‘You don’t change, do you?’ he asks.
In fact, I do. I have. And if I tell him I’m engaged that would prove it.
My mouth is welded together.
I wait for him to walk away but he doesn’t. Instead he asks, ‘What did you think about that article on Ian Schrager’s latest hotel?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Or the one on the Balinese spas?’ He is referring to the web pages he’s e-mailed to me. The one on the spas was the last one he sent, nine weeks ago. ‘It’s just you never said.’ Darren stares at me and his stare could shatter granite. Every one of his e-mails had been selected with peculiar care. They always referred back to some conversation we’d had in the halcyon period. The two weeks when we behaved as a couple. The two weeks when we were a couple.
I cough up my voice. ‘I – I often visit the Starsky and Hutch site.’ The side of his mouth twitches a fraction. ‘And the one about historical Oscars. In fact all the articles were interesting.’
Darren nods. It’s a tight, tense nod. Hardly perceptible. I need a drink. I daren’t move towards a champagne tray, in case Darren takes the opportunity to leave, so instead I flag down a waiter and insist he fetches us a couple of glasses.
Darren accepts the glass but he doesn’t look comfortable.
‘What should we toast to?’ he asks.
I consider suggesting that we could toast to my engagement.
But I don’t.
‘To, er, you. You look well. Let’s toast to you,’ I suggest.
‘No. That would be far too unchivalrous. How about to
‘Proposing we toast to us seems a bit off key,’ he snipes.
‘Suppose so,’ I mutter reluctantly.
‘I’ve got it. Here’s to
I catch his eye. ‘Er,
I can’t believe my luck. I keep expecting him to make his excuses and go and talk to someone else but he doesn’t leave my side. Instead he attentively fills my glass, fetches me caviar, walks the room with me, allows me to introduce him to innumerable colleagues. He stands outside with me when I feel overwhelmed by the heaving throng and then he dances with me when I feel so happy that all I want to do is fling my body in random, jerky movements to the thumping bass. He stays right by me, carefully watching my every action, listening to my conversations with other people, and he seems to be happy to do this. We both behave as though we’ve seen each other every day for the last six months. Darren doesn’t publicly rebuke me for my terse note and sudden disappearance; he doesn’t refer to a single aspect of my despicable and undoubtedly confusing behaviour. I don’t know what to make of this. Am I so insignificant to him that he can’t even summon up the curiosity to ask me why I behaved so strangely? But if that is the case, why spend the evening with me? If I were more trusting, the only conclusion I could draw is that he wants answers but he won’t embarrass me in front of my colleagues by demanding them. He’s too polite. He cares too much.
Believing that he cares at all sends me into a state of near hysteria.
Throughout the evening he is a delight. He charms and amuses everyone. He chats to Debs, Di and Jaki, who are enraptured with his good looks and general affability. Trixxie stands speechless, with her jaw hanging open as she listens to his theories on why women find Robson Green irresistible.
‘She’s literally mesmerized by you,’ I tease him.
‘No, it’s drugs,’ he grins modestly.
I watch as Darren works his sorcery on the celebs who normally make it a rule not to be impressed by or even civil to anyone other than their next pay cheque. He grips the ‘gentlemen’ of the press by quoting their own articles back to them and having an informed opinion on the broadest range of subjects – anything from the ins and outs of India’s election systems to the GDP per capita in Japan. He even impresses Bale, who, desperate to meet Darren, follows him around the room and contrives to collide in the urinals. In our two weeks together I’d painted a bleak, but accurate, picture of Bale which must now be colouring Darren’s judgement. Whilst happy to talk to everyone from the bar staff to the chairman, Darren steadfastly avoids Bale and won’t treat him to more than a casual wave across the room. And whilst everyone is captivated by Darren, I am bewitched. He is just as funny and interesting and polite and sincere as I remembered.
He is more sexy.
I feel as though I am swimming in champagne. Bubbles of euphoria zip through my body where blood and lungs and my nerve system used to be. I feel giddy and light-headed and light-hearted too.
Fuck – what if someone tells him about the engagement before I can?
I saw my way through the crowd of women who are congregating around him. It’s slow progress and so I eventually whisper to one of them that Robbie Williams has just arrived. Fickle, they rapidly disperse, leaving Darren to me again. He looks relieved.
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yeah, it’s great meeting your friends.’ There’s a ‘but’ in his voice and I’m glad.
‘Fancy going somewhere less frantic?’
He agrees immediately.
We leave the party and start to stroll aimlessly along the river. We take a similar route to the one we took in January, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. We walk on to Westminster Bridge and stop to look at the London Eye.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ comments Darren.
‘Very,’ I agree.
‘This is what I love about London. The space, the crowds, the progress, the history. The morphing culture.’
So he starts to tell me about what he does with his time in London and how he ended up here in the first place, why he left Whitby and also how much he misses and loves it. I ask him about his family and he gives me their news. Sarah’s expecting another baby and Richard and Shelly had a lovely wedding day. He shows me a photo of Charlotte receiving her certificate for swimming twenty-five metres. The image of her tiny, wet and shivering body, erect with pride, makes me smile. I ask dozens of questions but he can’t give me enough information. I hadn’t known I could miss anyone so much.
‘They often ask about you,’ he says.
‘Do they really?’ I’m aglow.
‘Yeah, they have a pet name for you.’
‘What?’ I ask tentatively, not sure that I want to know.
‘Naomi Campbell,’ he grins.
I start to laugh. ‘I’m going to pretend that is because of my fetish for shoes and modelesque looks rather than my stunning ability to throw a hissy fit.’
Darren laughs nervously, too frank to confirm or deny my suppositions. His nervousness makes me laugh louder. I’m laughing at myself and it’s OK because I’m part of the Smith family jokes. He tells me how his sick trees are and makes me laugh again with descriptions of his new flatmate. We talk and walk for hours. We leave the river at Charing Cross and start to head to St James’s Park; we pass Buckingham Palace and march on to Hyde Park.
I can’t remember exactly when he took hold of my hand. I think it was when we crossed the Mall. I have never held any man’s hand in public. It’s so territorial, so tacky. Their hands are always clammy and it’s difficult to walk in a straight line with someone hanging on to you.
Don’t let go.
I’m firing on all cylinders. It’s been a particularly warm evening, so there are still hundreds of people on the streets. Including the terrorists of the speed walker – tourists, roller bladers and pensioners. But tonight their
