by Unknown
‘Hi,’ smiles Darren.
Is last night’s spat forgotten? I’m not sure, so I concentrate on the girls. I know he’s watching me examine their toffee apples and take due interest in the horrid plastic novelties that they’ve procured on the seafront.
‘You’re getting the hang of this kids thing. And Wellingtons too,’ he comments.
I glare at him. The Wellingtons are Mr Smith’s. I have just endured the most embarrassing thirty minutes of my life, well beyond anything I have ever encountered to date. Mrs Smith insisted that my Mulberry wide-leg trousers were ‘too good to be clarting on the beach in’ and gave me a pair of her ‘slacks’. She laughed out loud at my Gina Couture mules and set about finding me a pair of Wellington boots. I am a size seven shoe. Which caused much astonishment as the fact was repeated throughout Whitby by Mrs Smith, who rang all her friends and asked if they had a boot that large. None of them did. It’s obvious that they are still binding women’s feet in North Yorkshire. I was subjected to the humiliating experience of being the most ugly of Cinderella’s sisters as I tried to squeeze my feet into Shelly’s size six boots. They didn’t go anywhere near. I commented that cheap brands do come up small. Mrs Smith laughed and gave me Mr Smith’s Wellingtons. They are big and slip up and down as I walk but at least I can get into them. I didn’t manage to leave the house without accepting sheepskin mitts, a kagoul, a scarf and a duffel coat. The type most people wore at school. I didn’t. I refused then. However, no amount of objections could deter Mrs Smith. She kept insisting that it is bitter in January, and that I wouldn’t have known anything like it. The implication is that I’m a softy southerner. I explained that I had been to the north before – in fact, I went to university in Manchester. She let out a sound somewhere between derision and pity. That’s hardly north, is it, love?’
I look like the Michelin man. Except not as colour coordinated. Darren sweeps an eye over my outfit. How come he’s warm and manages to look sophisticated and rugged?
‘I see that Mam kitted you out appropriately.’
I don’t dignify his sarcasm with a response. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s being funny or if he’s trying to be irritating.
But then I’m not sure if I am irritated.
Odd.
I can’t remember when last I was so unsure about so many things. I want to tell Darren that I feel better for my marathon sleep. Better than I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. I want to tell him that I seem to have woken up with a new and startling sense of clarity and whilst I don’t agree with his point of view, I do accept it. Grudgingly, I respect it. He’s argued his case well. But I can’t say this because if I do, how will I explain that I want to stay an extra night? How will I explain that, despite my expectations, I like it here? It’s peaceful.
And terrifying. I am trying to be honest with myself, at least. I thought my battle was with Darren. But now I see that, if it was, I’ve lost.
I do like him.
He’s sexy, witty and intelligent, which I’ve come across before. But more than that, he’s also gentle, decent and straightforward, which is an entirely new experience for me. I do like him, very much, and by admitting as much I realize that I have a whole new war to wage. I fear my opponent is much tougher, more devious and ruthless than Darren could ever be. I’m at war with myself. I like him, but hate myself for doing so. Because isn’t this what I’ve been studiously avoiding all my life ? I know I should pack my bag immediately and get on the train back to London. I should take myself well away from this danger zone.
But I can’t.
I know if I leave now, Darren will always be with me. I’d wonder if he were for real. I’d fantasize, despite myself, that his outlook on life – open, honest, optimistic – is a possibility. I’d be ruined.
If I stay, there is a reasonable chance that Darren will expose his true self, which surely can’t be as amazing as I currently believe. All I can do is maintain the cool exterior, which I’ve nurtured for twenty-six years, and hope that by spending more time with Darren I begin to bore of him. Not my strongest strategy ever, but my preferred option by virtue of the fact that it’s my only option.
We begin to walk along the shoreline. I expect and dread that we’ll settle into an uncomfortable silence. Instead Darren chats happily. He’s nauseatingly well informed about the local sites and history.
‘Lewis Carroll is reputed to have written much of Alice in Wonderland whilst sitting on these sands looking out to sea.’
‘Really?’ I don’t turn to see where he’s pointing.
‘In Roman times a signal station was likely to have been erected on this spot.’
‘Fascinating.’ I’m rather pleased with the tone I hit. It’s an enthusiastic enough word choice but the manner I deliver it in hints that I’ve had more fun scouring ovens.
‘Let’s head to Flowergate. We can pop into the Sutcliffe Gallery.’
He drags the girls and me around a billion sepia pictures. After staring at four million, seven hundred and forty-five of them I begin to admire his tenacity. The shots are absorbing, but I’m doing my level best not to betray that I think so. Darren matches my feigned disinterest by feigning oblivion to it. This game-playing is exhausting, even for a pro like me. We move on, crossing the river. Darren points to a church in the distance.
‘The original dates from 110 AD. Can you see the graveyard? That’s where Dracula is allegedly buried.’ I smile to humour him.
‘And that’s St Hilda’s Abbey, isn’t it?’ I ask.
Darren nearly keels over with shock. ‘Absolutely.’
I’m gratified that he doesn’t ask how I know this but instead assumes that I’m one of those terribly impressive people who know all sorts of facts about a diverse range of places and topics. A person like Darren. He’s so obviously delighted with me that I can’t resist elaborating.
‘Did you know that the original abbey housed both men and women, but was destroyed by the Danes?’
‘In 867,’ he adds, nodding his head enthusiastically. It’s so cold I can almost see ice in his hair but his smile shoots spears of warmth through the town. There’s a direct hit in my knickers. I reflect on this and consider jumping into the river and swimming away, a long way away. Less dramatically, I resume my commentary. ‘Hilda was a relative of King Oswt’s, wasn’t she?’
‘Correct.’ Darren is orgasmic. Knowledge is power. Luckily he doesn’t ask where I gained such a detailed grasp of the history of his home town, Smallsville. He’s so ridiculously pleased. A little part of me would hate to disappoint him. Truth is, Fi sent me a text message through my mobile with this and a number of other facts about Whitby. We always research our subjects thoroughly.
‘Would you like a closer look at the abbey?’ he asks. The abbey is on a cliff top. I could do with the workout. I nod and we set off. ‘What do you think of Whitby?’
I think it’s cold and I think it’s unfashionable. I never thought I’d be pleased to see a Woolworths’ and greet it as though it was Harrods’ food hall. But just as I’m about to say this I turn to Darren. He’s looking out to the sea. It’s shimmering turquoise and lustrous waves are breaking on the sand, which looks pink and peach by turn. I can’t see any of the greyness that had been so prevalent earlier.
‘It’s overwhelming,’ I mutter, which is at once truthful and vague enough to satisfy.
Darren grins widely. ‘Isn’t it? I knew you’d love it. It’s such a riot of colour and smell and sound. My senses feel electric.’
His skin looks cold and transparent, which is perfect for hanging on such strong, jilting cheekbones. My senses feel electric, too, but I’m not sure that it has much to do with the smell of fishing nets and creosote. We begin to walk through the cobbled streets. The children surprise me by not whining about having to climb up a couple of hundred steps; in fact, they are keen to do so – they want to look at old gravestones. Darren doesn’t seem to think this is at all odd, so I can only assume it’s a northern thing. The walk takes
quite some time, as I go to extreme lengths to avoid being anywhere near a seagull. I swear Whitby seagulls are baby elephants in fancy dress. I’m almost deafened by their constant, hungry squawking. They look fierce, and whilst it may be lucky to be used as a bird’s public toilet, it’s a pleasure I can do without. I buy ice creams for the children and me. Darren’s determined to act his age and points out that it’s freezing. Charlotte looks at him pityingly, as though he is a lost soul. I can smell fish and chips or, more specifically, I can smell vinegar seeping into newspaper and, as we climb higher, I can smell smoke from the chimneys. It’s different.
We finally reach the church and whilst the girls run off to find Dracula’s tomb I puff furiously on a cigarette, not caring if it’s taking me one step nearer to joining Drac.
‘Have you heard from the studio?’ asks Darren.
‘Oh yes. Dozens of calls. They can’t seem to muddle through without me.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ I don’t tell him that Fi has found a replacement for him. Because if I do tell him, he’s bound to ask me why I’m still here.
‘I’m sure they can’t do without you, Cas. I mean such an intellectually challenging programme needs your unique input.’
I’m stung. I thought we were having a nice time, even amongst the tat and bric-à-brac. I’m trying – why can’t he?
‘Why do you hate me, Darren?’ I ask directly.
He looks genuinely surprised. He must be taken aback by my straightforward approach.
‘I don’t hate you. Hike you. I just don’t like the programme.’
Hmmm. He likes me.
Hmmm. Obviously not enough. Part of me wants to change the subject. Talk to him about the jet or herring industries. Indeed both those subjects suddenly appear riveting. But I can’t. Darren has thrown down the gauntlet; in fact, he’s spat at the family crest. I have to respond.
‘But it’s my programme. I thought of the concept.’
‘And you are proud of that, are you?’
‘I am. Very. TV6 was in deep trouble until I came up with this. People could have lost their jobs.’
‘Why couldn’t you think of something instructive?’
‘I think this is,’ I nod wryly. ‘It’s a warning, if anyone is sensible enough to listen. Infidelity is out there. I think I’m helping civilization come to terms with itself.’
Didn’t we do this last night? Why bring it up again? I’m never going to agree with him. I know why I wanted him to see my point of view: it was to get him on the show. But why is he so urgent about my seeing his point of view? What can it possibly matter to him? What does he want from me?
‘Your show doesn’t help anyone. It cheats civilization.’ He’s raising his voice. Which encourages me to remain irritatingly calm. I adore the upper hand.
‘It captivates 8.9 million viewers. Actually 9.1 million last show. Di called to tell me.’
‘Oh, I admit that it holds attention, and consumes energy whilst ignoring the fundamentals of life.’ He’s stamping on the pavement and I don’t know if it’s because he’s cold or furious. He’s waving his arms around and a woman, walking her dog, is looking at us.
‘So?’
‘Your programme incessantly touches the audience but on a superficial level.’ I stare at him, uncomprehending. ‘Television doesn’t require any acceptance of responsibility. Every one of your viewers who has hoped for an infidelity has committed a small betrayal of standards. But no one, except the poor sucker on the show, has to answer for his or her actions.’
I touch my temples. I can see his argument but he’s wrong.
‘No, Darren. Television merely reflects and observes society. It should not be blamed for the degeneration. It might not be pretty, but I’m just telling it how it is. Why does it make you so angry?’ I sigh.
‘Why don’t you admit it makes you furious?’ he asks.
I shrug and lick my ice cream. ‘Do you want some?’
‘Go on, then.’ We stop and he licks my ice cream. He has to hold my hand steady to do so, because it’s shaking. It must be the cold. He’s right – I shouldn’t be eating ice cream in January. His tongue is pink and slim.
‘I don’t buy your thing about collective responsibility, society, the greater good, blah blah. Bugger it. The more people I meet, the more disappointments I see.’
‘So who are you responsible for?’
‘Myself. And I look out for my mother, Issie and Josh when I can.’
We both fall silent. I stare at him. Looking directly into his eyes, which I rarely do, at least not when he’s looking back at me. My stomach hiccups. It’s stress.
‘I won’t be on your show.’ And he manages to sound genuinely upset by this. ‘That’s not how I could help you.’ I shrug. To be frank, I’m not even sure I want Darren on the show any more – I’m almost certain I don’t.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m used to helping myself.’ I walk on briskly, not waiting to see if my rebuff hits as deeply as I hope it will. He doesn’t need to know that I don’t need him any more. It’s much worse than that.
I just want him.
I call Bale and am relieved that he’s in a meeting. The best I can do is leave him a message. I lie. I tell him that Darren is very near to agreeing to being on the show, that it’s imperative that I get him to agree and that he can’t call me because the battery on my mobile has run out. I am aware that the opposite is true – in all three cases. But I don’t believe in hell.
When Darren and the girls arrive back home, about ten minutes after me, I am sweetness and light incarnate. I often pull this stunt with men. One minute moody, the next a delight. It makes them grateful. It’s getting late, we’ve missed tea and more criminally we’ve made the girls miss tea. Mrs Smith offers to make sandwiches but I can’t eat. I’m churned up. Sarah takes the kids home for their baths. Mr and Mrs Smith, Shelly and Richard decide to go to the pub. They ask if I want to join them. I’m absolutely desperate for a drink. As soon as I agree to go, Darren grabs his coat and says he’s coming too. He obviously hasn’t done enough baiting for one day.
The pub is heaving. It’s full of raw and rough-looking fishermen. Who, surprisingly, look quite sexy despite their wellies. They wear black skullcaps and oilskins, which are for real, rather than a fashion statement. I seduce the Smiths, offering to buy the drinks, and I even go so far as to join them in drinking the thick, treacly stout that’s obviously their favourite tipple. The pub is filthy, tasteless, well worn and patently loved. Remarkably, I soon forget the sticky, ripped lino that curls to expose a far stickier wooden floor, I ignore the tattered cushions, ragged flock wallpaper and frayed rugs as I melt into alcoholic oblivion. By my second pint, try as I might, I can’t find anything shabby. Instead I’m surrounded by laughter, warmth and goodwill. It swirls like cigarette smoke, sticking to my hair, clinging to my clothes and penetrating my essence. By my third pint Mr Smith (senior) seems the wisest man I’ve ever known. His stories about Whitby are fascinating and his silences are profound. I forget my fears that the locals probably still indulge in cockfighting and even say so to Mr Smith. I try to dilute my prejudice by admitting it’s entirely unfounded.
‘Prejudice is rarely anything else,’ he comments.
Shelly and Mrs Smith seem actively jolly. We play several riotous games of dominoes and I win, which satiates my competitive streak for the evening. Richard is gregarious and well informed. He’s heard from Darren that I have ‘extensive local knowledge’. Much to my amusement he tumbles my source. ‘Someone from your studio told you about the abbey, did they?’ I nod, nervous that he’s blown my cover with Darren. He winks conspiratorially, taps his nose and adds, ‘Mam’s the word.’ I’m so grateful I want to kiss him. And Darren?
Darren is unprecedented.
Darren is all the above. He is sexier than the fishermen. His anecdotes are more wise, fascinating and profound than his father’s. He’s more fun than the Smith women, even at their most jolly. H
e’s charmingly competitive. He is more discreet than Richard – I don’t think anyone else notices him rest his hand on my knee. Like the happy atmosphere, he immerses me. He clings harder and longer than anything I’ve ever known.
Which horrifies me.
I’m drunk. But not too drunk, as I already hope the hangover comes with a sense of proportion.
At a quarter to nine I announce that I have to go back to pack. Darren says he’ll walk with me and I’m grateful when Mrs Smith says that she wants to go home too. In my slightly woozy state I know that if Darren wanted to touch more than my knee I’d definitely let him. When we arrive home Darren goes straight to the front room. Mrs Smith stays in the kitchen to fold some clean washing into piles for ironing and I drink a reservoir of water.
‘Had a nice day, pet?’ she asks. I nod enthusiastically. ‘You can tell. You’re a proper beauty when you smile. Really gorgeous.’ She leaves me alone in the kitchen, with the compliment for company. I feel brilliant. The word ‘gorgeous’ rolls around my head.
Gooorgeous.
Gorggessss.
Gorgeous.
I receive a lot of compliments – some from men who want to screw me, others from the girls at TV 6 who are too terrified of me not to compliment, and compliments from Mum, Issie and Josh. Mum’s my mum and whilst Issie and Josh are probably genuine enough, those two say nice things about everyone. In my book, indiscriminate affability cancels out the worth. But Mrs Smith’s compliment is something really special. I get the feeling that she doesn’t dish them out that often.
The back door swings open and Linda tumbles in after a fun-packed evening hanging around the bus shelter. She interrupts my thoughts.
‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream.’
‘I think I am.’ I smile back. ‘Cup of tea?’ I’ve put the kettle on before she answers. Now she’s grinning.
‘You seem much more at home here after just forty-eight hours.’
‘I am. Maybe it is the sleep, or the sea air—’
‘Or being around our Darren.’
What’s she implying? She’s bloody cheeky for a teenager. No, thinking about it, she’s absolutely normal for a teenager. I don’t comment, but instead concentrate on displaying the chocolate digestives on a plate. She says, ‘He always has this effect on women.’