Game Over

‘He’d have left anyhow,’ I comfort.

She starts to sob. ‘Would he? Would he?’

The receptionist gives her a cup of tea and the security guard leads her to the settee. She’s telling them how lonely she is. I think she should be evicted from the building, but as it is Christmas I won’t report the lax approach of the receptionist or the guard. I head towards the door.

‘Merry Christmas, Libby,’ I shout. I pause, waiting for her to wish me a Happy New Year.

She doesn’t. Instead she grips my arm and asks, ‘Have you ever looked in the mirror and been disappointed with your reflection?’ I turn to face her and she meets my gaze. ‘Well, I loathe mine.’

7

It’s New Year’s Eve. I have two things to celebrate this evening. One, Christmas is over. I’ve watched The Sound of Music with my mum and I’m now Julie-Andrews-free for another year. And two, it’s not the millennium. That was hell. The horrible expectancy of it all. I started planning my millennium New Year’s Eve in February 1997, as I was terrified that I’d choose the wrong option for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I couldn’t decide. Cottage in the Cotswolds? Black tie in Vegas? Beach in Mauritius? There was just too much choice and every one of them with its advantages. It wasn’t simply a question of enjoying myself. I presumed that I’d manage to pull that off just about anywhere, but I soon came to realize that wherever I chose said something about me. Did I want to say Vegas or Cotswolds? Did I want glitz or serenity? In the end Josh, Issie and I had a posh dinner at Issie’s house. Josh cooked, I provided the champagne. Issie’s contribution, besides the venue, was that she managed not to have her heart broken. A first for a New Year’s Eve, at least in my memory. We then drunkenly walked up and down the River Thames, getting crushed by the crowds and watching the fireworks and the backs of several million revellers. It was great. Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s New Year’s Eve again. With all its hellish accessories. Not only does the thought of the little black dress ruin Christmas indulgence, but this year I’m not spending it with Issie and Josh. Issie is going to her parents’ party in Marlow and Josh is in Scotland with the family of his latest girlfriend.

On the up side, I am going to a glitzy industry party and if I’m not going to be with Issie and Josh, this is my second choice. Everyone who is anyone in TV will be at the Gloucester Hotel in Mayfair tonight. I have to be there. Especially this year, as I’m riding high. Perhaps the highest I’ve ever been. My show is the talk of the industry. I also consider that it is actually impossible not to score at these events. And I’m ready for it. Thinking about it, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry patch of late. There was Joe, in late August. And then the botched attempt with Ivor, which doesn’t count. I thrust these disconcerting thoughts aside, comforting myself with the fact that the combination of my current success, the fact that it is New Year’s Eve and the loose morals of those who work in the media industry mean I’m guaranteed great sex tonight. You can smell the testosterone as soon as you walk into the hotel foyer. I bristle. We have tried to disguise it with Calvin Klein perfume and aftershave, bow ties and posh frocks, but lust is tangible. A thick tension is staining the air. And although this may sound lairy, it’s not. It’s exciting. It’s fun. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

Literally.

My targets fall into two categories: victim or sparring partner. I prefer the latter but hey, a time and a place. I see him by the time we sit down to dinner. He’s on the next table. He’s glittering in the candlelight. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. After a few discreet enquiries I discover that he has a long-term girlfriend but she’s not here tonight. The very best combination – challenging but not insurmountable. I want this to be a one-night thing and really I can’t be arsed to put in weeks of prep. Chances are he’ll be going through a rough patch. They always are. He’ll tell me that this is because his girlfriend doesn’t understand him. Of course the opposite is true.

The dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne. Bale is as pompous as hell, but at least I don’t get caught under the mistletoe with him, as Di does. Fi, Ricky and I have a huge giggle, spreading gossip, spiking drinks and strutting our stuff on the dance floor. I’m having so much fun that I almost forget that I plan to score. But as the clocks strike midnight and Fi and Ricky both disappear to snog their chosen boys, I look around for my target. Of course it’s not a coincidence that he is standing just a few feet away from me. He wasn’t oblivious to the smouldering glances I threw across the melon balls; nor was he averse to returning them.

I don’t kiss him on the dance floor because he does have a girlfriend. I can do without the gossip and uproar which would ensue after such an obvious display of our intentions. Instead I lean very closely in to him so that my lips are a fraction from his lobe. His hairs stand up and brush my lips. I move an almost indiscernible bit closer, letting my tit scrape against his arm. He trembles. My groin flinches.

‘Have you got a room?’ He nods. The atmosphere is damp with lust. ‘What number?’ He tells me immediately. I feel so powerful. ‘Walk to your room. Don’t walk too fast because I need to leave a respectable interval between you leaving and me following, but I don’t want to lose you.’ I give his arm a squeeze. We both understand. He nods a drunken nod, happy to follow my instructions to the letter.

I keep a safe distance and then I catch him up in his corridor. I’m quite tired so I don’t bother with anything too athletic against the wall, which I could have done to politely fill the embarrassing gap as he fumbles with the key, desperate to get it in the lock. I’m not sure if this is drink, nerves or excitement, but it doesn’t bode well. Eventually he opens the door. Unaccountably my mood changes. I think I’m bored by his inability. I’m no longer looking forward to this. Still, I’m here. He’s on a promise and I think it is dishonest to pull out at this stage. It wouldn’t be polite. I’m many things but a prick teaser isn’t one of them. I make the decision to get it over with as quickly as possible. I really am tired and it would have been wiser to have had an early night.

I shrug away his attempt to offer me something from the mini bar.

‘You go ahead.’

He pours himself a whisky. He then tries to light a cigarette but fails and spills the matches on the floor. He’s very nervous and I feel almost maternal. Is he too young for this? Am I too old? I take pity and decide to encourage him. Delicate thing, the male ego. I’ve often thought of those soapy bubbles that you make by blowing a lot of hot air through a little plastic device. Easy to inflate, easy to pop and easy to grow again.

‘Hey, tiger.’ I prize the whisky tumbler out of his hand and kiss him. Fine. Quite good really. But then, it is just kissing. He lunges for my zip and tugs at it. The dress is Versace and cost me nearly a thousand quid. I play a tactful manoeuvre where I shimmy out of it doing a little mini striptease. He loves it. And I save my dress. To be fair, he is trying – he just lacks subtlety. He’s kneading my breasts as though he’s trying to massage a muscle out of spasm. We are lying on the bed and suddenly his fingers are deep inside me. Better. OK one, two is fine. Jesus, I hope he knows fisting is just an expression.

‘Would you like me to go down on you?’ he asks. That’s novel – I’ve never been called upon to have an opinion before.

‘Would you like to?’ I ask, grinning.

‘Well, I don’t mind, if it’s really what you want. It’s not actually my favourite. But I’m happy to oblige if it will make you come.’ I guess this is sweet, in a way. But sweet is not sexy. I now seriously wonder if anything he can think of will make me come. Being called a prick teaser seems like an attractive option.

I disengage and go to the bathroom. When I emerge I’m wearing a towelling robe and I’ve cleaned my teeth. The vibes I’m giving off are Mary Ellen a la Walton family rather than Sue Ellen, Ewing family temptress.

‘Goodnight.’ I smile, pecking him on the cheek. I pull the dressing gown tightly around me, turn the light out and deliberately roll away from him. I don’t even care that he doesn’t seem too disappointed.

I scramble for my mobile, which slices through my dreamless sleep. It’s Issie.

‘Happy New Year! Where are you?’ Her voice is a unique blend of excitement, frustration, anger and concern.

‘In a hotel in’ – I scrabble around for the note pad next to the telephone – ‘Mayfair.’

‘Who with?’

I look at the empty bed. I feel the sheets next to me. They are still warm. They smell of male sweat. I can hear the shower running.

‘His name’s Ben.’ I hear her tut. I know the conclusion she has naturally drawn and I haven’t the energy to correct her diagnosis of events. Instead I confirm it. ‘It was New Year’s Eve. It was just physical.’

‘It’s always just physical. That’s the problem,’ she sighs. She doesn’t seem impressed. ‘You are heading for trouble. You’re on overdrive. You’ve been working too hard. When did you last go home?’