She’s here. She kisses me, orders a Bloody Mary and cuts to the chase.

‘What’s your news?’

Deep breath, ‘I’m marrying Josh.’

The restaurant stops. There isn’t a clinking glass or thudding plate. At least I can’t hear one. I watch Issie’s face, waiting for her reaction.

‘You’re marrying Josh?’ she whispers. She pauses and takes a sip of my water. Issie is obviously a little taken back.

But she’s pleased.

Isn’t she?

Well, she’s not actively unhappy.

Is she?

‘Yes, I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’ I smile broadly because engaged women smile all the time and Issie knows that. I order some wine. She fiddles with her napkin. I look at the menu. She doesn’t. I wonder which one of us will change the subject first. Issie and I have only ever been 100 per cent truthful with one another. Except for the occasion when I failed to tell her Josh fancied her. But that was years ago and it worked out for the best. It would be so embarrassing now if they had slept together. Anyway the point is Issie has only ever been 100 per cent truthful with me. I don’t want her to skirt this if she has an issue.

But I’m not keen to confront her brutal integrity just yet.

But I hope to God she doesn’t talk about the weather.

Stay with me, Issie.

‘I’ve got to be honest with you, Cas. I’m shocked.’

‘Why?’ I bluff. But I know why. Why is because I’ve never shown any romantic interest in Josh and I’ve always been actively opposed to marriage.

‘Because you’ve never shown any romantic interest in Josh and you’ve always been actively opposed to marriage.’

I glare at her. The waitress brings Issie her Bloody Mary (which is downed in one) and tells us what the specials are. I get her to repeat it twice. Issie says she’ll have That.’ I ask for ‘the same’. Neither of us has any idea what we’ve ordered.

‘Haven’t you always said Josh would make a great husband?’ I encourage.

‘Yes,’ she admits.

‘Haven’t you always said I should marry? Allow closeness, trust, stop hiding from intimacy?’

‘Yes,’ she admits.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I didn’t say I had a problem.’

‘But you so obviously do.’

‘I think you are being defensive. Do you think there’s a problem?’

‘No. I don’t have a problem.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, it’s good.’

The waitress comes back with the wine, water and bread. I’m delighted and greet her as though she is my long-lost sister. It becomes clear that she’s not going to draw up a chair and join us. I watch her scuttle back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with Issie and her interrogation.

‘What about Darren?’

‘Darren?’ The bread in my mouth won’t be swallowed. I chew and chew but it simply won’t go down. I drink some more water. ‘Darren who?’ won’t wash.

‘Darren taught me a lot.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I owe him a great deal. He opened my eyes to the possibility of intimacy being an option for me.’

‘Don’t speak to me as though I am one of your TV executives,’ she snaps. It’s unlike Issie to be down on me. I think about what I’ve just said. It does sound like pretentious wank. But then I’m new to this game of speaking your heart. I’d always been content with speaking my mind, which is easy in comparison.

‘Darren was important,’ I admit.

‘You fell in love with him.’

I can’t tell Issie the truth. I can’t tell her that marrying Josh is the ultimate armour. She loves Josh as much as she loves me and she wouldn’t forgive me. I have no choice but to rewrite history.

‘No, Issie, Darren was an infatuation.’ Firm. Denying Darren hurts.

‘You said you were in love.’ Rigid.

‘I was wrong.’ Reasonable.

‘You said you’re never wrong.’ Irritating.

‘I was wrong about that too.’ I’m almost shouting. I take a deep breath and have a stab at regaining some self-control. ‘Darren told me things that no one else could tell me and he taught me to look at things differently but I didn’t fall in love.’

She stares at me with naked disbelief. ‘Oh, so you can’t quote every single word he ever uttered to you? You didn’t laugh with him? You don’t talk about him constantly?’

Fair point.

‘Darren was…’ I’m struggling. ‘… exhilarating and amazing but he was a stranger. Women don’t fall in love with men they’ve just met.’

‘Of course they do!’

‘Why are we talking about Darren? It’s Josh I feel secure with. Josh I’ve known for ever.’

‘That doesn’t sound like love to me, it sounds like the safe choice.’

The waitress arrives with our food and we call an uneasy truce over the table. We sulkily eat our goat’s cheese salad and glumly glug our wine. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted her to be happy for me.

‘I admit Josh doesn’t send my stomach into a somersault.’

‘The way Darren did.’

I ignore her interruption. ‘But that’s to be expected, I’ve known Josh for ever.’

What am I supposed to say?

Obviously Issie’s disappointed that things are changing, but things can’t stay the same. I wish they could have. Meeting Darren changed everything. I’m lonely in crowds now. But I’m a survivor and marrying Josh is my best survival tactic. Whilst I’m sorry that it makes Issie uncomfortable, I am completely without option. I push on.

‘Darren was about sexual attraction. I got carried away. I know I said some pretty crazy things at the time.’ I glance at Issie and try to work out if I’m convincing her. I can see by her face that she wants to believe me. Almost as much as I want to believe me. I press on. ‘Josh wants to marry me. I love Josh. He’s like a brother to me.’ Issie tries to interrupt but I hold my hand up to stop her. ‘Maybe, at the moment, Josh loves me in a different way. But two people rarely love each other equally, in the same way, at the same time. We’ve years together, we’ll even up.’ I pause for maximum impact and then I plead, ‘I’ll be a good wife to him.’ I mean this. I plan to be perfect. I’ll try to make it up to Josh for not being in love with him. I’ll take fastidious care in putting his needs before mine. He can choose which side of the bed to sleep on. And I’ll attend all his work functions. I’ll even learn the rules of rugby. Josh will get a good deal.

Issie pauses and thinks about what I’ve said. We sit for an eternity.

Finally she mutters, ‘I can’t believe you’d play games with Josh, so I have to believe that you are genuine about this, Cas.’ She stares at me for about two hundred years.

‘I am.’ Her face relaxes into a broad, delighted and assured smile. I force a tight, relieved smile. I’ve often condemned her for being too trusting, saying she invites people to wipe their Manolo Blahniks on her soul. Now I’m grateful that she’s so ingenuous.

We are through it. Everything is going to be brilliant from now on.

I show her my ring. She ooohs and ahhs, appropriately. She says that she definitely will not wear pink, lilac or frills. I reach into my bag and pull out the Amanda Wakeley Wedding Collection brochure. We both giggle shrilly and generally allow ourselves to get completely over-excited.

This is what girlfriends are born for.