and I have no desire to be one. And if ever I did have the desire to be one, it wouldn’t be with someone like Darren. He may be good-looking, sexy, funny and intelligent but he’s definitely not my type.
I’m sure he’ll make someone a lovely boyfriend.
The kind of someone who wants a lovely boyfriend.
However, it’s easier to allow the Smiths to think that I’m a girlfriend than explain that actually I want Darren to seduce his ex for the edification and delight of the now astounding 8.9 million viewers. The Smith women take advantage of Darren and Richard’s exit to quell their curiosity.
‘So you and our Darren are friends, then?’ Sarah hovers over the word ‘friends’ for about ten seconds. I concentrate on choosing a biscuit from the heaving plate proffered by Linda. I barely nod my head.
‘Known each other long, have you? It’s just that I don’t recall him mentioning you,’ adds Mrs Smith. I’m glad I’m not into this man – his interfering family would be a nightmare. It’s obvious that they don’t think anyone is good enough for ‘their’ Darren. I imagine that a number of years hence Mrs Smith and Sarah will be checking Darren’s bride’s ability to wash whites whiter than blue white. Awful thought. She’d probably have to sit an exam in pastrymaking before they’d hand him over. Poor Shelly, I imagine that she was subjected to the same hostilities when Richard first brought her home. I look at Shelly, expecting to see the browbeaten shrew of my imaginings. She grins at me cheerfully and confidently kicks a cat off a chair, plonking her own bum in its place.
‘Move it, Tabby.’
Hmmm.
Charlotte’s interrogation lacks subtlety, but then this is forgivable because she’s still wearing Winnie the Pooh matching vest and pant sets. She cuts the preamble. ‘Are you Darren’s girlfriend?’
‘Er, no, I’m not.’ I knew the question was brewing, so why am I blushing?
‘Oh.’ Charlotte is unimpressed. The others are simply perplexed. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ she continues.
‘No.’ I would never, ever have come here if I’d realized that I was going to be humiliated in this way.
‘Poor you,’ says Charlotte, ‘I have. His name is Alan Barker and he sings to me.’ I smile at her encouragingly. She persists, ‘I’m six and a half. Lucy is four. Ben isn’t really a baby. He’s nearly two. How old are you?’
‘Don’t be rude, Charlotte. You should never ask a lady her age,’ says Sarah. Yet she pauses expectantly, waiting for me to answer.
‘Thirty-three,’ I oblige.
I notice that Shelly, Sarah and Mrs Smith exchange furtive glances. They think there is something suspect about a single thirty-three-year-old woman. I wish Darren would stop farting around with that football and come and rescue me.
‘Do you have a sister?’ pursues Charlotte. We haven’t lost eye contact since the interrogation began. I wiggle on my seat trying to get a better view of the back of her scalp; I’m looking for a tattoo of 666.
‘No.’
‘A brother, then?’ asks Lucy.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Lucy climbs on to my knee, as if to console me. I’m a bit nervous – I don’t think I’ve ever had anything so young on my knee before, not even a kitten or a puppy. How will she balance? It appears that Lucy has got experience in this sort of thing. She expertly cuddles into me and begins to suck her thumb. I can feel her breath on my neck. I look around for approval. No one else seems to think it is at all unusual that I have a child on my lap. But it is. People don’t touch me. Not unless they are paid to or it’s sexual. An important distinction. I’m touched by my hairdresser, masseur, acupuncturist and personal trainer for hard cash and by men for a more amorphous fee. But this child is sitting on my lap and holding my hand, and doesn’t appear to want anything from me at all. How odd.
‘So what do you do for a living?’ asks Sarah. I am about to offer to fill in a questionnaire but I notice that Darren and Richard have just come back inside. I bite my tongue.
‘She works in TV,’ jumps in Linda. Linda is the only one who is impressed by my career choice.
‘What exactly do you do in television, then, dear?’ asks Mrs Smith. I give my dummied-down job description, which I assume will be adequate. No one ever really understands what someone else does for a living.