way. I admit it would be tempting to allow myself to believe that the intensity and the caring could last. But it simply doesn’t. And what if I do feel the same? What if I do… care for him? Where would it lead? Nowhere, that’s where. I’ve got to be brutal to be benevolent.
‘You are obsessed with love. It’s not your fault. It’s popular culture. You’re right, TV does have a lot to answer for. This ridiculous ideal, which doesn’t exist, is touted in every song, poster and book. I’m sure if the Beatles had sung songs about world peace we’d be war free by now.’
‘They did.’
‘Oh, well not just the Beatles, then, but everyone.’ I try to joke but he remains deadly serious. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook.
‘Do you know what I think? Searching for love, the One, it’s such a lot of wasted energy. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for the human race. I think we should move on. I blame Shakespeare! Love, it’s insane. Get the bill.’
It’s excruciating. Darren and I travelled home from the restaurant in silence. I went to bed immediately. This morning I had my breakfast with Linda; Darren was out walking the dog. It’s pouring. I packed and he came home to drive me to the station. We’ve travelled the entire distance without using a double-syllabled word. It’s a disaster. Being here is a disaster. Opening up is a disaster. Teasing Darren is a disaster. I take solace in the fact that soon I’ll be on the train to King’s Cross. I can go directly to the studio and make my peace with the increasingly irate Bale. I can finish the filming and manage the editing for this week’s show and by Saturday night I won’t even remember Darren’s name. I am determined that he’ll be consigned to history.
We arrive at Darlington station. The only sound is the swish of the overworked windscreen wipers. Darren gets out of the car with me. He goes to see when the train is expected and I wait on the platform. He comes back, looking yet more miserable and pitiful than before.
‘We’ve got nearly an hour to wait. I’m sorry, I should have checked the timetable before we set off.’
‘It’s OK. I should have done that.’ We fall silent again. ‘You don’t have to stay. I can wait in the café.’ The plan is that Darren is spending the rest of the week with his family. He isn’t due back in London until Sunday night. I’m relieved – I couldn’t stand having to do the entire journey with him in silence.
‘I’d rather wait. To see you safely on the train.’
‘Make sure I do leave, hey?’ I try to joke but I suddenly feel horribly lonely. Inexplicably, I realize I don’t want to leave things like this. I don’t want to get back on the train and go home to my flat. I don’t want never to see Darren again. I’ve been kidding myself. This wasn’t ever about whether Darren appeared on the show or not. His appearance would have made a strong show. His devastating good looks would force me into tuning into The Generation Game, so I can only imagine the meltdown effect he’d have on the rest of the British population, yet he’s not, nor was he ever, essential to the show. We have replacements. I came to Whitby because I wanted to be with him. I don’t understand why I did, but I did.
I still do.
Is he going to leave me alone here on the platform? If he does, I’ll scream. He’s staring at the ground. I follow his gaze and try to concentrate on what he’s saying.
‘As a child I used to think petrol puddles were rainbows that were a casualty of a nasty road accident.’ He smiles shyly, seeing how I’ll relate to such an intimate confession. He’s expecting something cutting that would prevent an outpouring of memories. After all, memories only lead to knowledge and intimacy. The danger of liking the person. But suddenly I face it. I want to know more about this man. I want to know everything. What was the name of the teacher he had his first crush on? There must have been one. Who are his friends? Why does he have that little scar above his eye? Does he like pesto? Does he hate mushy peas? What does he think about amusement arcades? What does he fear most? What’s he like