Game Over

determined way he explains his views convinces me that he won’t change his mind tonight. I suppose it does sort of make sense in a horribly moral way. Never again will I attempt getting a thinking man on the show. I’ll stick to Neanderthals.

We leave the restaurant and start to wander back to the tube, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Although it is January my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat. I hope I’m not coming down with flu. Couples are edging up to one another, the foolish myth of intimacy protecting them against the late-night chill that is settling. And it must be chilly because the people who are on their own pull their coats about them. My bag weighs a ton. It’s full of my life: notebooks, Dictaphones, research manuals, schedules. The weight of it drags my shoulder down to the right, causing me to lean. I occasionally bump into Darren. Each time I do so I tut so that he, at least, is clear that it’s an accidental collision and I don’t like it.

My senses are on red alert. I can feel the cold night air not brushing my skin but laying icy hands on my forehead and shoulders. I hear a train rattle across Charing Cross bridge, splitting the night. Sparkly lights outline the bridges and pavements. An adult dot to dot. There is metal on my tongue. I can smell sweat, fresh and stuff that’s months old. The fresh twang is mingled with Darren’s aftershave. It rinses my nostrils. I tut at the dreamers hanging around the National Film Theatre, lost in nostalgia or stupefied with pointless hope.

‘Look at them,’ I spit. ‘Incapable of getting off their arses and doing something real.’

Darren surprises me by laughing. ‘Is that all you see?’

‘Yes.’ I look at the jugglers and pseudo-intellectuals. People happier to watch plays about other people’s lives than actually live their own. ‘What else is there?’

‘Look again,’ he insists. He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me to look at the crowds. ‘You have to look at everything from as many different angles as possible. In as many ways as possible. Look at it and try to see it differently.’

I look again and see scores of people hanging out. Some are drinking coffee sold from the cafes at the theatres. Others are standing around the buskers. Others are debating with one another or chatting animatedly about the performance they have just seen. Others are snogging the face off each other. I shrug.

‘Don’t you see dozens of people having a good time, improving and enjoying themselves? A mass of humanity buzzing with just being here.’

‘No.’

‘Again. Look closer,’ he insists.

There is one old guy playing a violin. He’s ancient; he has a long, white beard. He is playing Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’. He skips lightly through the air, barely landing before rising again, his skinny limbs tapering in effortless rhythm. Grudgingly I throw some coins into his battered Panama. He is talented. He moves his head in a slight dip, more dignified than a bow. Darren smiles at me. I smile back.

We cross over the river and reach Embankment tube station. It’s heaving. A burly mass of drunks in suits and drunks in rags. Distinguishable simply by their disposable incomes. Darren fights, through the morons and marauders, to the ticket machine. He buys our tickets. Mine for east London, his for south. We’re on separate lines and going in separate directions.

‘Will you be OK getting home?’

‘Fine. I’m a tube veteran.’ This is a lie. I usually catch a cab but if I say so I’ll have to explain why I’ve just walked half a mile to the tube station. Which I can’t explain, not even to myself.

‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Cas. A very entertaining evening.’ Darren stops and turns to face me.

‘I bet you’ve hated every second.’

‘Not at all.’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘The reverse.’

I smile broadly, relieved. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Neither of us moves. Suddenly this feels very date-like. Will he kiss me? Is he going to shake my hand? He leans in and I think he’s going to kiss my cheek so I move my head suddenly. In fact, it appears his original target was my lips but my sudden manoeuvre means that his smacker ends up somewhere between my chin and earring. We jump apart and Darren heads towards the ticket barrier. It’s certain. He’s going to walk out of my life and back to his trees.

And right now I can’t think of anything more soul-destroying.

My reluctance over letting him go must be attributable to the amount of wine I’ve drunk. Isn’t it? God, I really fear it’s more than that.

‘Darren!’ My yell slices through the crowds and almost as though he’d been waiting, Darren responds immediately by turning and walking straight back to me. I usher him away from the tube-station crowds, back towards the river. I’m buying time as I formulate a plan.

‘At the very least I have to be seen to have done everything in my power to persuade you to come on the show.’

‘You have,’ he assures.

‘Not everything.’

Darren looks a bit shocked. ‘Are you going to—’

I read his mind. ‘No. Not that,’ I interrupt, understanding at once that he thinks I am going to offer to have sex with him. I’m unaccountably insulted. Darren blushes.

‘That’s a relief.’ Then he blushes again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t want to, but the circumstances are—’

I help us both out by interrupting him. Before I’ve even thought about what I’m going to say, or why I’m saying it, or the consequences of opening my mouth at all, habitual bullshitting kicks in.

‘No, my proposition is of a different nature. I’d like to be given the chance to present my side of the story. To do that I’d need to spend some time with you. I’d need to shadow you for a day or so.’ It’s a gamble but I’m a player. He looks at me doubtfully.

‘You won’t change my mind.’

‘Maybe not, but at least give me the opportunity to appear to have done my best. It will save my bacon with the guys at TV6.’

This isn’t true. In fact, what I should do now is return to the studio and help Fi recruit a replacement scenario.

But after spending the evening with him I know that if he were to appear on Sex with an Ex, it would be the best show ever. He’s delicious-looking, articulate, sexy and moral. If I could publicize his objections and how we overcame them, the entire country would support Sex with an Ex. There have been some objections to the show. Few and far between, and in my opinion mostly hypocritical. But those who are squeamish about weddings collapsing like stacked cards would surely throw their lot in with TV6 if someone like Darren has. Who could resist Darren? And although I can’t be sure that he will be persuaded I’ve got to give it my best shot.

I begin to mentally rearrange my schedule and calculate how much Fi will be able to handle on her own if I’m not in the studio. At the same time that I’m making these hurried calculations, trying to predict scenarios, outcomes and consequences, Darren is leisurely weighing up the proposition, which he has taken at face value.

‘I was taking the week off work, expecting to be on the show. Now I’m planning on going to see my parents and family.’ With something near reluctance, he sighs, ‘You won’t change my mind but if it helps you out with your bosses, you can join me for a couple of days.’

‘Great.’ I smile. Agreeing before I know whether I mean it. ‘So where do your parents live?’

‘Whitby.’

‘Where?’

He laughs, ‘Whitby, you know, in North Yorkshire.’ No, I don’t know. It sounds a long way off. It sounds a different and uncivilized world. But the show must go on. How bad can it be? I nod and try to appear informed without committing myself.

‘OK, Cas, I’m happy for you to shadow me, if that’s the official term, but I think we’d both have a better time if you started to trust me and enjoy yourself.’

I’m not here to enjoy myself and I don’t do trust. I bite my tongue and resist pointing out either of these pertinent facts.

‘Trust simply leads to disappointment,’ I state frankly.

‘Listen to yourself, Cas. You are not convincing anyone with this super-hard bitch act.’