I don't know if Jerome is gay or not, and the truth is I really don't care - he's my friend. But one thing that drives me around the bend is when I'm drawn into a web of intrigue that, quite frankly, is none of my business. Over the years Jerome has had a series of what I call special friends, and Bruce is the latest in that long line. At a glance, Bruce is a Neanderthal - but Jerome reassures me that although he may not be the full Sapiens, he's a true blooded Homo Erectus.

Anyway, last Tuesday night, Jerome arrived over with Fatal Attraction under one arm and Bruce on the other. Why anyone in their right mind would want to sit down and watch Fatal Attraction is beyond me. It's one of those films where you'd have to have been lost in the Jungles of Borneo for the last 15 years not to know the story line.

Then it clicked. Seemingly, Bruce had just angled a new job; involving a wage increase, expense account, clothes allowance, travel. And if my reading of the situation was any way accurate, Bruce's new-found security was playing havoc with Jerome's insecurities. It was as if a refresher course in Fatal Attraction would nip any thoughts of indiscretion in Bruce's bud.

I resented being dragged into Jerome's little charade. But as I sat there watching Glenn Close planning the destruction of poor aul Michael Douglas's happy family, my mind drifted to a time, many years ago, when I myself dabbled in a bit of emotional game-playing.

The game of love is a bit like chess. Always having to be at least one step ahead, anticipating your partner's next move. Where the real skill of a Grand Master of love is in the ability to create the illusion of free will in the mind of one's other half. At no time is the game of love more challenging, than when the ugly head of jealousy casts its green eye across the chequered board.

I remember, me and my ex-exgirlfriend - give or take a few exes - were getting on as smoothly as a bishop on a diagonal swoop, then everything changed. First, the new hairstyle, then the false fingernails, a change of perfume, that extra attention in the mornings to the detail of matching underwear, painted toenails - the list went on. But when she began smiling and singing to herself around the place, that's when I knew my castle was under threat. Somewhere along the line the seeds of doubt sprouted.

I didn't come down on the last truckload of tetrapak. No, no, senorita. Not this gooseberry. I knew she was playing away from home and she was covering her tracks well. The fact that I had no proof of her infidelity didn't make it easier for me. My mind was doing somersaults. How could she do this to me, she was my Queen, I would have died for her, I would have killed for her, I was her pawn.

I didn't need a steward's inquiry. In fact I knew accusation would probably lead to an irreparable communication breakdown, and I'd probably never get to the truth of the matter anyhow. All I wanted was an end to the game and my ex-ex girlfriend, give or take a few ex-es back, exactly as she was before.

These days I'm inclined to fight fire with water. But back then, fire with fire seemed the only way forward. The game-plan was simple. I would make her so jealous that she'd never let me out of her sight again and her new interest would fade to insignificance. A trip to La Nu-Belle ladies' lingerie shop, where I bought something slight, sexy and satin - my opening gambit. I'm sure I'm not the first sucker to realise that the price of women's underwear is inversely proportional to the quantity of fabric used in its manufacture - but I digress.

Back to the flat with my eggtimer-shaped, red and black satin basque thing; I washed it, dried it, knocked all the newness out of it. I rolled it around in the dirty laundry basket for that pot pourri of authenticity and then proceeded to conceal it in between the duvet and the duvet cover. All that remained for me was to sit back and wait. When my true love would find her imagined adversary's sexy underwear knotted in the bed clothes, her insecurity would get the better of her, and ultimately it would make me as alluring as a sprat to mackerel. Check Mate! Saturday morning. I hear a rumpus in the bedroom. A smug smile drifts across my face.

"What the hell is this?" The door bursts open, basque dangling from her finger.

"Eh, a pillowcase?" I smirk.

"You know damn well what it is!" she roars and launches into a Luther King-esque sermon on self-respect, safe sex and infidelity.

"What about you!" I counter, realising a fraction of a second too late that the only evidence of infidelity is black, red and lacy and I'm being flaked about the ears with it. She bundles me out of the flat there and then. And that ends what might have otherwise been a happy ever after story.

She dumped me. She had lost all trust in me, she said. Hey, what can I say? Women have intuition, men have paranoia. There's no doubt, but sometimes love's like a game of chess, but a relationship is no game. And woe betide he who thinks he can anticipate his partner's next move. Check! No Mate!

Getting back to Fatal Attraction, me and Bruce had seen it all before. So by the time Glenn Close turned up in Michael Douglas's house for the first time, we had drifted into the kitchen, where we sank a few Buds and I lost my shirt in a game of Backgammon.

Fatal Attraction? For those of you who haven't, why not? And for those of you who have, why bother?