since the invention of the wheel has anything been so transforming.’
Someone’s dropped an Alka Seltzer in my knickers. Although I don’t like his argument I am delighted that he sees the importance of TV. So few people do and as I’m passionate about it, I’m thrilled to find someone else who has an opinion, even if it is so condemning. I’m also ecstatic to be debating with him. The sparks, intellectual, emotional and sexual, are all but visible. Darren stares right at me; his divine eyes lock on mine so tightly that I can’t, however hard I try, break his gaze.
‘You must see how influential TV is, and therefore what a responsibility you hold. Your programmes articulate the world we live in. You’re saying that deception is OK, infidelity par for the course.’
We sit, sulky and silent. Listening to the clink of bottles and cutlery, and the hum of indistinguishable voices. Indistinguishable, that is, except for the table next to ours, where I can definitely hear the nervous pleas of a guy who is being ditched. The waitress brings our food. I sip my soup, carrot and coriander. It’s not particularly a favourite of mine but it was top of the menu and I didn’t have time to think about my selection. He is chasing skinny bits of courgette around his plate. He doesn’t seem much interested in his food either. The silence is thunderous.
‘So what else do you do, Cas?’
The sudden change of conversation throws me. Else? Else? Er. I’m too exhausted to think of anything creative, flirty or interesting so I plummet for the truth.
‘My friends Issie and Josh, the gym and men. Oh, and my mum – on a Sunday.’
Darren laughs. ‘So nothing conventional like stamp collecting or mud wrestling then?’
I smile. ‘I’ve tried mud wrestling.’
He laughs again. ‘Tell me about the men, Cas.’
There is another tiny pulse in my groin. Is he flirting with me?
Please.
‘Men fall into three categories for me. Those I’d sleep with. Those I wouldn’t and Josh.’
‘So who wouldn’t you sleep with?’
He is flirting!
Or maybe he’s just trying to get a handle.
Why don’t I know? I always know men.
‘My friends’ boyfriends and husbands, ugly or stupid men, and men I’ve already slept with.’ He moves his fork fractionally, indicating that he is interested and that I should carry on. ‘My friends’ boyfriends are safe because, despite the world being awash with infidelity and deceit, I don’t do that to my friends.’ This is true and the nearest I have to a moral code. ‘Besides which they just aren’t appealing.’
He raises an eyebrow again. Which is such a cliché and, regrettably, soooooo sexy.
‘I’m not saying anyone who would go out with my mates must be unattractive, far from it. It’s just that my friends and I tell each other everything. By the time I know about their boyfriends picking their toenails, the filthy tricks they get up to with loo brushes, the farting in bed then going under the sheets to smell it, they just aren’t sexy.’ He’s grinning. I’m being serious. ‘Intimacy breeds revulsion. The reason for not sleeping with ugly or stupid men is transparent. Men I’ve slept with have no allure for me. I rarely do repeat performances.’ I pause.
I wonder if he’s noticed that, by definition, he is a man I’d sleep with?
‘You seem to have it all worked out.’ I nod. Which causes his grin to broaden into a smile. Is he being ironic? ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Ask away and then I’ll decide if I’ll answer.’ In my experience, the questions people ask are just as telling as the answers they give.
‘Have you been unlucky in love, as they say?’ He blushes. ‘I mean, I only ask because I was wondering why you have such a mercenary attitude towards love.’
I choose not to take offence.
‘Of course I’ve been unlucky in love. If you meet a woman who hasn’t been unlucky in love, look for the little electronic chip behind her ear.’ I always use this line. I grin and fork a mound of food into my mouth. I wonder if he’s the type of man who finds a voracious appetite on a woman a turn-on?
‘So who was he?’ Same old question that all men ask. I have an answer rehearsed.
‘Er, my first lover,’ I bluff. I pause with my fork halfway between my mouth and plate.
The implication is that the memory is so painful that momentarily I can’t eat. Men like to think women are too sensitive to