‘Was it a long-term relationship?’
These incessant questions. I hesitate. ‘A couple of weeks.’
‘A couple of weeks.’ His tone is somewhere between incredibility and hilarity. That’s not the script. He’s supposed to be touched by the intensity of the affair. ‘But you said your first lover.’ He seems confused. ‘That must have been—’
‘A long time ago. Yes. I don’t get over things easily. I’m very sensitive.’
He stares at me. We’ve only just met but we both know how untrue this is. Darren’s too polite to openly refute my statement.
‘But you can’t still be getting over an affair that took place over a decade ago and only lasted a few weeks.’
Good point. First time it’s ever been made, which goes to show that the scores of other men who I’ve said the same to weren’t paying attention.
‘What really hurt you?’
This is unique and I haven’t got a practised answer to hand. I look at Darren and his face surprises me even more than his original line of questioning. He seems genuinely concerned. I’m genuinely perplexed. I mean, what can I say? ‘My first lover irritated me but frankly my heart hasn’t ever been broken. I’m just a bitch.’ It seems an unlikely solution. After all, it is the truth. He tilts his head a fraction in my direction. He’s astonishingly close. His long hair is falling in front of his eyes and, although not quite touching my skin, it is touching the hairs on my forehead. There is acid in my knickers. My throat is dry and my breasts are straining upwards, obviously hoping he’ll swoop down and kiss them. Hello, sexual tension. I shake my head.
‘Hmmm?’ he prompts.
‘What?’ My mind has undergone a spring clean and I can’t remember what he asked me. His eyes are fabulous. Brown. A cluster of really rich browns, like autumn leaves piled up under a tree. Suddenly Darren appears embarrassed.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. Erm—’ He scrambles around for a recovery conversation. ‘Tell me about Josh.’
I’m grateful that he’s let me off the hook and garble, ‘Josh is my only male, platonic friend. I’ve known him since we were kids. He has too much dirt on me to risk me falling out with him. He could sell to the press when I’m rich and famous.’
‘Is that your ambition, to be famous?’
‘Isn’t it everyone’s? Frankly I’m confident that Josh wouldn’t do that. Despite all odds, tantrums, time and the tenuous nature of platonic love, Josh and I adore each other. We trust each other and would never hurt one another.’ I pause and consider what I’ve just said. ‘Perhaps this is because of all the tantrums, time and the tenuous nature of platonic love.’ I grin at Darren. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment. Why am I saying this? I’m telling him about myself. I’m being truthful and straightforward. What has possessed me? I hate people knowing more about me than I know about them. I never do this. I try to hide the sudden intimacy in humour. ‘Besides which, I have an incriminating photo of him dressed in suspenders and a basque. He claims this was for a Rocky Horror Show party but I’m not convinced.’
Darren laughs.
The conversation is snappy, intense and truthful. I’m over-whelmed. Darren and I have finished a bottle of wine. We are, in fact, halfway through our second bottle. We drift from topic to topic. My clipboard detailed that he’s a tree surgeon, which apparently means that he is based at London University, where he has an office and a lab but he travels to, well, wherever there is a sick tree by the sound of it. This is at once strange – as it is so individual – and at the same time expected. It’s extremely fitting; I sort of imagine him working outdoors and with his hands. This connection throws me into confusion, as I have images of rolling around a park with him. I see myself picking leaves out of my hair and twigs from my ruffled clothes. Of course he has no idea what I’m thinking but the way he stares at me suggests that he is privy to my X-rated daydream. I struggle to think of anything suitable to say.
‘I’ve never known a tree surgeon.’
He laughs again. I guess that isn’t my best line ever. I try another. ‘Fantastic view of the river from here, isn’t there?’
‘This is one of my favourite buildings in London, actually,’ agrees Darren.
‘Really.’ Bullseye.
‘Yeah, the view is amazing, as you said, and I like the brickwork.’
‘You said one of your favourite buildings. Which others do you like?’ As if I care.
‘My favourite, by some way, is the Natural History Museum, I like everything about it. How and why it was conceived. The structure, the brickwork, the lighting, the contents, the concept.’ How can anyone be this animated by a building full of stuff? Not even stuff you can buy.
‘What’s your favourite building?’ he asks.
‘I haven’t thought about it before. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me.’ I consider it for a moment. ‘Bibendum. You know, the restaurant in South Kensington.’
‘Why?’
I could tell him that I adore the stained-glass windows and the unusual tiling that François Espinasse designed in 1911, but I don’t want him to get the impression that I’m anything other than shallow.
‘It’s kind of a Golden Gate. It heralds the entrance to shop heaven – Joseph, Paul Smith and Conran. Besides which they sell fabulous oysters.’ I smile coolly and he laughs again.
The evening flies by and I am keenly aware that I haven’t really talked about getting him to appear on the show. Which is careless of me – I rarely diversify from my agenda. I drag myself back to the point.
‘So why did you and Claire split up?’
Frankly I’m confused. He’s clever, handsome and filthily sexy. I only have Marcus’s statement, which is an unreliable source. Marcus will have received a sanitized version of events from Claire, which he’ll have distorted in his head with neurotic paranoia. If I can get Darren to reveal the reason why he and Claire split up, I’ll be able to manipulate the facts to justify why he should go on the show.
Besides which I’m interested.
‘We were a casualty of cohabitation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s your phrase? Intimacy breeds revulsion. Well, in our case it certainly bred irritation. We liked one another, even loved one another well enough before we moved in together, and then it started. The rot set in.’
‘What, you started to take each other for granted? Became complacent?’
‘Nothing as dramatic. She didn’t like the way I kept film in the fridge. I hated the way her beauty product things seemed to be procreating all over the dressing table. She hated Sky Sport.’
I gasp, shocked.
‘I loathe soaps.’
I’m horrified. What that girl must have put up with.
‘I like to read in bed. She likes the light out immediately. And then it escalated. She began to hate my friends. I hated her hairs in the bath. She, my laugh. Me, her mother. I’d forgotten all this until I talked to Marcus earlier today. He said she was shopping. I knew that she’d be buying Easter eggs although it’s only January. Her organization was always horribly efficient. I hated it. There was no spontaneity. The truth is, we split up because we weren’t suited. We’re not together because it didn’t work and we shouldn’t be together. Why else do people ever split up? It’s so easy to look back on a past relationship and idealize it.’
Thank God. This is the whole premiss of my programme.
‘I’ve never met anyone as right as Claire was for me but it still doesn’t alter the fact that she wasn’t 100 per cent right.’
‘90 per cent is pretty good.’