Game Over - By Adele Parks Page 0,145

can’t be good for me.

Can it?

He rubs his eyes with the balls of his fists.

‘Believe me,’ I plead.

He shakes his head. Very quietly, almost inaudibly, he whispers, ‘I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.’ And he looks it. He looks devastated. Wounded. ‘I wish I could.’ He bends down and picks up his rucksack and starts to walk out of my life.

For a week I have vacillated between regret, fear and desperation. I’ve howled and cried privately. I’ve fought to appear collected and not too indulgent in public. I’ve been dogged and exposed. Discussed and dismissed at a micro and macro level. The experience has left me weak. The small amount of residual energy I had left was consumed whilst reasoning with Darren.

Wham.

Suddenly I’m whacked with an emotion that is struggling between passion and ire. Anger refuels my body and the resurgence explodes in torrents of undefined fury. Not the premenstrual monster that inhibits my body for three days every twenty-eight. Not the spitting anger that I used to feel when the ratings weren’t robust or a production assistant had made some duff decision. Not the intense irritation I feel when Issie throws herself at some worthless oink. Or the scornful vexation that I’ve felt when Josh mistreated some bimbo. My anger is much more… painful than that. The storm of irritation and hurt begins to climb the Richter scale. Swelling up through my stomach, into my chest and heart, exploding – a veritable whirlwind – in my head.

‘Is that it then, Darren?’ I scream. ‘That was your crack at being in love?’

He turns back to face me. ‘Well, I think it was pretty crap actually!’

Being unreasonable is all I’m capable of again. I’m so bloody desperate. I don’t know how to stop this inevitable, needless disaster.

‘You’ve been loved and adored all your life. Swaddled. Protected. Encouraged to believe the best in people and here you are falling at the first serious hurdle. I thought you were better than that. You are better than that. Don’t you dare walk away from me.’ I stamp my right foot. ‘Don’t you dare stop trusting me.’ Then my left. ‘You said you loved me. Easy fucking words.’ He’s right in front of me. I spray some spittle into his face.

‘OK, so I came to it a bit late in the day but I do believe in love and I do think that out of the billions of people in this world you’re the one I should be with.’ I jab my finger at him accusingly and I want to stamp again and flay my arms. There’s so much anger inside me and it doesn’t know how to get out.

‘I’ve stopped being terrified by the “what ifs”. And I know you’re not my father. And I know that I shouldn’t judge everyone by his iniquitous standards.’ The hairs on the back of my neck stand viciously erect. Tears poke mercilessly at my eyes. ‘And I’m sorry that I’ve hurt so many people in the past before I came to this understanding. I am so sorry. But trust me now. I did not do this for the bloody, fucking, crapping, pissing ratings.’

I think that even if I’d gone to a posh school, I’d have been struggling to come up with more appropriate vocabulary, under the circumstances. I give in and stamp my feet, harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster. The tears explode from my eyes and fall harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster. Eventually I am worn out.

Exhausted.

Defeated.

I stop stamping and try to find some equilibrium. My breathing is fast and desperate, my feet are throbbing with the violence of my stamping and my head is sore with shaking. I cannot look at Darren or the schoolkids. It is so intensely embarrassing. Over the last few days I’ve lost everything: both my fiancés – one my love, the other my best friend, my job, my privacy and now my reason. I’ve been cheated, deceived and humiliated. I’ve felt despair and loneliness and regret.

I take stock.

All that and I still believe in love.

Which means that just when I thought I’d lost track of the game, I’ve won.

I have Mum.

I have Issie.

I have learnt a lot.

I force myself to look up at Darren. My heart cartwheels. I rub the back of my hand across my face, cleaning up the excess of smudged mascara and tears. I pick up my museum map from the floor, where I’d thrown it.

‘Do you know something, Darren? The irony is, I never stopped believing in you. I never thought you’d betrayed me. Not for a minute.’

We are both breathing deeply. Staring at one another. Our faces are a potent cocktail of anger and forgiveness, love and lust, trust and fear, potential and endings. Hope.

It’s all been so intense, right from the beginning. Euphoric, desolate, euphoric again, desolate plus. What now?

Minutes go by. Neither of us says anything. Neither of us moves.

‘Do you know the Camarasaurus weighs twenty-five tons?’ asks Darren.

‘Yes,’ I say carefully, and then add, ‘It’s a plant eater, so I suggest the grapefruit diet.’ It’s a weak joke but Darren’s face hints at a smile. He takes my arm and starts to lead me through the galleries. His fingers singe.

‘So you’ve seen the dinosaur exhibition?’

‘Yes.’ I’m shaking.

‘Have you seen the blue whale?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’ve seen enough of the Natural History Museum for one day?’ I feel as though I’m behind a number of veils but as he asks each question a veil drops and instead of feeling exposed, I feel more confident. I can see more clearly.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think you’d like to go for a beer?’

This time I nod. I’m incapable of finding my voice. We leave the museum and go out into the London sun. We stop on the steps of the museum and squint at the brightness and crowds. Darren turns to me.

‘Do you still believe in me, Cas?’ he asks. His voice is patchy with emotion but it is still velvety and I recognize possibility and opportunity glimmering there.

‘Yes.’

‘Will you give me another chance?’

‘Yes. I will. A huge, fat, full YES.’

I’m home.

Thank You

Jonny Geller, my agent, a unique blend of panache and sincerity. Louise Moore, more than just Editor of the Year to me. I feel extremely fortunate and honoured that you are both in my life.

My family, who have constantly and tirelessly spread the word. For the record, neither my sister nor her children are on commission, although I’m sure their friends think differently.

My friends, who have been enthusiastic and interested. You know who you are and how grateful I am.

Acknowledgements

People assume writing and producing a book is a one (wo)man show. It’s anything but. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all those involved in the success of Playing Away and those who currently have their fingers and toes crossed for the success of Game Over.

Especially Harrie Evans, John Bond, Tom Weldon, Nicky Stonehill, Peter Bowron and his entire sales team at Penguin. Everyone who ever sold a copy, everyone who ever bought one. I know none of this would have been possible without you.

Thank you to the people at Granada Media who gave up their time to talk to me, even though they are impossibly busy and work on a far tighter ship than TV6: John Creedon, Sally Blackburn, Martin Lowde, Ian Johnson, Bob Massie, Marina Webster and Keith Bryan.

Everyone remembers a good teacher; I’d like to formally thank a few of those who gave me challenges and chances and helped me become what I am (for better or worse!): Mrs Gunn (Durham Lane Primary School); Mr David Oliver, Mr John Beddow and Ms Margaret Maguire (Egglescliffe Comprehensive School); Professor Martin Stannard, Professor Sandy Cunningham and Professor Lois Potter (Leicester University).

Game Over and Playing Away are unlikely tributes to Colin Douglas, Mary Peacock, Dick Parks, Moyra Wilkinson and Emma Blythe, with love.