Game Over

10

I am unsure how I got myself into this predicament. I can’t remember the point when I actually agreed to accompany Darren, Charlotte, Lucy and baby Ben to the swimming baths. The noise and confusion that reign in the Smith household are so extreme that it is possible I didn’t agree at all but simply was unable to resist their collective force.

I don’t do public baths. I do health spas and private gyms. I can feel the foot diseases waiting in the cracks of the tiles and despite the gallons of chlorine that the local council has tipped into the pool, I am sure that I am about to swim in neat child’s wee. To add insult, I catch a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror. It’s bad. I didn’t bring a costume with me and therefore I’ve been forced into borrowing Sarah’s. Although there is evidence that Sarah has been a very attractive woman in her time, she has had three babies and has let her figure go somewhat. I get the feeling sartorial elegance is not the top of her list of priorities. The bathing suit is high street rather than high fashion. I did explain to Sarah and Shelly that I only ever wear black. They smiled and handed me this monstrosity. I think that initially it was a mass of fluorescent flowers, which thankfully have faded. The cut is all wrong. Damn, why didn’t I bring my Calvin Klein costume? It’s cut to maximize the length of the leg and minimize the waist. It’s padded at the breast, creating a look that is undisputedly flattering. The floral number is baggy at the crotch and hips, plus the straps keep sliding off my shoulders. As if the possibility that I might fall out of the suit altogether isn’t terrifying enough, suddenly I find that I’m alone in the changing rooms with two small people.

The panic rises. Not just because I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week, but because Charlotte and Lucy are both looking up at me with expectancy in their eyes. It appears that everyone – Darren, his mum, Sarah, Shelly and these kids – all seem to think I am in charge.

And that I’m capable of it.

Which, I am, of course. I mean, I run a show that pulls in millions of viewers per week, for God’s sake. I control budgets of hundreds of thousands of pounds, create revenues of millions. I can undress two small children and dress them again in suitable attire.

Surely.

They don’t stand still. They slither and slide all over the place. They don’t want to wear costumes anyway, much less their armbands, which I abandon altogether. It seems that no sooner have I got the appropriate limb in the appropriate hole than they take it out again. I do manage to get the costumes on but one is inside-out and the other is back-to-front. I realize that above all else, I must remain calm. Like any confrontation it is important not to let the adversary know that you feel menaced or panicked. I can outstare four-and six-year-olds – definitely. If only they would stay still.

‘Charlotte, don’t run. The floor’s slippery. You might hurt yourself.’ I try to make this sound like advice or a warning. It comes out sounding like I’m threatened or threatening. ‘Lucy, we didn’t bring your pink costume. You have to put this blue one on. Now please, stop crying. Just one more arm. Please.’ Both the girls are crying (although I suspect Charlotte’s are crocodile tears) and I am closer to tears than I’ve been in twenty-five years, when another mother offers to help.

They’re not yours, are they, pet?’

‘No.’ I’m irritated and relieved all at once. They aren’t hers either, are they? But, in a blink of an eye, she has managed to get them both into their costumes, the right way out, and facing the right direction. Why couldn’t I? Can it be that there is a mother gene that makes this stuff easier once you are a mum? Not that I ever want to be a mother, not in my wildest dreams. In fact, it’s close to my worst nightmare. But I do like to be able to do things properly. I don’t like to fail.

I bribe the girls into not telling Uncle Darren that the nice lady had to help with dressing them. I offer them each a pound but Charlotte informs me that the going rate is a new outfit for her Barbie doll and a trip to McDonald’s. I would be annoyed but actually I admire her business acumen and I’m sure that she’ll go far.

Darren doesn’t comment that we’ve been in the dressing-room for forty-five minutes but waves cheerfully from the baby pool, where he is confidently handling a happy, gurgling Ben.

I lower myself into the pool and try not to think of the wee. I hand him the armbands for the girls. Making it clear that it’s his turn.

‘Will you hold Ben?’ I nod, as I don’t want to open my mouth for fear of what will go in it. Darren grins and hands him over. I’m relieved that he doesn’t start to cry. I smile winningly at him and hope that my legendary way with men works on someone so young. Darren hoists himself out of the pool.

He is divine.

He must work out. His muscles are taut and developed. He’s lean and tanned. I watch the pool water glisten as it clings to his shoulders and legs. I’d glisten too if I was clinging to that Adonis. I’m thrilled to note that his strong chest and legs are hairy but his back is clean. My nipples harden and chafe against the costume. Bloody cheap thing, no lining.

Darren puts the armbands on the girls and lowers them into the pool with me. He sits on the side, dangling his legs in the water. He drags his feet unselfconsciously through the water, bending and straightening his knees. My knees have turned to Play-Doh. My entire body is on fire. I cannot drag my gaze from him. He is utterly, utterly stunning. From his tanned feet, with neat square nails – rather than the yellow, curled nails that most men choose to sport – to his long, tight, muscular legs, to his neat, flat stomach. Six pack, forget it – this is an entire shelf at the off-licence. I want to entangle my fingers in his chest hair. Lose them there and never ever find them again. His shoulders are as rigid as they are broad. They look almost polished. He’s staring out at the children and not aware that I’m studying every little droplet of chlorine that’s clinging to him. His glossy hair curls rebelliously at the nape of his neck and I’m envious. I want to be that lock of hair; I want to be the drops of chlorine, pool water and pee.

Since he’s occupied watching the children splash and bob, I risk taking a look at his swimwear.

WHHHOOOAAA-HHHOOO.

Hello, Big Boy.

‘Should I take Ben now?’

‘Erm?’

I nearly drop the baby with the embarrassment. Why did he have to choose that moment to start up a conversation? I avoid his eye as I pass the baby to him. I feel like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. I force myself to look at Darren and he’s grinning again. Well, I’m pleased to be so amusing! Irritated and flustered, I sulkily pull myself on to the side of the pool as he climbs in. He tries to make conversation but I won’t be mollified. It isn’t until I catch him furtively checking out my tits that I start to brighten up. In fact, I feel considerably happier.

When we leave the pool we go to McDonald’s. Darren is blatantly a bit surprised by my choice of dining venue. I smile and don’t offer an explanation. It isn’t until Lucy is on to her second chocolate shake and I’ve taken Charlotte to the loo twice (unaided) that it crosses my mind to check my mobile messages. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten to call Fi or Bale. It’s not as though I’m having a good time. I mean, I’m not shopping or clubbing. Normally I check my messages every twenty-five minutes when I’m out of the studio.

I’ve had six calls.

Hi, Cas. It’s Fi. I reviewed the files through the night and have a shortlist of three possible scenarios for next week’s show. Should I interview them? If so, you’ll need to release more budget. Call me.

Hi, Cas, it’s Josh. Issie told me that you are chasing some bloke halfway up the country. What’s the angle? Is he a transvestite? Now that would make a good show. Well, call me when you get a mo.

Cas. It’s Fi again. Er, I haven’t heard back from you so I had to make the decision to go ahead with the interviews. I think I’ve found a substitute. Hope this is OK. But I didn’t really have a choice. What with the timetable being so tight. Can you call me? Er, say hi to Darren for me. Tell him I was the one in baby-blue cashmere. No, scrub that.

Cas, it’s Issie. Weeeellllllll? How goes it with Mr Northern Hunk?

Jocasta, it’s your mother. I do hate these things. Can you hear me?

Cas. Bale. Call in.

So nothing urgent. I switch the phone back to the message facility.

By the time we drop the kids back with Sarah, I am exhausted and barely have the energy to turn down the offer of staying for supper. Which under normal circumstances I’d turn down with extreme force.

‘Stay – we’re having lasagne and Mam and Dad are down the pub, Richard’s at Shelly’s, Linda’s here. There will be no one at home. You’ll be rattling around an empty house.’

Hearing this, I get another surge of dynamism and almost wrench Darren’s arm out of its socket as I pull him from their kitchen and bundle him into the car. Laughing, he turns the ignition.

‘Had enough of kids for one day?’

I feel a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he wanted to stay and was too polite to contradict me; after all, he probably doesn’t get to see his family much, being based in London. But my arms are aching with playing ‘one, two, three, swwiiinnnng’. I smell of baby puke, my mind is fried with coming up with answers to the perpetual ‘why’ question (nearly all of which had come from Darren). Most importantly, I haven’t reapplied my make-up since leaving the swimming pool.

‘To be honest, yes. I’m not used to kids. No nieces or nephews.’

‘Some of your friends must have children, though,’ he comments.

I think about it. No, not really. Women in TV rarely nod towards their reproductive capacity and my friends in other lines of work seem to disappear once they have babies. I suppose it’s because we keep very different hours.

‘No.’ I smile at Darren and decide to confess, ‘In fact, until today I don’t think I’ve ever held a child, or dressed one, brushed its hair, taken it to the loo, changed a nappy or fed it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I confirm.

I’m slightly shamefaced and don’t know how Darren will take this. He obviously values these motherly skills in his women. Indeed all men like to see a woman behave perfectly with kids. Most women like to think they have a natural ability to be patient, entertaining and loving. Not me. I’m not bothered. Well, I was keen to put the shoes on the right feet but that was because I hate to be inadequate at anything. As a kid myself, I didn’t like anyone else winning musical chairs. Second place is nowhere. If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. That’s always been my motto. It has nothing to do with impressing Darren. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I sneak a look at him to check his reaction to my confession. Richard’s car is so tiny that Darren is almost folded double. He’s concentrating on the curling roads. He puts on the long beam lights and the windscreen wipers are valiantly trying to clear the pouring rain. I fear it’s a losing battle. Without taking his eyes off the road, he mumbles, ‘You’re amazing.’

I’m amazing! I’m floating on air. My bum is absolutely refusing to stay in the car seat.

I’m amazing? Oh yeah, and how many times have I heard that before?

I’m amazing! I’m floating on air. My bum is absolutely refusing to stay in the car seat.

I’m amazing. I bet he says that to everyone.

I pretend I haven’t heard and close my eyes, keen to get some sleep on the short journey back to the Smiths’ house.

I wake up and a young Kevin Keegan is smiling down at me. Where am I? I’m in a single bed with itchy nylon sheets and itchy nylon bedspread. They are brown. Different shades of brown. My worst fear – I’ve screwed someone with bad taste. I hear children laughing in the garden and I look out of the window.

Darren.

And Charlotte and Lucy. It’s a grey, bleak day. Grey grass, grey sky. But Darren and the girls are a remarkable contrast, their clothes and laughter, a colourful relief to the horizon. Impetuously I bang on the window and wave furiously. They all look up and wave back. Then I remember I haven’t got any make-up on, so I dive back into bed before they can see me properly. There’s a knock on the door and, before I answer, Mrs Smith bustles in. She smiles broadly and I bathe in it. Perhaps she’s heard how good I was with the children yesterday and is beginning to approve of me. Not that it matters. I neither want nor need Mrs Smith’s approval.

Much.

She hands me a cup of tea that’s so strong the spoon can stand up in it. I take it from her and thank her.

‘By, you were tired, weren’t you?’

A strange feeling of unease creeps into bed with me; it gets under the sheets and disperses the cosy feeling. Oh bugger, yes, now I remember. Last night I’d been very tired. Too tired to argue my case about the show properly but tired enough to argue petulantly. We were having a laugh. In the absence of wine or gin we decided to raid his parents’ cocktail cabinet. A walnut veneer monstrosity, straight from the Ark, justifiably hidden in the ‘front room’. We agreed that tequila was the perfect accompaniment to cheese on toast (desperate measures for desperate times. The other choices were all fluorescent in colour and likely to have been radioactive). I had the idea of broaching the subject of the show whilst the family were out and we had the house to ourselves. I thought that as he was beginning to warm to me he might be open to discussion. He wasn’t. The conversation had been brief, powerful and cold.

He turned his back to me and concentrated on grating the cheese. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention. I had an overwhelming desire to blow on them.

‘I’m not saying that you should have sex with Claire.’ God forbid. ‘Just find out what would happen. Just let fate take its course,’ I argued to his very wide shoulders.

‘But your programme isn’t about fate or what would happen naturally if everyone was left to their own devices. Your show is designed to distort. To bring out the worst in people.’ He was watching my reflection in the window against the black night sky.

‘The worst in people is the norm.’

He tutted dismissively. But he did, at least, turn back to me. Or was he just turning because he needed to put the bread under the grill?

‘No, it’s not. You just think that the peculiar is normal because it’s prevalent in your life.’

Fucking cheek. What does he know about my life? Well, besides the stuff we’d talked about at the Oxo tower restaurant, on the train and today. But that hardly amounts to revealing insight. He knows little more about me than what my favourite milkshake was when I was a kid. Oh, and admittedly, we had a fairly flirty but extremely coded (due to the presence of minors) conversation about condom flavours this afternoon. But then half the men at TV6 know that I prefer banana-flavour condoms.

None of them know it’s chocolate milkshake.

I glared at him and said, ‘Infidelity is a fact. Disloyalty is a fact.’

‘OK. Maybe. But it’s a horrifying fact and should remain horrifying. By continually showing betrayal as an acceptable form of entertainment you are neutralizing the horror. Are you so damaged that you can’t see that?’

I was tired and sick of his sanctimonious attitude. I found I was shouting. I ignored his question and asked my own instead. ‘You want to shelter who, exactly, from these cultural and moral norms of the West? I’m not suggesting anything that they aren’t already endorsing, committing.’

We both fell silent as Darren concentrated on retrieving the cheese on toast from under the grill. He set it down in front of me and offered Worcester sauce. I refused it. I poured him tequila; he’d left it untouched. We ate in silence and then I went to bed, alone, defeated.

Now, I try to find my wristwatch.

‘It’s three thirty, pet,’ says Mrs Smith, cheerfully.

‘In the afternoon?’ I jump up suddenly. Mrs Smith clocks my lacy negligée.

‘Yes, in the afternoon. By, love, you must have been tired not to notice the cold in that flimsy thing. If you’d said you only had your underwear to sleep in I’d have lent you one of my nighties.’

Duly mortified, I crawl back into bed and cover myself from her disapproving gaze. Underwear indeed! I’d especially selected the most conventional and practical nightdress I own to bring on this trip. I normally sleep naked. If she thinks this is skimpy enough to be underwear, what would she think of my knickers?

‘Darren wanted to get you up but I said, “Let her sleep.” You obviously needed it. He’s just taking the kids into town for a ride on the merry-go-round on the seafront. I thought that you might want to get bathed and then we can think about a bite to eat.’

I nod politely, although I’m sure my stomach will actively revolt if I try to eat anything more. Yesterday’s binge of sweets, chocolate cake, scones, hamburgers and finally cheese on toast was more than I normally eat in a week. It must be the fresh air that’s given me such an appetite.

‘What time did you say it was?’

‘It’s nearly twenty to four now.’

‘What day is it?’ I’m not normally so vague, but then I don’t normally sleep for seventeen hours. And I don’t ever sleep in nylon sheets.

‘Tuesday.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Smith looks horrified but I have no time to placate her.

‘Shit. Shit.’ I scramble in my bag looking for my mobile phone. ‘Shit. Fourteen messages.’ Mrs Smith tuts and leaves me to my own devices. I think it’s safe to assume that any tentative strands of approval she’d been weaving my way are now well and truly snapped. So what? I turn to my messages.

The first is from Issie, reminding me that my New Year’s resolution was not to have casual sex. Ha, fat chance. Darren doesn’t even seem to want to swap pleasantries, never mind bodily fluids. And anyway, what is she talking about? That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to endear myself to Darren so that he agrees to be on the show. Nothing more. I thought I’d explained that. All the other messages are work-related.

Cas. Please give me a call. It’s Tuesday morning. What time will you be back? Have you persuaded Darren to be on the show?

Fi sounds nervous and a twinge of guilt bites as I acknowledge that I have left her in the lurch. She’s a strong assistant but she hasn’t had to make the decisions before. Well, maybe I micromanage too much and it’s time that Fi had a bit more responsibility. She’s probably doing a good job. I skip a few more messages to listen out for her voice. There are three more from Fi. The first and second are increasingly irate. The third confidently asserts that she’s found a replacement for Darren, Claire and Marcus and has made the decision to reschedule the filming. She details how she’s going to use the two producers back to back. One in the studio, editing, whilst the other is at the shoot and then vice versa. This is a good idea as it will help catch up on time. She says she’s expecting me back by Wednesday morning and significantly repeats, ‘As you promised.’

Bale is less subtle.

Cas, where the fuck are you? Getting serviced? Well, fuck that. Call me.

His three messages are all the same. I also have calls from Di, Debs and Ricky. Apparently some bishop or other has written an open letter to The Times condemning the show. Which is great news. Di and Debs want to know how to handle the PR. Idiots. Can’t they do anything without me? Ricky is lobbying for a schedule change to coincide with Valentine’s Day. He’s come up against a brick wall. Or, more accurately, a homo-phobe executive who can block or facilitate such things. Ricky’s particular breed of charm will only serve to irritate in this instance. Whereas I could undoubtedly help by just offering to take the guy to lunch. I call Ricky and tell him to set it up for Friday. I call Fi, and it’s not until I tell her that I’m not travelling back tonight as originally promised but early tomorrow morning or tomorrow night at latest that I realize I’ve made this decision.

‘But you don’t need to stay, Cas. I have a replacement.’

‘Yeah, but I think Darren is just about to capitulate and I still think he’d make such a good show.’ This lie is vibrant scarlet but I have no conscience about it.

‘He is gorgeous,’ Fi agrees enthusiastically.

‘If you like that kind of thing.’

‘Are you having a good time?’

‘Not really. He’s unstable. A delight one minute and a rabid dog the next. I have to schlep round with his tedious family. It’s freezing and I’m in the middle of nowhere.’ It’s always been an adage of mine that I don’t owe every pertinent enquirer the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.

‘The things you do for your job.’

‘Exactly. Listen, Fi. It’s probably best if you don’t mention to Bale that we have a replacement. He hasn’t met Darren and won’t understand why I’m so actively pursuing him.’ Fi titters, so for clarity I add, ‘For the show.’

‘Of course.’ I can hear the smirk in her voice. Cow. ‘Be careful you don’t fall for him.’

‘Impossible. I could never fancy anyone called Darren. I’m not called Kylie or Sharon.’

Fi laughs. ‘I won’t say a word to Bale, but you’ll have to get back by first thing Thursday at the absolute latest. We can push the filming back to then but no later. I can’t do the filming on my own. We need you.’

Of course they do.

After bathing I feel in need of fresh air. Avocado green has never been my colour for bathroom suites. I decide to catch up with Darren and the children. Because what else can I do? Play bowls? I walk along the pier and spot them walking down the beach, which is more or less deserted as it’s January, it’s the north and it’s freezing. Anyone with any sense is sitting by their fireside or, less romantically but more realistically, their TV set and radiators. I wave and shout, and surprisingly Lucy and Charlotte start to pelt towards me, their little legs not keeping up with their will to be further ahead than they are. I succumb to the Calvin Klein advert factor and rush to meet them. I stoop down to hug them. I only do this because I’ll look good.

‘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. He’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.’

Naturally.

‘Always?’ I venture.

Linda rolls her eyes. ‘Well, look at him.’ Fair point. ‘Women watch him in the street. Everyone fancies him, from Charlotte’s friends, to mine, to Sarah’s. Even Mum’s friends, come to think of it.’ Someone has thumped me very hard. Suddenly I’m sober. ‘It’s just the same with the women in London. I noticed when I visited him last summer hols. There was this constant stream of women dropping in on him. “Do you fancy a drink, Darren?” “Can you loosen this lid, Darren? – oh, you are so strong!” “Oh, a man who can cook – Darren you are very special.’”

I don’t really like what Linda is telling me but her impressions are hilarious and I can’t help but giggle. Besides, she wouldn’t be telling me all this unless she was saying that I’m somehow different. Would she? Well, maybe she would. After all, she’s only seventeen. Perhaps this is her unsubtle way of telling me that she (and he) have seen it all before.

‘He is a good cook,’ I comment. ‘He made me cheese on toast last night and it was really special.’

‘Special!’ Linda is derisive and she’s within her rights, considering what I’ve just said. I catch her eye, which is clever of me, considering the speed at which she is rolling them.

‘Not you as well! I thought you’d be impervious!’

‘Me what?’ As soon as the words are out I regret them. She’s youthful; she’s likely to tell me.

‘You’ve fallen for him.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Really, you haven’t fallen for him?’ asks Linda.

‘Really.’

‘What a shame, because I think he’s fallen for you.’

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Linda picks up an apple and takes a hungry bite, shrugs and leaves me to my thoughts.

Where is the cheese box? The fresh herbs? The avocado? The fridge is heaving but there is nothing I can eat. I’m faced with a dazzling selection from Rowntree and Cadbury. But fish fingers, Alphabite potato wedges and Heinz sauce were not what I had in mind for a romantic dinner for two. Where is the adult food?

What am I saying? Romantic? I’ve never had romantic dinners before.

Strategic, yes, but not romantic.

Still, the end result is the same: sex. So it’s simply a case of semantics.

I have to have sex with Darren. It’s obvious – why didn’t I think of it earlier? A surefire way to dispel any fanciful notions that I may be inadvertently harbouring. Having sex with Darren would bring him down to the same level as everyone else I’ve ever had sex with. He’s definitely not going on the show now, so there would be no concerns about a lack of professionalism if I slept with him. Nor would there be any possibility of seeing him again, which erases the possibility of tiresome consequential scenes. And as he is as sexy as hell, well, why shouldn’t I have a crack? I brush away my New Year’s resolution in the same way that every other year I sneak an extra fag or drink.

Unaccountably, I’m nervous. I have expertly seduced the most dazzling and dull array of individuals. Darren must be like one of them. He must fit into one of my types and as soon as I identify the type, I can select the most appropriate strategy. I rule out anything obvious that I would try with my bimbo boys. I rule out anything dishonest that I would try with the less scrupulous dates I’ve bagged. I rule out anything that requires a fake identity – he knows me too well already. I look at my clothes. An ensemble of things I’ve borrowed from Shelly and Sarah, plus the one or two practical pieces that Issie insisted on stealing into my case. I look dreadful, so I rule out anything that is entirely dependent on my couture. I only have tonight, so I rule out anything that requires a long lead time. I had thought of cooking for him – such an act of selflessness, the candles and, if all else fails, the wine would have the desired effect. But having seen the contents of the fridge and also considering how notoriously difficult it is to cook in someone else’s kitchen, I rule that out too. Yet I’m leaving tomorrow. I really do have to catch an early train. Bale will go ballistic if I delay any longer, unnecessarily so in my opinion. Fi can handle the film crews until I get there.

I look at my watch. It’s 9.15 p.m.

It’s now or never.

Never is not an option. I’ll have to wing it.

I track Darren down in the front room; he’s listening to Radio 4. ‘Let’s go out. I assume there is a restaurant in Whitby that’s still open after nine?’ I challenge.

‘Plenty. Get your coat.’