Yet, yet, yet. . I don’t believe it was Vince who suggested that damn game. If I had to nominate someone I think it must have been Ingrid. As host of the evening she would have been especially conscious of the underlying tension, and might have suggested a frivolous game to steer the gathering away from argument. We had taken the drugs and the first euphoric wave had passed through us; we had danced wildly to the music, and were sweating and laughing on cushions on the floor, our ties and heels and jackets discarded. I recall that Vince had kicked off his shoes and was sprawled on the sofa, his shirt unbuttoned, Madeline running her fingers through the wet curls on his chest. I recall it because I wished it were my hand there. Mark was no longer playing punk and hip-hop but acoustic songs and mellow electronica. Hande had her head on my shoulder, Serena was in Ingrid’s embrace, Marie was listening dreamily to the music and Antony was rolling a joint. Someone suggested Charades and we all dismissed the idea. Exquisite Corpse? Truth or Dare? Botticelli? Then someone suggested the game.
I had not ever heard of it and I have not heard of it since. Everyone has to write one word on a scrap of paper that is placed in a bowl. The word should, we were instructed, denote an emotional state or a category of morality or experience, like one of the seven deadly sins or a phase of maturity.
Then it’s like Scruples? someone asked.
No, once all the words go into the bowl we choose one and then we have to go around and each tell a story based on that word.
I don’t get it.
Okay, let me explain. Say I pick out the word ‘masturbation’. . We would have all laughed. . . Shut up, don’t be such children! Say the word is ‘masturbation’. We all take turns to tell a story about masturbating. .
So it is like Scruples?
No. No. This is what’s so great about it. It doesn’t have to be your own story. It can be a story you heard, something that happened to someone else. .
God, it sounds so complicated.
No, it’s a load of fun, I promise you.
How do you win?
At the end of the round we all vote on the best story.
A few of us groaned. The ecstasy was lovely; my skin seemed to shimmer; the last thing I wanted was for us to fall into trying to outdo each other. I just wanted to lie among my friends and sink into the night.
I think we should give it a go.
That was Vince, that was definitely Vince. One by one we all reluctantly agreed.
I remember when it came to Mark he shrugged his shoulders and looked at me. ‘You interested?’
I looked at Vince. ‘Yes. It could be fun.’
•
We agonised over finding that one damn word that would work for the game, a word that would both entertain and impress. The buzz of the drug was now flooding out of my belly and rippling through my whole body. I looked over at Marie, who was biting the end of her pen, and she gave me a sheepish smile in return. So much of what we did then seemed to be an effort to convince our friends that we were witty and erudite. Conceited though it might sound, we did believe ourselves to be special, that we stood apart from the common herd of twenty-somethings in our city. That all seems so absurd to me now, but in our defence it must be remembered that we had not yet found ourselves at the other end of stagnant occupations, or relationships that had failed through inertia and predictability, we had not yet discovered that we were as mundane and trivial as everyone else. It could not be an ordinary word that was placed in the bowclass="underline" it had to be superlative, breathtaking, a word that challenged and astonished.
Vince was the first to crumple his scrap of paper and throw it in the bowl. Mark was next. Hande and I were the last. My word was simple but telling and I blush to think of it now. What did I expect to happen when it was read out? The word was ‘unrequited’.
‘Marie should pick the first word,’ announced Ingrid, always mindful of her role as host. ‘Marie or Hande. It’s their night.’
Marie lazily shook her head, tucking her feet under her and reclining further back in the armchair. She waved at Hande, who was still sitting on the floor beside me. ‘You do it, babe, the table’s too far.’
‘You lazy bitch.’ With a laugh and a flourish as though she was performing a conjurer’s trick, Hande picked out a tightly crumpled piece of paper. It’s Vince’s, that was my immediate thought. I looked across at him. His face was impassive, but I sensed an almost imperceptible tension grip his body. I don’t think anyone else would have been aware of it, not even Madeline sitting next to him would have been conscious of the agitation he was hiding so well. They had been lovers for only seven or so months; she might know his body intimately but she had not followed him, coveted him, adored him for nine years. In that time I had closely observed his every mood, coming to understand his likes and dislikes, his fears and ambitions. I knew Vince. I was the only one who really knew Vince.
Hande was unrolling the paper. She looked at it and dropped the paper to the floor. ‘The word is “Revenge”.’
Were there cruel angels in the apartment that evening, malevolent ghosts dictating how the night was to unfold? But as I have explained, it was a cool evening with only a slight breeze coming through the open doors to the balcony. It was accident, chance; and possibly any word would have led to the same conclusion.
‘So who goes first?’
Serena shrugged. We were all suddenly struck by shyness.
It was Antony who finally raised his hand. ‘I’ll go.’ He took a last pull of the joint and rested his hand on Hande’s thigh. ‘I’m going to tell the story of what I did to Peter Rothscomb.’
Hande scowled. ‘Do you have to?’
‘It’s the only revenge story I have.’
‘It doesn’t have to be your own personal story,’ Ingrid interjected.
Hande made a dismissive gesture. ‘He can tell it.’ She slapped his hand off her thigh and got up. ‘But it’s a horrible story.’ ‘Is it okay if I tell it?’
Hande had gone to the fridge for another bottle of wine. ‘Tell it,’ she called out. ‘Bloody men,’ we heard her add as she kicked the fridge door closed.
‘It isn’t a particularly edifying story,’ began Antony sheepishly as he watched Hande refill his glass. ‘But it is about revenge.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You all remember Peter Rothscomb?’
We all nodded. Rothscomb was a member of the Young Liberals on campus, a pale effeminate man who was always putting forward conservative arguments in the political science tutorial I attended with Antony and Ingrid. He was perfectly harmless but I think we all detested his smugness, his unapologetic assumption of inheritance and the right to rule. Our hatred of him was only exacerbated by the fact that his arguments were usually informed and cogent. Antony’s animosity towards Peter was even more pronounced as they had both gone to the same private boys’ school together and had been in competition with each other for years. Since the fucking sandpit, Vince would often observe.
‘In our honours year there was a prize for the best thesis in political science.’
I nodded again. Antony and Ingrid had both submitted their thesis for the prize. I had not. I’d been lucky to scrape through.