Game Over

11

Darren uses the term ‘restaurant’ much more generously than I would. You can, after all, buy food at a hot dog stand, but I doubt that A. A. Gill would repeat purchase. The ‘restaurant’ has about half a dozen assorted tables, which have between two and six variegated chairs scattered casually at each. There are tablecloths but they are plastic, red and white checked. There are flowers on each table but they too are plastic. There is music but it’s from a jukebox. However, the candles are real and the food is good, although the choice is limited – spag. bol. or nothing – so we have the spag. bol. Darren also orders a bottle of house red. Neither of us bothers to ask if there is a wine list. There are three other couples in the restaurant and one woman has brought her dog. Loose tits and tummies surround me. This is not the sort of place where I usually hang out. The only mercy is that I’m so far from home that no one will recognize me. I am amazed that Darren seems as comfortable here as he did in the Oxo tower. I couldn’t be uneasier. I’m terrified that the provincial drabness will rub off on me. That I’ll start to think wearing blue and green together is acceptable or that a good night out is getting trollied in a threadbare pub. Oh no, it’s happening already. I have to make my move quickly and get back to civilization before something irrevocable happens to me.

The food and drink arrive. Darren is very quiet and my confounding lack of wit irritates me. I’m never stuck for words. Why now, when I want to be dazzling? I know the end result I’m looking for. Surely getting him to sleep with me can’t be that difficult? Right now it seems impossible. I sigh and gaze around the restaurant. I notice a couple of empty nesters asking the waiter to take their photo. I watch, amazed, as he doesn’t show the disdain or pity that must be filling his head. They grin and raise their glasses artificially. I’m just about to say something scathing when I notice that Darren is also looking at them and he’s smiling.

Fondly.

‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ He nods at the ugly couple. He doesn’t seem to be aware of how dreadful they are, but instead starts going on about how great it is to see couples of that age happily married, still in love. I interrupt and point out that the couple are probably on a dirty weekend, and as Blackpool and Brighton were full, they’ve opted for Whitby. He smiles, ignores me and continues on about how he really believes in fidelity, friendship, familiarity.

‘And fucking,’ I add. Let’s cut to the chase.

‘Lovemaking is part of it. Of course, that’s important.’

He means this junk and the strange thing is that, as he waxes lyrical, I almost begin to believe it, too. His optimism is infectious. It must be the wine. In the nick of time I recover.

‘Christ, you’re wet,’ I spit nastily. I’m not sure why I’m being nasty. Perhaps it’s habit.

Darren refuses to take offence but smiles. ‘Maybe, but I prefer it to being a cynic.’

‘I’m not a cynic,’ I bite back. ‘I’m a—’

‘Realist,’ he finishes for me. ‘I take it that you don’t believe in everlasting love?’

‘Everlasting love!’ I snort my contempt. ‘There is no such thing. People use each other, wear each other out and then move on. You see it all the time. I bet you believe in the Loch Ness monster and Father Christmas, too,’ I snap. I look at Darren and his jaw is clenched. I’m not sure if he’s angry or upset. Turns out he’s both.

‘Why can’t you be civil? I’m doing you the favour here, remember. You invited yourself to my home. Has it been so awful for you, being here with my family and me?’

For a moment I’m floored. I sigh, sip my wine and answer honestly.

‘No, actually it hasn’t been awful at all. I’ve…’ I hesitate and then take a deep breath, ‘Really had a great time. You have a lovely family.’

Darren relaxes immediately and beams at me. ‘I hoped you had but I couldn’t be sure. One minute you’re laughing and the next you’re—’

‘What?’

‘Well, snarling, for want of a better word.’

I sigh again but accept his observation. ‘I do believe people fall in love, or at least lust, or something. We are a very weak species, generally. But they don’t stay in love, again because we’re too weak. Someone always gets hurt. And in my view it’s better to avoid any messiness altogether.’

‘Aren’t you being a little bit extreme?’

‘I can’t see a middle lane. Just a tiny bit in love doesn’t seem to be an option.’

‘Now I do agree with you there.’ He pauses and then asks gently, ‘Do you remember the other night at the Oxo restaurant?’

Was that just three nights ago? It seems a lifetime.

‘I asked you what really hurt you.’ I nod. ‘And then I realized it was none of my business and changed the subject.’ I nod again. ‘I wondered if you considered it my business yet? Because I’d really like to know what hurt you so badly that you shut down?’ He drops his eyes, not looking at me as he asks this question. He’s playing with the condiments.

I’m amazed he cares and I want to explain it to him. I wonder if I can.

‘It’s just that I’m not prepared to accept the flotsam and jetsam of humanity.’ He looks up quizzically. The debris that passes for a relationship,’ I moan, weary with it all. ‘Look, it doesn’t exist. This exciting love thing that you are obviously searching for, it doesn’t exist. I know I’ve had sex with over fifty men and I’ve never made love.’

I fall silent and wait for his reaction. He doesn’t look shocked or horrified by my confession. Which – irrationally – irritates me. I really want him to be disgusted with me. It would certainly be easier if he walked away now. Or I did. But I’m not sure I can. He’s waiting for a more thorough explanation.

‘In my experience, and as I’ve mentioned it’s wide and varied, people use each other and when they’ve finished using they leave.’ I pick up my knife and scrape the edge on the plastic tablecloth. I note the irony that a rather bad cover version of ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ is playing in the background.

‘Who left?’

The way his voice breaks between the words ‘who’ and ‘left’ means it is absolutely impossible for me to resist.

‘My father.’ Stupid angry tears well up from nowhere. I’m stunned. I’ve kept them at bay for twenty-six years. Why now? Darren sweeps the tear away with his thumb and for a nanosecond the palm of his hand is in contact with my chin. It blisters my skin and oddly soothes it in the same instance. I look at him and despite my years of experience, despite the fact that I’ve only known him for a few days and despite the fact that he is devastatingly gorgeous-looking – which should always be a warning sign – I want to trust this man. I think I do trust him. Which is dangerous. I have to get a grip.

‘Look, I’m sorry. Can we forget that?’ I push away my tears and his thumb. ‘It’s been a long week and what with you pulling out of the show, I’m under a lot of pressure.’ He looks hurt. Which is exactly what I want. I want him to feel guilty. I look around the restaurant, desperate for a change of subject. Unless Darren has very strong views on flock wallpaper or plastic flower arrangements, I’m pretty stuck. The evening’s gone AWOL. I had thought that by pudding (it’s packet trifle, so the term ‘pudding’ is perhaps philanthropic) we would be flirting and talking exclusively in doubles entendres. Instead I’m drenched in big stuff, emotions, feelings of betrayal and, more extraordinarily, feelings of trust and possibility. The stuff I arduously avoid.

‘You are lucky to have so many brothers and sisters,’ I comment. I admit this isn’t exactly a change of subject – we are still on the personal; but it’s his personal rather than mine. Which is a far safer zone. ‘All this hugging and kissing stuff you do to each other, I think I’m on an American chat show.’

Darren smiles. ‘Aren’t all families the same?’ When I don’t answer he stops smiling and simply adds, ‘Well, it makes for interesting Christmases.’

‘Our house was always quiet. When he left he took-besides the regular income and the mock crocodile suitcases – the fire from the belly of our home. The rows stopped, for which I was grateful. My mother never cried or shouted again. But for that matter she never laughed or giggled either. She settled into an eerie calmness.’

How had that happened? I’m on about me again. I look at my empty glass. Darren sees it as a hint and refills it. I don’t argue.

‘She cooked for me, washed and ironed my clothes, attended my parents’ evenings at school, ensured ends met. She was perfectly adequate in every way. But I’ve often thought that the day my father left, I lost my mother too. It seemed she decided that loving was too risky and settled into the sanitized safety of simply caring for me. Even looking back, it seems unfair. I’d never leave her.’ I wish I’d shut up. I’m boring myself, never mind Darren. I mean it’s hardly the most entertaining anecdote that I could have come up with, is it? Yet I can’t stop myself.

‘I’m not blaming her. I mean I understand where she’s coming from. But occasionally it would have been nice if she could have read a fairy tale and closed the book without sniping that the prince would have a new woman by the end of the year.’

Darren smiles sadly and I force a wry grin back. ‘Side by side, we worked our way through Christmases and birthdays, holidays in Devon, O-levels, A-levels and finally university. Mum ironing and singing her anthems, ‘Does Anybody Miss Me?’ and ‘If You Go Away’. My formative years. She is a fine mum and I know she always did her best for me. But sometimes I wish that my father had left behind brothers and sisters to fill the rooms and disguise the sound of the hissing iron and the clanking radiators.’

We both wait silently as the waiter lowers two cups of coffee on to our table. I’m sure it’s instant; it’s served in the type of teaset that you collect from garages and with a plastic carton of UHT milk. Still, the waiter presents it as though he’d grown the beans himself and he was serving it in a seventeenth-century silver service. I would be annoyed that he’s interrupted our conversation but I like people to be involved in their work.

Darren asks, ‘Do you look like your mum or dad?’

‘I have two pictures of my father and, to my eternal disappointment, I am the image of that callous, deserting bastard. The pictures were taken in 1967 and 1975. The first is a wedding picture. I rescued the half my mother cut away.’

Darren looks bemused. Of course, he comes from a family wrapped in bliss – how could he understand about wedding pictures being cut in half? I try to explain it for him. ‘Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t a violent, passionate act. She was very calm about it. She wanted to keep the pictures of herself because she did look wonderful, so she carefully cut around her dress. I remember her using my round-ended scissors from a play weaving kit. She sat at the kitchen table for two days. She erased him from the wedding photos, the ones of my birth, all holiday snaps. Everything. It was a thorough, systematic extermination of all evidence that he ever existed. I stole the 1975 picture before she got to it.’ Darren doesn’t interrupt. I check he’s listening. He is. He’s put down his coffee cup. Deliberately I pick mine up. ‘That was the year he left us. It’s a picture of him helping to blow out the seven candles on my birthday cake.’

How could he have left us, me – the very spit of him?

‘Do you miss him?’

‘Miss him? I don’t even remember him.’

We both fall silent again. I determinedly chew the mints. Just to show that I’m not bothered. It’s difficult to swallow.

‘For years after he left I tried to imagine what his life was like. When I was in a traffic jam I wondered if he was in it too, or another similar one. When I listened to the radio I wondered if he listened to the same channel. But I didn’t know and I’ll never know because I know so little about him.’

‘You could trace him,’ suggests Darren gently.

‘I don’t want to. He’s made it clear where I fit into his life – i.e. I don’t. He never paid a penny in alimony or even sent a birthday card. He’s given me one thing in my life and I’m grateful for it. He’s taught me about loss. He’s saved me from ever having a broken heart.’ I try to grin. ‘I’ve turned my heart to steel. In fact, even my closest friends question if I have one at all.’ I’ve always believed this.

‘You have a heart to break, Cas, just like everyone else.’

I’m indignant. There’s no call to be insulting. ‘I do not,’ I assert defiantly.

‘So what makes you think you are different? Your extraordinarily high consumption of sun-blush tomatoes? Because, besides that, you are pretty similar to everyone else.’

‘Am I?’ I ask, outraged.

‘A bit sexier maybe, a bit cleverer.’ He ambushes me with compliments. My outrage is melting and being replaced by pure delight. ‘You are just the same, Cas. You can fall in love just as easily.’

Angry again, I retort, ‘No, I can’t. I’m not good on intimacy. I don’t like people. They are stupid and disappointing.’

‘Not everyone. You like me.’

‘You are so vain.’ And so right.

‘You want to cop out of the human race, then? You can’t just hide away, secure because you are not involved, not risking.’

‘I have. I am.’

‘Just because your father let your mother down it doesn’t mean you can’t find love.’

‘If not him, who?’ I laugh but my voice is unnaturally high.

‘What?’

‘If my father couldn’t love me, which man can?’ I’m going for closure.

‘I’d like to have a go.’

Bingo.

Fuck no.

It’s unnecessary. I want to sleep with him. But he doesn’t need to lie to me. He doesn’t need to give me a cheesy line about love. I’m surprised. I thought he was above that. And it is obviously a cheesy line because he can’t mean that he wants to have a relationship with me. I’ve spent the last three days telling him how little I believe in, or care for, such things. Not that this is the first time that I’ve been faced with this kind of declaration. Men are always telling me they love me. Always have done. But I know they don’t mean it and sometimes they know they don’t mean it, too. It’s just a rather rudimentary ritual. It’s more polite than just asking for a fuck. I rarely sleep with men who go for the love angle, unless I’m certain they don’t mean it. If I suspect they do mean it, I forgo the sex and turn them into good friends – using their devotion for practical purposes whenever my lawn needs mowing or my garage needs clearing.

But Darren’s different.

I don’t think he would talk of love unless he was serious. But then, how can he be serious after all I’ve said? I do want to sleep with him because I fancy him like mad. But I can’t possibly sleep with him if I think it means more than just sex to him. It will only get complicated. I don’t want to hurt him. He’s a nice guy. I must be absolutely transparent about how I feel about him.

If only I knew.

‘I don’t think you are the right man to try and love me, Darren,’ I grin brightly. It’s a fake grin and fake brightness.

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, you’re not my type.’

‘Why not?’

Why not! Why not? God, this guy is arrogant. ‘Well, you’re a bit too serious and, erm, homely, for me.’ Darren looks at his empty cup. I feel like the bitch everyone says I am. I try to make amends. ‘I’m not saying I don’t fancy you. I do fancy you. I’d be happy to fuck.’

‘Sex is not supposed to be separate from love.’ Darren stares at me horrified and yes, I think it is disgust I can see there. Well, that should make things simpler.

‘Aghh, but I’ve had great uncomplicated sex.’ I try to cheer him.

‘Yes, but have you ever made love? All that variety. The flings, the shags, the affairs, the nameless wonders—’ He waves his hand, dismissing the men in my past, just the way I do. ‘You’ve never had love. It’s just too easy to avoid.’

‘I don’t need it,’ I say matter-of-factly.

‘You think you are so brave, don’t you, Cas?’ I never indulge in these conversations. They lead nowhere. They lead to— ‘Well, you’re not. Being brave is trusting. Being aloof is easy.’ I stifle the yawn. Go, Einstein. I reassure myself that it is only his pride that is hurt. ‘You use your parents and your career to avoid intimacy because you are scared.’

‘Did you go to college to come up with that?’

We glare at each other over the single bud vase with the plastic flower and the empty wine bottle that is doubling as a candleholder. I know enough about men to realize that pursuing this scenario is going to waste my time. Darren’s too intense. Someone would get hurt. Yes, he’s a shag, undeniably fanciable, but it’s not worth it. He has bunny boiler written all over him. He obviously cares for me and I simply can’t allow myself to feel the same way. I admit it would be tempting to allow myself to believe that the intensity and the caring could last. But it simply doesn’t. And what if I do feel the same? What if I do… care for him? Where would it lead? Nowhere, that’s where. I’ve got to be brutal to be benevolent.

‘You are obsessed with love. It’s not your fault. It’s popular culture. You’re right, TV does have a lot to answer for. This ridiculous ideal, which doesn’t exist, is touted in every song, poster and book. I’m sure if the Beatles had sung songs about world peace we’d be war free by now.’

‘They did.’

‘Oh, well not just the Beatles, then, but everyone.’ I try to joke but he remains deadly serious. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook.

‘Do you know what I think? Searching for love, the One, it’s such a lot of wasted energy. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for the human race. I think we should move on. I blame Shakespeare! Love, it’s insane. Get the bill.’

It’s excruciating. Darren and I travelled home from the restaurant in silence. I went to bed immediately. This morning I had my breakfast with Linda; Darren was out walking the dog. It’s pouring. I packed and he came home to drive me to the station. We’ve travelled the entire distance without using a double-syllabled word. It’s a disaster. Being here is a disaster. Opening up is a disaster. Teasing Darren is a disaster. I take solace in the fact that soon I’ll be on the train to King’s Cross. I can go directly to the studio and make my peace with the increasingly irate Bale. I can finish the filming and manage the editing for this week’s show and by Saturday night I won’t even remember Darren’s name. I am determined that he’ll be consigned to history.

We arrive at Darlington station. The only sound is the swish of the overworked windscreen wipers. Darren gets out of the car with me. He goes to see when the train is expected and I wait on the platform. He comes back, looking yet more miserable and pitiful than before.

‘We’ve got nearly an hour to wait. I’m sorry, I should have checked the timetable before we set off.’

‘It’s OK. I should have done that.’ We fall silent again. ‘You don’t have to stay. I can wait in the café.’ The plan is that Darren is spending the rest of the week with his family. He isn’t due back in London until Sunday night. I’m relieved – I couldn’t stand having to do the entire journey with him in silence.

‘I’d rather wait. To see you safely on the train.’

‘Make sure I do leave, hey?’ I try to joke but I suddenly feel horribly lonely. Inexplicably, I realize I don’t want to leave things like this. I don’t want to get back on the train and go home to my flat. I don’t want never to see Darren again. I’ve been kidding myself. This wasn’t ever about whether Darren appeared on the show or not. His appearance would have made a strong show. His devastating good looks would force me into tuning into The Generation Game, so I can only imagine the meltdown effect he’d have on the rest of the British population, yet he’s not, nor was he ever, essential to the show. We have replacements. I came to Whitby because I wanted to be with him. I don’t understand why I did, but I did.

I still do.

Is he going to leave me alone here on the platform? If he does, I’ll scream. He’s staring at the ground. I follow his gaze and try to concentrate on what he’s saying.

‘As a child I used to think petrol puddles were rainbows that were a casualty of a nasty road accident.’ He smiles shyly, seeing how I’ll relate to such an intimate confession. He’s expecting something cutting that would prevent an outpouring of memories. After all, memories only lead to knowledge and intimacy. The danger of liking the person. But suddenly I face it. I want to know more about this man. I want to know everything. What was the name of the teacher he had his first crush on? There must have been one. Who are his friends? Why does he have that little scar above his eye? Does he like pesto? Does he hate mushy peas? What does he think about amusement arcades? What does he fear most? What’s he like in bed? Who is he going to fall in love with next?

Is there still a chance it could be me?

What?

‘Should we go for a coffee?’

I agree immediately.

Darren doesn’t want to go to the station café but opts for a small ‘Italian’ café run by Iranian refugees. Their Italian accents are worse than mine but their cappuccinos are convincing. We sit on the sticky wooden benches and face each other over the tiny Formica table. So tiny that our heads are almost touching. But then this is OK, as the cappuccino machine is making so much noise that I’d have to lean close to hear him anyway.

‘About last night – I want to apologize,’ I offer. I’m not sure what I want to apologize for but I know that I feel awful. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for my toing and froing. I’m sorry for my ice-maiden act. And most of all that I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to trust him.

‘No, I should apologize. I rushed things.’ And whilst the words are kind the tone is curt.

‘It’s just that we hardly know each other.’ This comes out sounding like another criticism and I want it to be an explanation for my caution.

‘I wasn’t proposing, Cas. I was just suggesting that we could try to get to know each other. I admit I was a bit hamfisted. But look, it doesn’t matter. You made your feelings perfectly clear.’

But I didn’t, did I? I couldn’t have because I can’t. Make things clear. It’s mud. I want him. I fancy him. I respect him. I like him. He intrigues me. I’m in trouble. It strikes me, as I sit in yet another one of our silences, that our relationship to date, such as it is, has been a series of rows and silences. Which proves my point that intimacy always leads to cruelty and aggro. I look at Darren and he looks dejected and delicious. I am unaware of anything other than my pulsing sex, aching breasts and throbbing lips, all of which could be relieved if he’d just kiss me. He’s not going to and I can’t be tortured like this any longer. I stand up and I swear the room is partying. I put my hand on the table to steady myself. It’s hot in this tiny café.

‘Look… goodbye… and… thanks for the coffee.’

It’s frantic and hurried and amazing. He touches my hand. He’s not trying to restrain me. But he has. I’m rooted. His finger is resting gently on my wrist. I’m shackled. I’m ignited. I kiss him. He kisses back. Strong and dark. Engulfing. I’ve never kissed before. Or if I have, they were poor dress rehearsals. This is it. All the words that have fallen between us suddenly disappear, they are superfluous. We’re left with naked silence. Stripped to desire. He tosses a few quid on the table and, not waiting for the change, we dash out of the café, into the rain. He points to an alleyway behind the station. I’m already heading that way; I have an in-built mechanism that helps me to locate dark streets and other possible places for fornication. The rain is still pelting down, hitting the pavement and vaulting up again. It falls through the afternoon darkness in nasty, spiky, drops, but I don’t care. In fact, I’m grateful: the vicious elements mean that the streets are empty. I’m boiling over with anticipation. He takes a tight hold on my arm. We cross the road, not checking for traffic. Darren flings me up against the wall, barely pausing to check for privacy, I wrap my coat around him. His lips mesh into mine and we’re kissing so hard I can’t tell them apart. He scrabbles with his flies and then sinks into me. I stare into his eyes and he stares back, never losing me. Not for a second. It feels amazing. It feels important. It feels right.

He’s climbing, he’s filling, he’s plugging. He completes me.

It’s over in minutes.

I’m already scared that this will never be over.