I have only ever seen him smile when he talks about football, I figure that the commercial director is happy.
Next I plough through my mountain of e-mail. It’s hard to concentrate, because although I’ve instructed Jaki to divert all my calls through to her, I still jump every time my line rings. Which it does about every four minutes. At the end of the day Jaki relays the messages she’s taken. Despite my instructions Darren has rung twice.
I spend the early evening running through interview tapes in the editing suites. I need the best available material for next week’s show. I’m not leaving it to the editor. I’m being conscientious plus to make up for going AWOL.
And to avoid thinking about Darren. It should be easier not to think of his gut-churning smile if I’m busy.
‘You’ve quite a way with these stooges,’ comments Ed the editor.
‘You think so, do you?’ I don’t take my eyes off the monitors.
‘Yeah, you resist being patronizing, talking in short sentences and in single syllables. Quite a gift – the common touch.’
‘No one’s ever accused me of that before,’ I comment drily.
‘No one would guess how terrifying you are.’ Ed looks at me. Nervous, never sure how I’ll take his jokes. I smile mildly and we both concentrate on the interview.
The monitor is showing the film I made the day before I met Darren. The case is one where some bloke left his wife for some girl. The girl is now unsure if she can keep him, even though they plan to marry in a month. She thinks he wants to go back to his wife. This, I suppose, disproves the theory that one wife is as good as the next. I’m interviewing the wife. She’s a rare breed, a shy Scottish woman. Her abrasive vowels rasp, ‘If I were famous it wouldn’t bother me so much – the stained carpet and chipped skirting board. I’d accept that he chose her.’
‘I might be able to give you both.’
That’s my voice on the monitor, offering her false hope. At the time I had thought that a bit of fame and glamour would make her happier. And there was a chance that he’d choose her. But rewatching the tape, just two weeks on, leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Is it right to—? I stop the thought as it’s forming, and for the zillionth time today, I curse Darren.
‘They hate my accent,’ she’s wailing.
‘No, they hate your long legs and massive tits. That’s their motivation. Objecting to your accent is a diversionary tactic,’ I assure.
‘You are a true pro,’ says Ed. ‘Dishing out that sort of compliment is certain to get them on side. She’ll get your man for you now.’
‘Actually, Ed, I just meant it,’ I say as I close the door behind me.
Unusually I decide to take a bus home. I don’t want to be alone in a cab. I don’t want to be alone with me. I don’t want to be me. I’ve never felt so confused and miserable in my life. And yet I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. That’s the worst of it.
I look at my watch and allow myself two minutes thinking about Darren. Twenty minutes later the bus arrives. There is a huge advert for aftershave painted on the side of the bus. The model has a look of Darren. Similar eyes but not as beautiful.
The bus is a mistake because the driver won’t accept my £50 note and laughs when I explain that I don’t carry loose change as it ruins the shape of your pockets. In the end some skinny guy behind me offers up the £1. It’s embarrassing. I am about to glare at him for his impertinence but as I catch his eye I notice that he also looks tired. Maybe he isn’t paying my ride in hope of one in return. Perhaps he just wants the queue to move along.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. He briefly nods, self-conscious about his own act of goodness. He’s probably aware how very un-London he’s being.
I go upstairs and sit at the front. I wish Darren were here with me – we could pretend to be driving the bus. As soon as I have this thought I hate myself. There. See. That’s where this kind of shenanigans leads. Pathetic sentimentality! How do I know that Darren would pretend to be driving the bus? I’m acting like an arse.
Usually public transport is anonymous. That’s why we are