Game Over

18

Here I am in the middle of realizing a dream, a dream I didn’t even realize I had, and it’s good. Really good. Wow. That shit about better to travel hopefully than arrive. Losers. Better to arrive spectacularly and I have.

I have! I’m drunk on euphoria (and only a little bit of fear). I want to bottle the experience and keep it on my dressing table. I know he is it The One. The only one. I’m not sure how I’ll maintain this constant high. But I believe it will all take care of itself.

We stay in the hotel all morning, excitedly talking about when and where we’ll get married. Darren is thrilled when I admit that there’s nothing I’d like more than to marry in St Hilda’s Abbey, Whitby.

‘You mean the church near the abbey. The actual abbey is decayed. It doesn’t have a roof.’

‘No. I mean the abbey. I want to be outside in the open.’

‘We can look into it. I’m not sure of the rules. I suppose once ground is consecrated, it’s always consecrated, long after the roof has fallen in.’ He pauses and kisses a mole on my back. T didn’t think you believed in God. What are you doing? Keeping a foot in each camp?’

‘No, it’s not that. It just feels right. The abbey is so beautiful. I felt calm there.’

We both confess to a hankering for a winter wedding.

‘Although it will be freezing, so I have to consider erect nipples if we are getting married outdoors. They can ruin a photograph,’ I comment.

‘Can they?’ From his tone it’s obvious that he doesn’t think so.

I can see me in a long fur dress and him in navy velvet. I can see it all so clearly. We talk about children, how many and their names! Then we agree that we had better get up and start telling people. I freeze. Telling people that I’m marrying Darren necessarily means telling them I’m not marrying Josh. I’m terrified and horrified. I can only imagine the pain and disappointment I’m going to cause. I turn to Darren and consider confessing everything to him. I’m sure he’ll guide me, and advise me on how best to handle this awful situation. But the words don’t fall out of my mouth. Instead we agree to negotiate a late checkout. I try to thrust Josh to the back of my mind. We order champagne and drink it in our room. Later we order lunch, ‘our meal’ (because we already have ‘our’ things) – cheese on toast which I can’t eat. So instead we celebrate with more loving. At four o’clock the chambermaid and the manager hover, then hammer outside our door, insisting that the room has to be cleaned, as it is booked by someone else for tonight. Reluctantly we drag ourselves out of bed and into our clothes.

We say goodbye to one another in the hotel lobby, but then can’t quite separate, so Darren walks me to the tube even though he is catching a bus. We say goodbye again at the ticket barrier but then decide to buy a ticket for him, just so that we can say a final goodbye on the platform. We wouldn’t have parted at all but I have arrangements to meet my mum and Issie at my flat to do a final fitting of the wedding dress. The wedding to Josh, that is.

‘I expect his reluctance to let you out of his sight was because he isn’t sure when, or indeed if, he’s ever going to see you again,’ snaps Issie.

‘Of course he knows he’ll see me again. He trusts me. I trust me. We’re going to see each other every day for the rest of our lives.’ I giggle and do a small on-the-spot jig. I’m just so full of energy! My mother and Issie stare at me from their seats on the settee. Their faces sort of spoil the moment.

‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

They exchange looks.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my engagement?’

Issie tuts, ‘Which one, Little Miss Changie-Mindy?’ I notice my mother put her hand on top of Issie’s in a futile attempt to calm her.

‘It does seems a little sudden,’ comments my mum. Trying to walk the tightrope between tact and instruction.

‘It’s not sudden, I’ve felt like this for a long time, I’ve just found the courage to admit it. I haven’t changed my mind, just my heart. I am still sure that infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there. I just no longer believe they are my only option.’

‘You know, you’re right. Infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there,’ shouts Issie. ‘And do you know something else? They are right here too. You epitomize them. What about Josh?’

Of course I haven’t forgotten him. I admit that I’ve worked hard in the last twenty-four hours not to think of him, but he’s been with me all the time. He’s the shadow on my intense euphoria. Which is heartbreaking, because I do believe that all he ever wanted to do was make me happy.

‘I can’t marry Josh,’ I state sadly.

‘Well, I realized that you weren’t planning on becoming a bigamist,’ screams Issie. Her mouth is wide open and her face is the same colour as her tonsils.

I kneel in front of them, hoping, rather than expecting, they’ll understand. Issie flings herself back against the settee; my mother moves a fraction closer to me. Although it’s hardly a herald of angels, I take this as a sign of encouragement.

I try to explain. ‘I didn’t believe in love – I couldn’t understand why anyone would. When people talked about love it was like reading reports about war in a faraway country – it just didn’t seem real. And then I… well… I guess… I…’ Issie and my mother are staring at me, which is a bit offputting. ‘Well… fell in love.’

‘Visited the war zone, so to speak?’ says my mother. She sounds unsure.

I plough on regardless. ‘But it was really scary, so I… well… I…’ Bugger – when did I start stuttering? ‘Ran away.’ Issie tuts like a budgie. ‘But once I knew the war zone was real, really real, I found it impossible to ignore. Marrying Josh would be a halfway measure, like sending food parcels.’

‘You want to be a foot soldier rather than part of the Red Cross,’ says my mum. She still doesn’t sound confident. Hearing her repeat it back to me like that, I realize how bizarre my analogy is. So I try something more conventional.

‘I am so sorry that I’m going to hurt Josh. But don’t you see? It would be much worse marrying him when I don’t feel about him the way he does about me.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ says Issie. ‘That was my point all the way along.’

‘Darren makes jokes funnier if he laughs at them and he makes the room more homely when he enters it. He makes water cleaner, nights blacker and stars brighter if he notices them. I hadn’t wanted to admit that love existed, that I’d made such a monumental, disastrous misjudgement. But I have to, because I love him. Even when I’m asleep.’ At this point it seems a genuine possibility that foreign tongues have possessed me.

‘I, I, fucking I. That’s all we ever hear from you, Cas. What about thinking about someone else for a change?’

I stumble backwards, nearly overwhelmed by the power of Issie’s words. She rarely swears and never says fuck.

‘First you hurt Darren by just walking away from him, then you pick him back up when you feel like it—’

‘It isn’t like that, it’s—’

She waves her hands in front of her, cutting through my objections. Imagine Issie’s little, skinny hands being so powerful and effective.

‘You are so selfish.’ She’s on her feet now and pacing around the room. ‘OK, so you believe in love now – let’s have a party!’ She stamps her foot and with anyone else I’d have been tempted to laugh, but since this fury is coming from Issie and directed towards me, all I can do is listen.

‘No, on second thoughts, let’s not. Let’s examine your ridiculous behaviour instead.’ I think I prefer the first option, but then I don’t think this is a genuine choice situation. I listen to Issie as she begins to list my crimes against humanity. The way she explains it, it appears that I have more in common with Imelda Marcos than a love of shoes. ‘… The horrible way you’ve treated your countless lovers. The stupid destructiveness of Sex with an Ex and finally your selfish, fucking, engagement to Josh.’ With each accusation Issie raises her voice a decibel. I fully expect the people in the flat above to bang on the floor and ask us to keep the noise down.

My insides are raw. I want to tell her that I wasn’t awful to all my lovers and anyway most of them didn’t really expect anything too laudable. I want to tell her that the show saved jobs. I want to tell her that I love her and Josh and never meant to hurt either of them. But all these arguments seem hollow and pointless. She’s heard them before. She was never that impressed. Anyway she’s gone.

The door bangs behind her.

I turn to my mother. ‘Do you think she was disappointed because she’s not going to be bridesmaid next week?’

‘Don’t joke about it, Jocasta,’ replies my mother sternly. ‘You always rush to hide pain in jokes and it comes across badly.’ Subdued, I follow her through to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

‘We can always depend on you to have champagne in the fridge,’ she comments. ‘I’ve always thought that is so stylish of you.’

‘Have you?’ I’m so stunned I’m momentarily diverted from pondering Issie’s outburst. I’d always assumed that Mum thought champagne was decadent. The only bottles my mum keeps in the fridge are brown sauce and tomato ketchup. My initial surprise is superseded by the fact that my mother expertly opens the champers and pours it into the glasses without spilling a drop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mum open champagne in my life.

‘Do you think Issie’s right?’ I want to know where I stand, but I’m not sure how much more straight talking I can take.

‘Yes,’ replies my mum, without taking her eyes off the drink she’s pouring.

‘Oh.’ We both silently watch the bubbles fizz and then settle, and I wonder if I’m going to have any friends left, if I get through this at all.

‘What are we celebrating?’ I ask apprehensively.

‘It’s not quite as simple as that, is it? I mean we could raise a glass to your new engagement but that would seem rather insensitive towards Josh. Poor boy.’

I stare at my shoes. ‘If only I could turn the clock back.’

‘You can’t. Ever,’ states Mum. And as if to prove her point I notice that the only sound in the kitchen is the clock ticking. Then in a kinder voice she adds, ‘But do you know something? I’m proud of you.’

‘Proud of me?’ I can’t believe it.

‘Yes. You’ve recovered. You aren’t letting your father ruin your life.’

‘Like he did yours, you mean,’ I mutter glumly. I really don’t want to be reminded of my father right now. All too clearly, I remember the innumerable occasions when my mother moaned and grumbled about him. I received the subliminal message loud and clear: men are bastards.

Not all of them. I remind myself.

Expecting an onslaught of bitter regret and fury from my mother, I cling to the thought as though it were a shield. Not all of them.

‘He didn’t ruin mine, darling. I have a lovely life. Bob and I are very comfortable with one another.’

‘Bob?’ I’m amazed. Surely her life is dished. Why else would it be so quiet? Except of course if she likes it that way.

‘Yes, Bob.’ She smiles and doesn’t elaborate. Thank God. I’ve had enough monumental shocks and surprises in the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime. I’ve discovered I’m capable of loving. I’ve learnt Darren loves me and revealed that I love him too. I’ve got engaged. Again. I’ve heard Issie say fuck. I’ve seen my mother open a bottle of champagne. I could not stand knowing that she has a sex life.

‘I’m proud of you for falling irrationally and uncontrollably in love. I didn’t know if you’d ever have the grit to do it. I thought your father and I had denied you that on top of everything else.’ She pauses and then adds, ‘Well done, Cas!’ I think she’s going to slap me on the back but she hugs me. It’s a small, tight hug – not exactly the huge grasping to the huge bosom that you see in movies, but then my mother hasn’t got a huge bosom.

It’s the best hug I’ve ever received.

We pull apart and grin at one another. I think I’ve just come first in the egg and spoon race. I must have because my mother is every bit the proud parent.

‘Issie,’ I groan.

‘Don’t worry too much about Issie, she’ll come round eventually. She’s too kind not to want to see it from your point of view,’ smiles Mum. Then she adds, in a tone I’m much more used to hearing from her, ‘Not that you should dismiss what she said – it was spot on. You have a lot of bridges to mend and maybe some of them will never be repaired.’

I can’t bear to think about that.

‘Now come and tell me some more about Darren. When will I get to meet him? Don’t forget to bring that bottle of champers.’ She takes my hand and leads me to the sitting room.

Mum sits on the settee and I sit next to her. We while away the early evening with chatter about Darren and, more shockingly, Bob. I tell her the big things that make Darren wonderful and some of the small things too.

‘He raises his eyebrow and it is sooo sexy. And he kind of ruffles his hair in a boyish way.’

‘Bob does that too. Not that he has much hair. Which does, I suppose, encumber the effect.’ We laugh. ‘Maybe you and Darren would like to have tea with Bob and me on Sunday.’

I think of a compromise. ‘Or we could all go to a restaurant.’

She sees it as that and meets me. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. We can get dressed up. Make it a bit special.’

At some point I ease down the settee and find myself half slumped, half draped across Mum. My head is on her lap and she’s playing with my hair. She runs her fingers over my scalp. I have Darren. I have Mum. I am as safe and as loved as a child.

Buuuuzzzzzzzz.

‘Wonder who that can be,’ I mutter, annoyed that my bonding time with my mother is being so rudely unglued.

Buuuuzzzzzzzz.

‘Are you expecting anyone?’ asks Mum.

‘No.’ I drag myself towards the intercom but before I open the door it opens from the outside and Issie falls through it. She’s fumbling with her keys and mobile and handbag, which she drops, scattering tissues, money and make-up everywhere. I’m thrilled to see her.

‘Put the TV on,’ screams Issie. She’s tense and still angry, which incites her to forcefully yell, ‘Now. TV6.’ Yesterday this sudden boldness would have been unusual; now the unexpected is all that seems available. I do as she says.

I hear a familiar theme tune.

‘Sex with an Ex? But the series is over.’

Issie shushes me.

‘Hello. Thank you very much and welcome,’ says Katie Hunt as she bounds on to the stage. Her tits are trembling and, to make the job of the close-up camera easier, her shirt is unbuttoned one more button than necessary. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, have I got a treat for you!’ She winks cheekily, the way I taught her to.

Issie hands me a gin and tonic, which I take unquestioningly. I see that she’s poured Mum a sherry.

‘Tonight we are featuring our very own “voice of our generation”, only days before her wedding. We are going to see if she’s ready to say “from this day forward”, or is it a case of “from this lay forward”. The audience erupts into loud oohs and phwas. ‘Our celeb was given the opportunity to appear on the show but has declined, so instead we’ll meet her fiancé, Joshua Dixon. A big hand, ladies and gentlemen.’

‘Josh!’

The gin and tonic slips out of my hand on to the floor. The glass smashes and the liquid spills in all directions. None of us moves to mop it up.

‘Josh – you don’t mind if I call you Josh, do you?’ Katie purrs. Josh shakes his head, always one to be taken in by a pretty face. ‘Can you tell us a little bit about yourself and your relationship with your fiancée, Jocasta Perry. Tell us why you are here tonight.’

‘Cas and I have known each other since we were children.’

Ahhhhh, chorus the audience, no doubt incited by the stage manager holding up a big sign reading ‘HOW SWEET’. We have other ones reading ‘SHAME’ and ‘CONDEMN’. The signs were Bale’s idea.

‘I love Cas. I’ve always loved her, right through school, university and when we both got jobs.’ As Josh is saying this, photos of Josh and me appear on screen. One when we are about eight and he is pushing my swing. I’m grinning, a gappy, toothless grin, and kicking my legs high. You can see my knickers. Josh looks intense and as though he’s working hard to push me higher. In fact he was trying to push me off the swing so he could have a turn. Of course he was. He was a brother to me.

‘I’ve always loved that photo,’ says Mum. I scowl at her.

There’s another one of us at university, getting our degree certificates. Josh is adjusting my gown. Then several others, where we are doing our own thing. Josh in his chambers, me at various parties or functions. The thing they have in common is that I’m always surrounded by men and holding a glass of champagne; Josh is always alone.

‘Why haven’t they shown any of you working?’ asks Mum. ‘Or any of Josh partying? He’s such a cheerful young man and he seems a loner in these.’

‘Exactly. That’s what they want to imply.’ I rake my hands through my hair. I know exactly where this is going and I’m quite powerless to stop it. Issie pats me on the knee. We don’t take our eyes off the screen.

‘Cas seems quite a party girl,’ pursues Katie.

‘Well, yes, she is,’ confirms Josh, and in case he’s misinterpreted, he adds, ‘But I like that in her.’

‘When did you get engaged?’

‘March, this year.’

‘So you’ve waited for Cas for twenty-six years. You staying at home, whilst she’s been having a high old time. I hope she’s worth the wait.’ Katie turns towards the camera and grimaces.

We don’t get to hear what Josh replies. Even if he was honest enough to admit that he didn’t exactly hang around in the wings for twenty-six years – more like bought shares in Durex – the audience don’t get to find out because the camera cuts to some affidavits from my friends and colleagues. We see them say, ‘Up for it,’ ‘Game on,’ ‘Wild,’ ‘Fun,’ ‘Skilled (laugh), if you know what I mean.’ The audience has no idea what question was asked or how the interviewee was led into a certain response. They could have been talking about my attitude to work. They could have been talking about someone else. I know this because at TV6 we aren’t always that consistent in our approach to interviewing for Sex with an Ex and we edit for maximum entertainment – rather than authenticity. In the past I’ve advocated this. Now I’m regretting it.

Katie gets Josh to talk about how he proposed to me. The audience lap up the cream rose, dimmed lights, huge diamonds. He omits to mention the fact that the weeping of the freshly ditched Jane was still echoing around the flat. Nor does he mention his New Year’s resolution or the tax breaks.

Fair enough. I wouldn’t either if I were him.

Josh talks about all the preparations, cost and care for our ‘big, traditional wedding’. He doesn’t say that my mum has done all the work. They cut to lots of footage of Josh talking to caterers, florists and the guys who erect the marquee. I can only assume this footage was filmed especially because, to my certain knowledge, Josh has not visited any of these people to actually plan for the wedding. My mother confirms this when she comments, ‘But that’s not the florist we are using.’ She looks at me and corrects herself, ‘Were using. That’s not the florist we were using. Why do you think Josh is talking to them?’

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 go-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.’