Adele Parks - Game Over

Adele Parks was born in Teeside, north-east England. She read English Language and Literature at Leicester University. Since graduating she has lived in Italy and Africa but has spent most of her adult life in London. She lives in Chiswick, with her husband and son. Her earlier novels, Playing Away, Game Over, Larger than Life, The Other Womans Shoes and Still Thinking of You were all bestsellers and are published in over twenty different countries.

www.adeleparks.com

People assume writing and producing a book is a one (wo)man show. Its anything but. Id 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; Id 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.

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 Im sure their friends think differently.

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

What an inauspicious start to married life,Josh comments.

Is there such a thing as an auspicious start? I ask. He grins at me and Issie scowls. She likes weddings. The rain is falling so hard its bouncing off the pavements and up my skirt. Im bloody cold and wish the bride would stop hugging her mother and simply get in the car. I look closer. Maybe she isnt so much hugging as clinging. Maybe the seriousness of what shes done has hit her and shes having second thoughts. Issie shakes the remnants of confetti from the blue box but misses the bride and groom. The confetti settles on the grubby road. The filthy street is a stark contrast to the finery of their clothes, the car, the flowers, the smiles that radiate.

Josh, whats the proper name for a squashed cube? I ask, pointing to the little blue box of confetti. They should redesign this packaging, I add.

No! Issie looks horrified, as if Id suggested exposing my bikini line to the vicar. Weddings are about tradition.

Even if tradition means tacky and predictable? Two big sins in my book.

By definition, she defends. Then she leaps forward to jostle for a front position to catch the bouquet. She nervously hops from one foot to the other, her sleek, blonde, shoulder-length hair brushing her right shoulder, then her left, then her right again. Issie is a fidget. I am a still person. She continually rubs her hands together, taps her feet, jerks her knee. She once read that this constant nervous activity uses thirty calories an hour, more than a Mars bar a day, pounds in a year, a whole dress size in a lifetime. Her constant unfocused activity strikes me as a fairly accurate metaphor for how she lives her life.

I dont try to catch the flowers. I dont try for two reasons. One, Issie will lynch me if I catch them. Shes spent the entire reception spiking the drinks of single women, in the hope that this will diminish their coordination. And two, its bollocks.

No really, the whole marriage thing is bollocks. I mean Im as happy as the next one to have an excuse to wear a hat and drink champagne. Generally, wedding receptions are a laugh, a big, fun party. But thats as far as it goes for me. Beyond that, its bollocks. Im not a man. And Im not a lesbian. Im not even a man hater Josh is one of my best friends and hes a man. Im a single, successful, attractive, 33-year-old, heterosexual. I just dont want to get married. Ever.

Clear?

Issie doesnt catch the flowers and she looks as though the disappointment will break her.

A drink, Cas? Issie? asks Josh, in an effort to cheer her up. He doesnt wait for a response but turns back to the hotel and heads directly for the bar. He knows that well willingly join him for a drink Martini-style: any time, any place, anywhere. We elbow through the elegant crowds. This morning they sat demurely in church pews but they have now abandoned any semblance of civilization. The exit of the bride, the groom and the oldies leaves the rest of the guests free to indulge in what brought us to the wedding in the first place. The opportunity for some hedonistic, no strings attached, unashamed sex.

I selected my target in the church, before the I dos. I relocate him. Hes tall, dark and handsome. Admittedly, he doesnt look that bright. Rather too in love with himself to allow room for anyone else. Perfect. Deep and meaningful is an over-rated phenomenon. Shallow and meaningless but well endowed gets such a hard press.

Its important to pick out a target early on in the proceedings and its important to let him know hes it. I smile. Directly at him. If at this point he looks around and tries to locate the recipient of my smile, Ill instantly go off him. I like my men to be arrogant enough to know that Im flirting with them.

He passes the test by grinning back at me. Only turning to catch his reflection in the mirror that hangs behind the bar. He grins again. This time at himself. The difference in appreciation is fractional. I dont mind. Vanity is a safety net. I flick my hair and turn away. Job done.

Issie and Josh are still fighting their way to the bar. I call them back.

What? I was nearly at the front, Issie complains.

Dont worry, drinks are on their way, I assure.

Oh. She relaxes into the chintz chair. Josh lights a fag, trusting me. We are all familiar with my routine. Josh and Issie know all about me.

Josh is like a brother to me. We met aged seven over our suburban fences. It is this meeting that makes me believe in fate. We met when our families stars were crossing. His in the ascendant. Mine spiralling downwards.

That summer we shared Rubiks cubes, cream soda and an uneasy sense of impending change. Our childish sixth sense told us that we were both powerless in the face of adult whim. The five-bedroom detached, in Esher, Surrey, that my mother and I had thought was a dream home turned out to be a temporary residence. That summer my father announced that he was in love with another woman and couldnt live without her. My mother showed rare wit and emotional honesty by asking whether hed prefer cremation or burial. My father moved out immediately following his announcement. I was to see him three more times in my life. A week later when he came to collect his records and he brought me a Lundby dolls house (presumably to replace the real home he was destroying). A month later when he took me to the zoo (I cried the entire afternoon, saying that the animals behind the bars upset me. In fact, they didnt, but I was determined that both my father and I would have a terrible afternoon after all, my mother and I were having plenty of them). And the following Christmas (when I refused to open his present or sit on his knee). After that, he just sent Christmas and birthday cards, which petered out before I was ten. Joshs seventh summer wasnt great either: he was told that he was to be wrenched from his comfortable local primary school and prepped at the hallowed ground of Stowe. Thinking about it, perhaps it wasnt so much a sixth sense. The prep-school prospectuses and the endless rows were a giveaway. Although very nearly entirely submerged in our own terror, we settled into an uneasy mutual sympathy that passed as companionship. Sulkily learning to rollerskate and eating raw gooseberries has an enormous bonding effect. I still think he got the best deal. At that time we had lived in identical homes, distinguishable only by the colour of the Formica on the kitchen units. I was never to live in anything so spacious again. He, in anything so compact. As a child I identified the difference. His father kept quiet about his affairs.