He is very wrong. I’ve convinced eight primary school teachers, twelve senior school teachers, dozens of fellow students, scores of colleges, numerous girlfriends, exactly fifty-three lovers and my mother. Even Issie, painful as it is for her, admits from time to time, ‘You can be so callous.’ What is this obsession with being soft? Isn’t it obviously asking for trouble? Asking to end up hurt, abused, alone? I like being impenetrable. I don’t want to be discovered.
Darren pauses and stares out at the river. It’s twinkling, which surprises me. I always think of the Thames as a rest point for crap and sanitary towels.
‘You know what I think?’
‘No, bowl me over,’ I sigh.
‘You just want to be discovered. You want someone to make the effort and scratch the surface. You want to be loved. You just want to make it difficult. A modern-day Agamemnon challenge. You are the same as every woman I’ve ever met.’
I didn’t realize Darren could be so insulting.
I look at him and he is gorgeous. The streetlights are reflected in the river. The reflection bounces up to illuminate Darren. He looks like an angel. He smiles and he’s mucky sexy. He looks like a devil. I’ve never come across anything so complex and compelling in my entire life. I realize that it’s going to be more important than ever, and quite possibly harder than ever, to keep up my super-hard bitch act. And whilst my mind is resolving that I won’t let my guard slip for a second, I hear my disloyal tongue say, ‘Oh bugger it. Go on then, show me a good time. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to.’ I grin my challenge. But even I don’t believe me.
9
We meet at King’s Cross station. I spot Darren as soon as the cab sets me down. He stands out like a beacon. But then that’s not so extraordinary as he’s sharing the platform with prostitutes, beggars and commuters. As I approach him he takes my bag from me and briefly kisses me on the cheek. It’s comfortable. It’s unnerving.
‘You look good,’ he murmurs, smiling appreciatively.
‘What, this old thing?’ I shrug.
‘This old thing’ was actually a look achieved after nine hours’ searching through Issie’s wardrobes and mine. I like the final effect. It’s a sort of rock-chic-meets-country-girl ensemble. I think it works, although Issie had doubts. She had questioned whether a six-hundred-quid pony-skin skirt was appropriate for a dash around North Yorkshire. I ignored her advice; after all, she doesn’t read the style pages. She also kept going on about how I’d be cold in a short-sleeved jumper. I explained that my upper arms were really toned at the moment and needed full exposure. She sighed and stuffed another cardigan in my bag. I’m grateful now because? it is freezing on the platform.
Issie had been a bit irritating all round, whilst I packed for this tour of duty. She commented, ‘North Yorkshire sounds very romantic. Isn’t that where the Brontes are from?’
‘Is it? I thought it was Lancashire. Didn’t all the Brontes die spinsters?’ I feigned ignorance. ‘Besides which, we’re going to visit his family. Have you ever known families to be romantic?’
Issie reminded me of the guy she met through her mother, on New Year’s Eve. I reminded her that he never called. ‘So why are you going to Whitby, if you think it’s going to be so dour?’
‘I explained, Issie, I have to get him to agree to be on the show. It’s a matter of professional and personal pride.’
‘Nothing more than pride?’ I’ve been asking myself exactly the same thing all night.
‘I’ve explained, he’d make a great show. He’d silence our few lingering critics.’
‘Nothing more than a great show?’ asked Issie. She didn’t sound as though she believed me. I admit Darren is interesting and funny and ridiculously fanciable. I admit that if Issie were choosing to travel halfway across the globe to visit some guy’s family I’d think it was because she’d fallen for him. But the same can’t be said of me, can it? I’m only doing this for the good of TV6.
‘What else is there?’ I asked, slipping my Manolo Blahnik lilac open-toe shoes into my bag. I would have been extremely grateful if Issie could have answered me; however, she just scowled.
‘It doesn’t sound like you have the faintest chance of getting him to change his mind.’
‘I don’t know, I might have. After all, he agreed to let me shadow him.’
‘Yes, I wonder why he did that. Does he fancy you? I expect he does.’
‘More likely wants the opportunity to save my soul.’
‘Oh lord. His chances are poorer than yours,’ laughed Issie as she walked me to my waiting cab.
Yes, Issie was extremely irritating all round.
*
‘I’ve bought your ticket. Come on, the train is in. Platform Three – we have to run,’ urges Darren.
Despite the fact that we are travelling zillions of miles to (practically) Scotland, the timetable tells me that we will arrive in Darlington in two and a half hours’ time. I’m incredulous, but Darren explains it’s the electric line. I’m still incredulous. What about the obligatory leaves on the track and the right and wrong types of snow? My heart plummets. Even if by some miracle the train does arrive on time, two and a half hours is going to seem like ten and a half. What will I say to Darren? It was OK chatting in the restaurant last night, but I’d had a shedload to drink. But now, in the cold light of day, I’m beginning to regret volunteering to shadow him. I know my chances of persuading Darren to appear on
The train journey is awesome.
Besides buying the ticket, Darren also had the foresight to buy up half the magazines and sweets in WH Smith’s. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me sweets. Big fancy boxes of chocolates, yes, I get those by the dozen. I just pass them on to my mum. She eats some and gives the other boxes to local geriatrics (cellulite not being a major concern of theirs). But Darren hasn’t bought me chocolates in a box. Instead he’s bought the sweets of our childhoods: Jelly Babies, Liquorice Allsorts, Flying Saucers and Sherbet Dib-dabs. Undoubtedly I’ll feel sick by the time the journey is over. Even so, it’s a good call. Instead of the slow and stilted conversation I feared, we have an unlimited avenue in discussing childhood. What were your favourite sweets as a kid? (He remembers Spangles, Space Dust and Cream Soda, he agrees that Snickers definitely used to be bigger and anyway they were Marathons.) What was the first book you read? (Neither of us is sure but, satisfyingly, he’s clearer on his TV viewing habits; he recalls every episode
Reluctantly I acquiesce: he does a great line in small talk.
Grudgingly I have to admit that perhaps we do have some things in common.
But nothing fundamental.
I watch the landscapes change. The parks of the south melt into the woodlands of the Midlands, and in no time at all into the rugged, Gothic hills of the north. Although it’s only mid-morning, the sky in North Yorkshire is mauve with damson clouds. Not the cottonwool clouds of textbooks but strong, imposing smudges, more like a painting a child would make with a thick brush. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.
But then, once you’ve seen a scene, it’s over with. It’s not as though you can wear it.
I call Bale on my mobile to explain what I’m doing. It’s a difficult call, as I have to make it from the minuscule British Rail loo, awash with urine and with a dodgy door lock designed to make occupants nervous.
‘If we get him on the show I’d put money on the fact that hell be a pin-up within weeks and he’ll have his own chat show within months,’ I enthuse to Bale.
That good, hey?’
That good,’ I assert.
‘And do you think Fi will manage?’
