‘Hello, pet, of course I remember you. When you came on the telly, I said, “Wasn’t she the one who was up here, chasing our Darren?” And Mother said I was right.’
I’m a bit stuck for what to say next. The fact that Mr Smith referred to my ‘chasing’ Darren is bad enough but my worst fear is confirmed: Darren’s family saw the show.
‘I’ve seen your picture in the paper, too.’
Marvellous.
‘Well, I was just ringing – it’s a bit awkward really. You see, I need to talk to Darren and I can’t find him.’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, erm, I was wondering if you’d know where he is.’
‘Aye.’
‘And whether you’d tell me.’ I cross my fingers. In fact, they’ve been crossed for days now, which makes it very difficult to hold a cup of hot coffee and almost impossible to tie my trainers.
‘Well, that’s something else. I’m not sure I can do that. I’ll have to ask Mother. Mother,’ he bellows.
I have a vision of Mrs Smith running along the corridor in a waft of baking smells and fury. I am terrified and want to put the phone down. But if I do I’ll never find Darren. Mr Smith has put his hand over the handset but even so I can still distinguish distinctive wrathful mutterings: ‘No better than she ought to be, the cheek of her, I’ll give her what for.’ I am paralyzed with fear and now can’t put the phone down, even if I wanted to.
‘Yes?’ she barks. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Cas Perry.’ Meek.
‘Who?’ Insincere.
‘Cas Perry, Darren’s friend.’ Tentative.
‘Hardly!’ Outraged.
‘Mrs Smith, I can imagine how angry you are—’
‘Oh, you can, can you?’ She sniffs. ‘I doubt it.’
‘But I really do need to talk to Darren,’ I persist.
Silence. I can hear the cogs of her mind whirl round.
‘I won’t help you.’
The phone goes dead and I’m left with the cold, continuous tone that tells me no one wants to speak to me.
I wonder if he is there? Perhaps he was in the yard kicking a ball around with Richard. Oblivious to the telephone wires that I am trying to crawl through to reach him. Or perhaps he did know I was on the phone and just didn’t care.
Saturday is red hot. The sun is pouring in through my windows. Insensitively cheerful. I consider that this is the fine weather I hoped I’d wake up to on my wedding day; now the sun’s mocking me. I pull down the blinds. I look around my flat and try to think of something to do to while away the next fifty-odd years. Throughout the last few days I have tidied, ordered, arranged and rearranged every aspect of my life. My cereal packets are arranged in descending size order, my knickers are arranged in colour and date purchased order, my cosmetic bottles are separated into sections – face, body and hands, and then subdivided by brand, and my CDs are alphabetically categorized. Everywhere I look is tidy, neat and trim. It’s ironic that I know exactly where to locate the list of who I sent Christmas cards to in 1995, but I’ve no clue as to where to find my fiancé.
Besides the physical tidying up, I’ve had time to do a bit of mental cleaning out, too. I’ve written a list of the things that have gone wrong. Or more specifically, and much more humbling, the things I’ve done wrong. I approached my list methodically, subdividing my crimes into categories: ‘Darren’, ‘Mum’, ‘friends’, ‘work’, ‘lovers’, and an all-encompassing ‘general’. The same themes recur in each section. I’ve selfishly pursued my own peace of mind, ruthlessly trampling on the feelings of others. Worse, I’ve justified my behaviour by sulkily holding a grudge against my parents for having the audacity to make their own decisions and live their own lives. I think of Fi’s question, asked in some grotty pub after we’d both become careless with alcohol. ‘Couldn’t you have just, I don’t know, muddled along like the rest of us?’ Yes, in retrospect I suppose I could have. Should have. After all, I was given enough chances. Why didn’t I see that my mother was teaching me about love, not restraint? She loved me so much that she put me before anyone else for years. Why did I have to resent that and see it as a pressure? I had amazing friends, and how did I repay them? By bossing one and using, then humiliating, the other. Issie’s and my friendship is held together by a very slight thread right now. I know that the only way I can possibly hope to keep her as a friend is to learn to deal honestly and fairly. Josh, my dearest friend, is lost for ever. I can’t see how either of us can ever recover from this. Too much hurt pride on his side. Too much shame on mine. I used my power at work childishly, thoughtlessly. I was so heady on the success of ever-increasing ratings and advertising billings that I was blinkered to the destruction the programme was wreaking. I now force myself to consider every aspect: from the woman weeping in my reception on Christmas Eve to the silk farm that had to close down after their exports decreased so significantly. I wonder how many lives I altered the course of with Sex with an Ex? Was it fair to involve myself, and the general public, in people’s loving and living? Would those people have muddled up the aisle if it hadn’t been for my intervention? And if they had, would it necessarily have ended in disaster, as I’d always maintained? Perhaps it was unfair putting such emotional pressure on individuals just before their weddings. Perhaps it hadn’t been a flat playing field. I realize now that Sex with an Ex was not much more than an elaborate way to try to prove that my father was the rule rather than the exception.
I had boasted about dealing in desolation, but I hadn’t a clue what desolation was.
I feel sick. I stand up and walk into the kitchen, trying to put some distance between me and the ugly list.
I pour myself some Evian and hold the cold glass to my forehead. It soothes the aching momentarily, but I’m aware that my actions are similar to those of an air hostess asking ‘Chicken or beef?’ seconds before the plane crashes.
I pick up the pen. My ex-lovers. I’m resolute that the majority knew where they stood with me. Hearts and flowers were not part of our dialogues. These men were mostly the ones with wives or girlfriends. The ones who wanted a quick-no-questions-asked bonk, and I supplied it. But had the wives and girlfriends been in on the deal? Unlikely. Now, I wonder how many times I caused a heart to sink as those women found my telephone number scribbled on a scrap of paper. And what if some of the men, especially the single ones, were surprised that I never called back, and a little hurt, perhaps insecure? Is it possible that Issie is right and men have feelings too? I think of Darren, I think of Josh. Of course it’s possible that they have feelings.
My neat list has become a random mind map, with arrows and circles like Venn diagrams connecting one action to another. Looking at the amount of ink I’ve spilt this morning, it’s not surprising that Darren has walked away from me. I don’t deserve him.
I am so sorry. And this isn’t simply because the press are trailing me, the show exposed me, the country and most specifically Darren hate me. I’m sorry because I got it wrong.
I don’t deserve Darren, but he does deserve an explanation. I have to find him.
The phone rings and I fall on it.
‘It’smelssie,’ says Issie quickly, establishing that it’s her rather than Darren. She knows I really only want to hear from him. ‘I didn’t know whether to ring.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ I am. I am indescribably grateful that Issie was only able to sustain her state of acute pissed-off-with-me-ness for about two hours and has allowed her fury at me to fade somewhat. I guess that’s the only good thing that came out of the show. Issie couldn’t possibly turn her back on me in my hour of need; the fact that the rest of Britain loathes and despises me serves to increase Issie’s commitment to our friendship.