Darren laughs.
The conversation is snappy, intense and truthful. I’m over-whelmed. Darren and I have finished a bottle of wine. We are, in fact, halfway through our second bottle. We drift from topic to topic. My clipboard detailed that he’s a tree surgeon, which apparently means that he is based at London University, where he has an office and a lab but he travels to, well, wherever there is a sick tree by the sound of it. This is at once strange – as it is so individual – and at the same time expected. It’s extremely fitting; I sort of imagine him working outdoors and with his hands. This connection throws me into confusion, as I have images of rolling around a park with him. I see myself picking leaves out of my hair and twigs from my ruffled clothes. Of course he has no idea what I’m thinking but the way he stares at me suggests that he is privy to my X-rated daydream. I struggle to think of anything suitable to say.
‘I’ve never known a tree surgeon.’
He laughs again. I guess that isn’t my best line ever. I try another. ‘Fantastic view of the river from here, isn’t there?’
‘This is one of my favourite buildings in London, actually,’ agrees Darren.
‘Really.’ Bullseye.
‘Yeah, the view is amazing, as you said, and I like the brickwork.’
‘You said
‘My favourite, by some way, is the Natural History Museum, I like everything about it. How and why it was conceived. The structure, the brickwork, the lighting, the contents, the concept.’ How can anyone be this animated by a building full of stuff? Not even stuff you can buy.
‘What’s your favourite building?’ he asks.
‘I haven’t thought about it before. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me.’ I consider it for a moment. ‘Bibendum. You know, the restaurant in South Kensington.’
‘Why?’
I could tell him that I adore the stained-glass windows and the unusual tiling that Francois Espinasse designed in 1911, but I don’t want him to get the impression that I’m anything other than shallow.
‘It’s kind of a Golden Gate. It heralds the entrance to shop heaven – Joseph, Paul Smith and Conran. Besides which they sell fabulous oysters.’ I smile coolly and he laughs again.
The evening flies by and I am keenly aware that I haven’t really talked about getting him to appear on the show. Which is careless of me – I rarely diversify from my agenda. I drag myself back to the point.
‘So why did you and Claire split up?’
Frankly I’m confused. He’s clever, handsome and filthily sexy. I only have Marcus’s statement, which is an unreliable source. Marcus will have received a sanitized version of events from Claire, which he’ll have distorted in his head with neurotic paranoia. If I can get Darren to reveal the reason why he and Claire split up, I’ll be able to manipulate the facts to justify why he should go on the show.
Besides which I’m interested.
‘We were a casualty of cohabitation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s your phrase? Intimacy breeds revulsion. Well, in our case it certainly bred irritation. We liked one another, even loved one another well enough before we moved in together, and then it started. The rot set in.’
‘What, you started to take each other for granted? Became complacent?’
‘Nothing as dramatic. She didn’t like the way I kept film in the fridge. I hated the way her beauty product things seemed to be procreating all over the dressing table. She hated Sky Sport.’
I gasp, shocked.
‘I loathe soaps.’
I’m horrified. What that girl must have put up with.
‘I like to read in bed. She likes the light out immediately. And then it escalated. She began to hate my friends. I hated her hairs in the bath. She, my laugh. Me, her mother. I’d forgotten all this until I talked to Marcus earlier today. He said she was shopping. I knew that she’d be buying Easter eggs although it’s only January. Her organization was always horribly efficient. I hated it. There was no spontaneity. The truth is, we split up because we weren’t suited. We’re not together because it didn’t work and we shouldn’t be together. Why else do people ever split up? It’s so easy to look back on a past relationship and idealize it.’
Thank God. This is the whole premiss of my programme.
‘I’ve never met anyone as right as Claire was for me but it still doesn’t alter the fact that she wasn’t 100 per cent right.’
‘90 per cent is pretty good.’
‘She wasn’t even that.’
‘85 per cent,’ I suggest.
‘Nearer 65 per cent.’ There is an unaccountable warm glow of delight in my stomach. He’s right, 65 per cent doesn’t sound like the One.
If you believe in the One.
Which I don’t.
‘So you are really over her?’ I’m disproportionately anxious to hear his reply. Which I hate myself for.
‘Yes.’
‘Then what harm can there be in appearing on the show? Can’t you just tempt her and leave it at that?’
Darren forces his mouth into a wry grin. Does he think I’m joking?
‘You just don’t get it, do you, Cas? Your show’s a travesty. Besides which, I loved her once. Why would I want to hurt her? I doubt she’d be tempted by me—’
‘I think she would,’ I interrupt enthusiastically.
‘Thank you.’ Darren’s face relaxes into the widest smile I’ve seen all evening. Ever, in fact.
Arrogant bugger!
‘I didn’t mean it as a compliment,’ I mutter sulkily into my plate. Unperturbed, his smile widens an unfeasible fraction further.
‘I’ll take it as one anyway.’
I scowl but try to appear unflustered by playing with the stem of my wine glass, caressing it as though it were a brand new pashmino. ‘Well, if you are convinced that Claire wouldn’t fall, the programme might be good for her and Marcus. We did have one couple, before Christmas, who managed to resist.’
‘Yes, I read about that. TV6 turned their wedding into a media frenzy,’ says Darren with obvious disgust. ‘That must have been marvellous for the ratings. Cas, haven’t you been listening to me? It’s not about whether she would want me or not. Any association with
He believes all this. I look at him, this six-foot-two specimen of pure sex, sitting in front of me. I don’t understand him. He seems to be from another era. One that is perhaps a little more genteel. And trusting.
And pointless.
I try to think about my initial strategy.
‘Look, Darren, this show isn’t just about entertaining the general public. There are a lot of other serious issues hanging in the balance here.’
‘Such as?’
‘My job, the jobs of about thirty-five other people, advertising revenues.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Darren calls the waitress and asks for the bill. It’s time to go. I’m disappointed. The restaurant maybe empty but I don’t want to leave. I try to think of something else that will be damaged if the show doesn’t go ahead. There’s my ratings-related bonus. I don’t think it’s wise to mention this. I sigh, resigned. The quiet
