I’m not sure he means this. I take a deep breath. This conversation is not going in the direction I expected. It’s wrong by about 180 degrees, and Issie isn’t even navigating. I had planned to be beguiling, flirtatious and coquettish. This is usually a successful ruse. Instead I’m behaving like Attila the Hun’s more ferocious big sister. More peculiar still, I actually do want this man to see my point of view. Not simply to get him on the show: suddenly I want him to respect me. Wanting his respect makes it impossible to flirt. How much have I drunk? We both take a break as we sip our wine. It’s a ‘96 Puligny-Montrachet. It’s very fine.
‘Nice wine, good choice,’ I comment.
‘Thank you.’ Darren is not going to be side-tracked. He pursues his line of reasoning. ‘TV has exercised an unanticipated and unprecedented influence. Not since the invention of the wheel has anything been so transforming.’
Someone’s dropped an Alka Seltzer in my knickers. Although I don’t like his argument I am delighted that he sees the importance of TV. So few people do and as I’m passionate about it, I’m thrilled to find someone else who has an opinion, even if it is so condemning. I’m also ecstatic to be debating with him. The sparks, intellectual, emotional and sexual, are all but visible. Darren stares right at me; his divine eyes lock on mine so tightly that I can’t, however hard I try, break his gaze.
‘You must see how influential TV is, and therefore what a responsibility you hold. Your programmes articulate the world we live in. You’re saying that deception is OK, infidelity par for the course.’
We sit, sulky and silent. Listening to the clink of bottles and cutlery, and the hum of indistinguishable voices. Indistinguishable, that is, except for the table next to ours, where I can definitely hear the nervous pleas of a guy who is being ditched. The waitress brings our food. I sip my soup, carrot and coriander. It’s not particularly a favourite of mine but it was top of the menu and I didn’t have time to think about my selection. He is chasing skinny bits of courgette around his plate. He doesn’t seem much interested in his food either. The silence is thunderous.
‘So what else do you do, Cas?’
The sudden change of conversation throws me. Else? Else? Er. I’m too exhausted to think of anything creative, flirty or interesting so I plummet for the truth.
‘My friends Issie and Josh, the gym and men. Oh, and my mum – on a Sunday.’
Darren laughs. ‘So nothing conventional like stamp collecting or mud wrestling then?’
I smile. ‘I’ve tried mud wrestling.’
He laughs again. ‘Tell me about the men, Cas.’
There is another tiny pulse in my groin. Is he flirting with me?
Please.
‘Men fall into three categories for me. Those I’d sleep with. Those I wouldn’t and Josh.’
‘So who wouldn’t you sleep with?’
He is flirting!
Or maybe he’s just trying to get a handle.
Why don’t I know? I always know men.
‘My friends’ boyfriends and husbands, ugly or stupid men, and men I’ve already slept with.’ He moves his fork fractionally, indicating that he is interested and that I should carry on. ‘My friends’ boyfriends are safe because, despite the world being awash with infidelity and deceit, I don’t do that to my friends.’ This is true and the nearest I have to a moral code. ‘Besides which they just aren’t appealing.’
He raises an eyebrow again. Which is such a cliche and, regrettably, soooooo sexy.
‘I’m not saying anyone who would go out with my mates must be unattractive, far from it. It’s just that my friends and I tell each other
I wonder if he’s noticed that, by definition, he is a man I’d sleep with?
‘You seem to have it all worked out.’ I nod. Which causes his grin to broaden into a smile. Is he being ironic? ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Ask away and then I’ll decide if I’ll answer.’ In my experience, the questions people ask are just as telling as the answers they give.
‘Have you been unlucky in love, as they say?’ He blushes. ‘I mean, I only ask because I was wondering why you have such a mercenary attitude towards love.’
I choose not to take offence.
‘Of course I’ve been unlucky in love. If you meet a woman who hasn’t been unlucky in love, look for the little electronic chip behind her ear.’ I always use this line. I grin and fork a mound of food into my mouth. I wonder if he’s the type of man who finds a voracious appetite on a woman a turn-on?
‘So who was he?’ Same old question that all men ask. I have an answer rehearsed.
‘Er, my first lover,’ I bluff. I pause with my fork halfway between my mouth and plate.
The implication is that the memory is so painful that momentarily I can’t eat. Men like to think women are too sensitive to ever fully recover from a broken heart. It fits in with their view of us as delicate flowers.
‘Was it a long-term relationship?’
These incessant questions. I hesitate. ‘A couple of weeks.’
‘A couple of weeks.’ His tone is somewhere between incredibility and hilarity. That’s not the script. He’s supposed to be touched by the intensity of the affair. ‘But you said your first lover.’ He seems confused. ‘That must have been—’
‘A long time ago. Yes. I don’t get over things easily. I’m very sensitive.’
He stares at me. We’ve only just met but we both know how untrue this is. Darren’s too polite to openly refute my statement.
‘But you can’t still be getting over an affair that took place over a decade ago and only lasted a few weeks.’
Good point. First time it’s ever been made, which goes to show that the scores of other men who I’ve said the same to weren’t paying attention.
‘What
This is unique and I haven’t got a practised answer to hand. I look at Darren and his face surprises me even more than his original line of questioning. He seems genuinely concerned. I’m genuinely perplexed. I mean, what can I say? ‘My first lover irritated me but frankly my heart hasn’t ever been broken. I’m just a bitch.’ It seems an unlikely solution. After all, it is the truth. He tilts his head a fraction in my direction. He’s astonishingly close. His long hair is falling in front of his eyes and, although not quite touching my skin, it is touching the hairs on my forehead. There is acid in my knickers. My throat is dry and my breasts are straining upwards, obviously hoping he’ll swoop down and kiss them. Hello, sexual tension. I shake my head.
‘Hmmm?’ he prompts.
‘What?’ My mind has undergone a spring clean and I can’t remember what he asked me. His eyes are fabulous. Brown. A cluster of really rich browns, like autumn leaves piled up under a tree. Suddenly Darren appears embarrassed.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. Erm—’ He scrambles around for a recovery conversation. ‘Tell me about Josh.’
I’m grateful that he’s let me off the hook and garble, ‘Josh is my only male, platonic friend. I’ve known him since we were kids. He has too much dirt on me to risk me falling out with him. He could sell to the press when I’m rich and famous.’
‘Is that your ambition, to be famous?’
‘Isn’t it everyone’s? Frankly I’m confident that Josh wouldn’t do that. Despite all odds, tantrums, time and the tenuous nature of platonic love, Josh and I adore each other. We trust each other and would never hurt one another.’ I pause and consider what I’ve just said. ‘Perhaps this is
