Game Over

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 fiance, 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.’

19

‘Josh.’

Silence.

‘Josh, it’s me, Cas.’ I guess that this is more information than necessary, in the light of our history.

‘Well, hello, little lady.’ He sounds suspiciously joyous, which I know can’t be the case.

‘Josh, are you drunk?’

‘Yes, and you’ll still be beautiful in the morning.’ He sounds wounded, regretful and disgraced.

‘Oh Josh, I’m so sorry.’ The inadequate words fall down the telephone line.

‘Which bit are you sorry about, Cas? The twenty-six-year friendship? Agreeing to marry me? Committing