hurried calculations, trying to predict scenarios, outcomes and consequences, Darren is leisurely weighing up the proposition, which he has taken at face value.
‘I was taking the week off work, expecting to be on the show. Now I’m planning on going to see my parents and family.’ With something near reluctance, he sighs, ‘You won’t change my mind but if it helps you out with your bosses, you can join me for a couple of days.’
‘Great.’ I smile. Agreeing before I know whether I mean it. ‘So where do your parents live?’
‘Whitby.’
‘Where?’
He laughs, ‘Whitby, you know, in North Yorkshire.’ No, I don’t know. It sounds a long way off. It sounds a different and uncivilized world. But the show must go on. How bad can it be? I nod and try to appear informed without committing myself.
‘OK, Cas, I’m happy for you to shadow me, if that’s the official term, but I think we’d both have a better time if you started to trust me and enjoy yourself.’
I’m not here to enjoy myself and I don’t do trust. I bite my tongue and resist pointing out either of these pertinent facts.
‘Trust simply leads to disappointment,’ I state frankly.
‘Listen to yourself, Cas. You are not convincing anyone with this super-hard bitch act.’
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 Brontës are from?’
‘Is it? I thought it was Lancashire. Didn’t all the Brontës 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