Game Over

She sighs again, very deeply this time. I know I am trying her patience.

‘No, it’s not unlikely. Men are people, Cas, and they are capable of relationships.’

It’s not that I think men are any more awful or dishonest than women where such matters are concerned. That’s such an archaic view. But as soon as sex comes into the equation, integrity, candour and decency invariably make a swift exit. Someone is bound to get hurt. I simply prefer it if it’s not me. Or Issie. Or Josh.

I catch sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I can see what other people see, a five-foot-seven, size eight woman, with huge blue eyes and long dark hair. Sexy, cool, flawless. But it still surprises me that they can’t see what I can. The seven-year-old chubby tyke, left behind by her father. Not only was I not pretty enough to make my father stay, I actually suspected it was my fault he’d left. Had I been naughty? Was it something to do with digging up his vegetable plot with Josh? By the time I realized this wasn’t the case at all, and it was actually more to do with Miss Hudley – his buxom, blonde and willing secretary – it was too late. I’d spent a decade blaming myself. Rationale and reason were too tardy. The psychology isn’t difficult to figure out. Intense feelings of betrayal, blah, blah, blah. I have a complex about men not loving me enough to stay and about their general ability to be faithful. My defence is a life awash with cynicism, constraint and calculation. And it’s an extremely effective preclusion to pain. I hurt before I can be harmed. I dump before I’m damaged. I never get involved.

‘The mistake everyone makes is thinking sex and love are at all compatible. Why? No one imagines they are in love because they feel hungry or tired or cold. Why imagine you are if you feel randy?’

‘Oh, you are too clever for me.’ Issie evades my argument. She doesn’t think I’m clever, she thinks I’m cruel, but she’s too polite to say so.

I had planned to spend Sunday afternoon with my mother, and Issie decides to join me, as she can’t face a Sunday afternoon on her own. I’m pleased she’s joining me but frustrated that she thinks there is such a thing as ‘on your own’ when you live in a city with seven million inhabitants, dozens of museums, scores of galleries, hundreds of shops, and millions of bars and restaurants.

When we arrive at my mother’s, she is sitting in the garden reading a romantic novel. I pointedly put down the bag of improving books that I have brought for her. She thanks me, but I doubt she’ll swap the stolen glances and passionate embraces to learn more about the trials of the Irish during the potato famine. My mother is delighted to have both Issie and me to fuss over and immediately scuttles to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

Mum lives in a small, immaculate house in Cockfosters. The house is crammed full of furniture that she rescued from her marriage. My mother brought everything from our five-bedroom detached home and put it into her two-bedroom terraced house. The result is overpowering. It is impossible to walk through a room without banging your hip on a sideboard or stubbing your toe on a chair. In some rooms furniture is literally piled up on top of other bits of furniture. Chair on table, poof on chair. There are two beds in each bedroom, although no one ever stays. I wish she’d throw it all out. I wish she’d start again at Heal’s. The house is stuck in a time warp and so is Mum. When she married my father everyone commented that there was an amazing resemblance between her and Mary Quant. It was a very successful look at the time. She’s never been able to leave it behind. Over thirty-five years later she still wears her hair in a thick dark bob. She applies a home dye kit every three weeks. She wears her skirts too short and a ton of eyeliner. I find her look mildly embarrassing. Not simply because she’s unfashionable and being a trend leader is important to me, but because of what her look signifies. It is a very public statement that she has not been able to move on since my father left her. She’s never said so, but I know that she’s preserving herself in this way. She hopes that one day father will come home and the last twenty-six years will be magically erased. A modern-day Miss Haver-sham.

My mother is a tall, strong-looking woman. The height comes from her thighs, which are slightly longer than average. She’s kept her figure. The only concession to her age is that her tummy is gently rounding, comfortably protruding but certainly not huge. Her back is broad and her shoulders wide. Her body tells of capability. Her face is thin and she has high cheekbones. Her nose is narrow and straight, giving the impression that life’s discomforts slip from her without disturbing her. But her chin is pointy and juts out to catch all pain and atrocity. She has watery blue eyes that punctuate the solidness of her face. And because her eyes are the window to all her delight and disgust she often hides them behind dark glasses, even in the winter. I’ve inherited this from my mother. Whilst I don’t actually wear dark glasses I do see the world as a slightly shady place.

‘Did you get my message on Tuesday?’ Mum asks. I don’t say yes and that it made my day. I say yes but I’ve been too busy to call back. She nods.

‘How was the wedding?’ She knows all about my social life and what I do with myself on a daily basis. It’s a tactic to avoid living a life of her own.

‘Fluffy,’ I reply.

‘Beautiful.’ Issie smiles.

‘What a shame about the rain, especially as today is so beautiful. Isn’t that always the way?’

‘They must have expected rain or at least thought there was a fair probability. It is August, it is England.’ I don’t know why I do this. Behave badly. But I always do. My mother always brings out the worst in me. The moment I am in her presence I am incapable of being polite, let alone charming. I become petulant, sulky, churlish and unreasonable. My mother authorizes this appallingly childish behaviour by silently indulging me. The harder she tries to please, the meaner I become. I always leave her house ashamed of myself.

‘Ignore her,’ says Issie.

‘Oh, I do,’ giggles my mum.

‘You know how she hates weddings.’

I pretend to have an overwhelming interest in the yellow patches of grass on the lawn. My mother cuts me a piece of chocolate fudge cake. It was my favourite as a child. I consider telling her I’m dieting but it’s a lie. I’d only be doing it to be pathetic.

‘Did Josh enjoy the wedding?’

‘Seemed to,’ I mutter. I know where this conversation is leading. It’s leading where every conversation my mother ever has about Josh leads. She mistakenly labours under the belief that Josh and I would make a ‘lovely couple’. She insists on deliberately misconstruing his innocent acts of friendship as overtures. Her inference would irritate me, but I comfort myself with the thought that my mother knows absolutely nothing about the male psyche.

‘Didn’t he want to come for tea too?’

‘He was otherwise engaged.’ I haven’t the heart to elaborate – she looks crushed as it is. Rallying herself, my mother turns to Issie.

‘Issie, are you courting at the moment?’ asks Mum as she passes Issie a slice of cake. Issie and I avoid catching each other’s eye because although we are thirty-three years old we still think the word ‘courting’ is hysterical. Hearing it said out loud is enough to send us into peals of helpless giggles.

‘No.’ Issie manages the single syllable by cramming a load of fudge cake into her mouth.

‘Oh. What a shame. Are you working too hard? You’re not neglecting your social life are you? Don’t forget there’s more to life than work.’ My mum and I agree on one thing. If Issie wants a man it should be possible.

‘It’s not work. It’s just that all the men I meet are bastards.’ Mum blushes at Issie’s expletive. I’m amused and watch the exchange with interest. My mum and I run through this routine every week. It amazes me that whilst her marriage made her so unhappy, she still thinks it’s the answer to everyone else’s dreams.

‘I met someone last night.’ I catch Issie’s eye – we both know she is giving my mother false hope. ‘But I took his number down incorrectly, one digit too many.’ She’s just bending the truth to protect the feelings of an older lady. Anyone would do it. My mother and Issie then spend an hour looking at the telephone number working out which is likely to be the wrong digit. This is one of the most pointless exercises I’ve ever witnessed. I spray the roses, which have a spot of greenfly.

2

He is appallingly ugly. And whilst most people are embarrassed by their physical drawbacks, Nigel Bale, my boss, is blissfully unaware that he looks like Hissing Sid. His mannerisms are, by some way, less attractive. He is very tall and should be skinny, but he has wide, middle-aged woman’s hips and a pot belly. The pot belly is a testament to the numerous occasions he’s cornered some poor, defenceless junior in the pub and drunk them under the table or, more accurately, into bed. He has large feet and fat fingers. He’s balding. The hair he does have is