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
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
‘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.
