Part 39 (2/2)

The envelope isn't sealed. Or it is, but barely, just a half-inch of glue holding it closed. All I'd need to do is slide my thumb along the . . .

I throw the envelope down on the desk, as if it had just become blisteringly hot.

Then I nudge it, pus.h.i.+ng it away across the desk with the tip of a fingernail.

Then I nudge it again, the way you nudge something to check that it's dead.

Then I grab one corner, pull it back towards me.

Then I pick it up in two hands, hold it on my lap, look at it.

Then I slide it back down the desk again, as far out of my reach as possible.

And then I think 'oh b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to this' and I reach over and open it.

352.

41.

QUESTION James Hogg, Saint Augustine, JeanJacques Rousseau and Thomas de Quincey all have what literary genre in common'''

ANSWER They all wrote 'Confessions'.

When I was doing my O-levels, just before the Chemistry multiple-choice paper, I had a mild case of gastric flu. That was what I was calling it anyway, and because it's contagious and I had a fever - well, not a fever, just a very slight temperature - I was allowed to take the exam un-invigilated in a tiny little office next to the staff room, because that's the kind of school-kid I was; absolutely and entirely trustworthy.

And I cheated.

Not in any major way, you understand. I just checked that no one was coming, got my revision guide out and very quickly looked up the periodic table to check the valency of pota.s.sium or magnesium or something, then put it back again, and that was it.

Also, incidentally, when I played Scrabble by candlelight with Alice in Suffolk just after Christmas, I pulled out an '' and an 'S' and swapped them both surrept.i.tiously for 'Z' and 'X', hence 'Amazed' and 'Foxed' on triple word scores.

And that's about it, cheating-wise. I'm not proud of myself in either instance, but apart from the shame and what I believe Sartre would call the 'bad faith' involved, the worst thing is the nagging sense that the cheating was unnecessary. I'd have won anyway, and all the cheating did was taint that sense of 353.

victory. As Mum, and Sartre, would probably say, 'you're only cheating yourself.'

But this isn't Scrabble or O-level Chemistry, this is much more important. This is The Challenge, and there are at least eight good reasons why it seems a perfectly reasonable idea for me to cheat. 1) It's on telly for a start. Everyone I know will see it, Spence, and Tone and Janet Parks, all my old teachers, and Professor Morrison, and that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Neil Maclntyre, and then of course there's 2) the studio audience; Mum's out there, and Des, my stepdad-to-be, and Rebecca, and Chris the Hippie, and that cow Erin. And then there's 3) my team-mates Patrick and Lucy, especially Lucy, who I've been letting down, and j

who deserves so much to win, and 4) Alice of course, who thinks I'm an idiot and a drunk and a liability and a fool, and who I think I might still be in love with, and besides 5) I might not even be on the team, so all this ethical wrestling could be academic anyway, and 6) in a way, this situation isn't even my fault, it's Julian's fault, for putting temptation in my way, and 7) everyone would do the same in the circ.u.mstances, everyone, and besides 8) I'm only human.

And that's why I decide to do what I do, which is technically cheating, but into which I introduce a strong element of chance; I will allow myself to look at one card, and one card only, that's all, I swear. But I'll have to be quick. I run over to the door, open it a crack, look both ways, don't see anyone, run back to the desk, take the cards out of the envelope.

They're divided with elastic bands into two piles, one of starter questions, another of bonus questions. I cut the pile of starter questions, about two-thirds of the way through, place the two cut piles carefully on the desk face down, so that I can put everything back precisely in the right place, close my eyes tightly and pick a card from the top of the exposed pile, holding it about three feet away from my closed eyes.

I can feel the blood beating in my eyelids.

I open my eyes and see, neatly typed . . .

354.

QUESTION: How is the d.i.c.kensian character Philip Pirrip better known?

. . . and I feel a little flush of irritation because I know this one, it's easy, it's Pip in Great Expectations. What's the point in wrestling with this kind of ethical dilemma if I know the answer already? And even though I'd made a strict deal between myself and G.o.d, or whoever, that I would only look at one card and one card only, I grab another, the next in the pile, and turn it over. Now that's better . . .

QUESTION: The state of California is bordered by three states of the USA and one Mexican state; what are they?

ANSWER: Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and the Mexican state of Baja ('Lower') California.

Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. Perfect - just hard enough to look impressive, but not so hard as to make me appear freakish. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Baja California. But is that p.r.o.nounced Baja, or Bayal Doesn't matter, I'll make that part of my answer; I practise saying it aloud, acting naturalistically; 'Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona? And Baja . . .' (little smile, because my Spanish is a little rusty) ... 'or is that perhaps Baya California?'

But what if Lucy knows the answer, too? I bet she does. Doesn't matter, as long as one of us gets there before the other team. In fact, it would actually be better for Lucy to answer, because then my conscience will be clear. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja California. Quickly now, put them back in the right place in the pile, tap the edges together against the desk, wrap the elastic band round, once, twice, put both piles in the envelope and lick it, but not too much, just either side of where I broke the seal, reattach it to the clipboard, 355.

put the clipboard back exactly where I found it, practise again, aloud. 'Oregon, eh, Nevada, um, Arizona and is it Baja California? . . .'

I go to the window, look out over the rooftops and chimneys of Manchester, and think about what I've got to do now. An apology to Patrick first, sincere, humble but not grovelling, acknowledging that we both got a little carried away, but still maintaining Pride and Dignity. Then make some kind of temporary peace with Alice, show that, yes I'm upset with her, but that she's making a terrible mistake with this Neil guy, it's her loss. And then I just have to prove to her what she's been missing; with style and grace and modesty and with Alice by my side, I'm going to win this game. Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja California . . .

There's a knock at the door, and Patrick enters looking sombre, but flanked by Alice and Lucy, both of whom are trying to conceal their smiles. 'Patrick.'

'Brian.'

'Apologies for earlier.'

'Apology accepted.' Then he clears his throat, and Lucy gives him a little encouraging poke in the ribs. 'Well, um, look, I've been talking with Lucy and Alice here, and we've decided that maybe we've all been getting a little carried away, a little over-excited, what with the studio lights and everything, and - anyway, we've all decided that we'd very much like you to stay on the team.'

'Thanks, Patrick,' I say, giving a solemn little nodding bow.

'Thank you, Brian,' bowing back.

And Lucy is winking at me and laughing, and giving me the thumbs-up discreetly at waist level, and Alice is holding out my clean, newly ironed s.h.i.+rt and Dad's brown corduroy jacket.

'Okay, then,' I say. 'Let's go and kick some a.s.s!'

356.

42.

QUESTION- In E.M. Forster's novel Howards End, how does Leonard Bast meet his unfortunate end?

ANSWER A bookcase falls on top of him, and his heart gives way.

But before we go and kick some a.s.s, we have a cup of tea and some plain biscuits, then I go to the gents' and wash my armpits with liquid soap and start to feel a little better. Then we go to separate dressing rooms to have a little bit of make-up applied. When your skin is as bad as mine, this is potentially a pretty embarra.s.sing experience, but a nice girl called Janet does me, and it's really just a case of damage limitation; a little spot of cover-up and just enough powder to stop the oily droplets from my sebaceous glands glistening under the studio lights. Three of us don't take long; Patrick's had his university sweats.h.i.+rt ironed, and his hair sealed safely beneath a solid transparent carapace of hairspray, and Lucy's changed into a very clean, neat, b.u.t.toned-up s.h.i.+rt, and has put on a little lipstick and pinned her hair back with a b.u.t.terfly hair-grip. We stand around in the corridor, chatting amiably, and it strikes me how nice she looks, and I'm trying to work out a way of telling her this without sounding creepy, when Alice steps out of her dressing room.

She's wearing a long, tight black sheath of a dress, high at the neck, and tapered towards her ankles, some form of fish-net hosiery, and strappy black high-heeled shoes, despite the fact that her legs will never appear in front of the desk. She 357.

looks like a film star, glowing, luminescent, and 1 suddenly feel sick again.

'You think it's too much?' she says.

'Not at all. Alice, you look wonderful,' says Lucy. Julian comes to fetch us, clutching the infamous clipboard, and gives a little double-take when he sees Alice. 'Okay then, ladies and gentlemen, when you're ready?' and we follow him down the corridors to the studio. I stand behind Alice so that I can watch her walk.

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