‘How do you know? When did you know? Oh God, Cas, how amazing.’
I smile, making the most of my moment.
‘It was when we booked into the country hotel. Terrible place, floral carpets and cluttered reception, covered in flyers advertising darts matches and provincial craft shows. He had a bag with him.’
Issie looks uncertain. I clarify.
‘He’d packed condoms, toothbrush and clean boxers. So besides being mouthwateringly desirable, interesting, intelligent, moral and funny (all admirable qualities but not the ones that normally fly my kite) I realized he was presumptuous and cunning too.’
‘Jackpot,’ she smiles.
‘Exactly,’ I confirm, and I can’t help it – I actually clap my hands.
I luxuriate in the memories and Issie is bathing in possibility.
‘Did you know we’d end up here?’ I’d asked. He dribbled champagne (house, but who cares) into my mouth from his, silencing me momentarily.
‘I didn’t absolutely know.’ Mischievous.
‘But you expected it?’ Disgruntled.
He moved his lips from mine and attached them to my nipple, whilst he poured more champagne into my tummy button. He inched towards the alcohol lake, kissing and caressing my shoulder, my collarbone, my waist. He lapped up the champagne whilst I silently thanked my personal trainer – the two hundred sit-ups a day were worth it.
‘I didn’t expect it. I hoped for it. I told you, I’m an optimist,’ Darrengrinned.Hislipswerewetwithchampagneandmycum.
Artful audacity is the icing on the cake. Suddenly Darren seemed dangerous. When had he got ahead of me in our sexual chess game? Had he won? Had I? Could we both?
It seems unlikely.
Cold, steely fear puts a hand around my throat, the grip tightens, squeezing the happiness out of me. My heart, which has been residing in the roof of my mouth, plummets. What have I done? What
It would be nonsense.
I won’t do it.
I can’t do it.
This is the worst thing that could have happened. Because now I believe in all the stuff on TV, radio, novels and cinema. It’s true. You do know when you meet the One.
Your muse, your purpose, your explanation of life.
And suddenly life is shiny and glossy and worthwhile. But if the films and songs are right about falling in love, the chances are they can offer some insight into the outcome of entertaining such emotions.
Pain.
Lots of it.
Isn’t my mother living proof?
Every second I was with Darren was exhilarating. Reliving it now, every second is heartbreaking as I’m plagued with thoughts of what could go wrong. When he said he loved me I was blissed out, ecstatic but now I’m petrified. When Darren was with me I believed it. I believed it all, the happily ever after, the possibility that everlasting love is an option. But my confidence is ebbing away. It’s unrealistic to expect Darren to stay with me every minute of every day but when he’s not with me I’m too small to fight my own demons. It was OK in Whitby when we were constantly with each other – of course he couldn’t be unfaithful or leave me. But now… where is he now? Maybe he’s not in the Cotswolds. Maybe he’s with another woman. The reality is that love never lasts; falling in love is asking to be hurt, deceived and betrayed. I feel naked. I look at Issie but she’s oblivious to the sudden cold chill in the air. I know she’s thinking that if this happened to me, absolutely anything is possible.
But it’s not.
‘Of course, it can’t go on,’ I state, making my mind up only in the seconds that the words form in my mouth.
‘What?’
Turns out Issie’s lottery ticket got thrown out with the garbage. Shame.
‘It’s impossible.’ My tone is more certain than my mind.
‘But you’ve just said you love him,’ Issie is spluttering.
‘I do,’ I snap. ‘At this moment I love him completely, utterly, desperately, clichedly. But if I carry on like this the next thing you’ll know is that I’ll be giving him a pet name and wanting his babies.’ I sound more harsh and resolute than I feel. I hope my voice convinces my heart.
‘And what’s so terrible about that?’
If I’m not mistaken she actually has tears in her eyes or perhaps her contacts are playing up. Poor Issie.
‘Well, let’s take it through to its logical conclusion, shall we? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I care for him more than he cares for me?’
‘But from what you said he sounds besotted.’
‘Well, men always are at first, aren’t they?’ Even Issie should know this. Especially Issie. ‘Then when the girl’s hooked they stop calling. The power in every relationship sits with the person who cares least.’
‘That’s where you go wrong, thinking that relationships are about power.’
‘I don’t go wrong, Issie.’ I lay a heavy emphasis on the ‘I’. ‘This would never have happened if I’d stayed in town. It’s just that Whitby was, I don’t know, beautiful, romantic.’ I continue to search for the correct word, ‘different’.
‘Cas, are you sure it’s the scenery and not him that you are talking about?’ I glare at her. ‘He sounds genuine,’ she pleads.
‘OK, well, scenario number two. Assuming he feels the same way that I do—’
‘He does, doesn’t he? I know you think he does,’ squeals Issie.
I hardly dare suggest it. I think of him nibbling my fingers, brushing my hair, and looking at baby photos of me.
‘Well, for the sake of this argument, let’s say he does. Then what?’
‘You could marry and live Happily Ever After.’
As though it really were that simple. How naive! Issie obviously hasn’t learnt anything from her years of being my friend. I explain it slowly and clearly, as I’m beginning to suspect she’s hard of hearing.
‘There. Is. No. Such. Thing. Yes, we could marry but sooner or later (and it probably would be sooner, as these intense affairs are always the first to burn out) he’d let me down. Or I’d let him down. And that would be hell. If he can make me feel this good’ – as though I was born the moment his dick delved into me – ‘imagine how foul he could make me feel if he left.’
Issie hides her face in her hands. ‘Who are you trying to convince?’
‘No one.’ Me. Me. I’m trying to convince myself, but at the same time I’d be more grateful than Issie could possibly know if she proved my argument is guff. But she can’t because I’m right. I’m certain I’m right. I have to stop this going any further.
‘Cas, you’re thirty-three now, not seven. And just because your parents’ relationship didn’t work it doesn’t mean there can’t be successful relationships.’
I glare at her. Although Issie knows everything about my mother and father’s divorce, we have an unwritten rule that we never discuss it. I am not the type to bleat on Oprah.
‘Issie, one in three households are single-people house-holds. Three in four couples who co-habit split up. Nearly one in two marriages end in divorce. Look at the facts.’ Now that ‘the facts’ have burst (uninvited) into my consciousness they won’t go away.
‘But think about Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. They’ve been married for ever and they are blissful.’
‘That’s one example, Issie.’
‘There’s the Queen and Prince Philip.’ I snort. She’s desperate.
‘There’s Mr and Mrs Brown in the baker’s on
