But then I’m not sure if I am irritated.
Odd.
I can’t remember when last I was so unsure about so many things. I want to tell Darren that I feel better for my marathon sleep. Better than I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. I want to tell him that I seem to have woken up with a new and startling sense of clarity and whilst I don’t agree with his point of view, I do accept it. Grudgingly, I respect it. He’s argued his case well. But I can’t say this because if I do, how will I explain that I want to stay an extra night? How will I explain that, despite my expectations, I like it here? It’s peaceful.
And terrifying. I am trying to be honest with myself, at least. I thought my battle was with Darren. But now I see that, if it was, I’ve lost.
I do like him.
He’s sexy, witty and intelligent, which I’ve come across before. But more than that, he’s also gentle, decent and straightforward, which is an entirely new experience for me. I do like him, very much, and by admitting as much I realize that I have a whole new war to wage. I fear my opponent is much tougher, more devious and ruthless than Darren could ever be. I’m at war with myself. I like him, but hate myself for doing so. Because isn’t this what I’ve been studiously avoiding all my life ? I know I should pack my bag immediately and get on the train back to London. I should take myself well away from this danger zone.
But I can’t.
I know if I leave now, Darren will always be with me. I’d wonder if he were for real. I’d fantasize, despite myself, that his outlook on life – open, honest, optimistic – is a possibility. I’d be ruined.
If I stay, there is a reasonable chance that Darren will expose his true self, which surely can’t be as amazing as I currently believe. All I can do is maintain the cool exterior, which I’ve nurtured for twenty-six years, and hope that by spending more time with Darren I begin to bore of him. Not my strongest strategy ever, but my preferred option by virtue of the fact that it’s my only option.
We begin to walk along the shoreline. I expect and dread that we’ll settle into an uncomfortable silence. Instead Darren chats happily. He’s nauseatingly well informed about the local sites and history.
‘Lewis Carroll is reputed to have written much of Alice in Wonderland whilst sitting on these sands looking out to sea.’
‘Really?’ I don’t turn to see where he’s pointing.
‘In Roman times a signal station was likely to have been erected on this spot.’
‘Fascinating.’ I’m rather pleased with the tone I hit. It’s an enthusiastic enough word choice but the manner I deliver it in hints that I’ve had more fun scouring ovens.
‘Let’s head to Flowergate. We can pop into the Sutcliffe Gallery.’
He drags the girls and me around a billion sepia pictures. After staring at four million, seven hundred and forty-five of them I begin to admire his tenacity. The shots are absorbing, but I’m doing my level best not to betray that I think so. Darren matches my feigned disinterest by feigning oblivion to it. This game-playing is exhausting, even for a pro like me. We move on, crossing the river. Darren points to a church in the distance.
‘The original dates from 110 AD. Can you see the graveyard? That’s where Dracula is allegedly buried.’ I smile to humour him.
‘And that’s St Hilda’s Abbey, isn’t it?’ I ask.
Darren nearly keels over with shock. ‘Absolutely.’
I’m gratified that he doesn’t ask how I know this but instead assumes that I’m one of those terribly impressive people who know all sorts of facts about a diverse range of places and topics. A person like Darren. He’s so obviously delighted with me that I can’t resist elaborating.
‘Did you know that the original abbey housed both men and women, but was destroyed by the Danes?’
‘In 867,’ he adds, nodding his head enthusiastically. It’s so cold I can almost see ice in his hair but his smile shoots spears of warmth through the town. There’s a direct hit in my knickers. I reflect on this and consider jumping into the river and swimming away, a long way away. Less dramatically, I resume my commentary. ‘Hilda was a relative of King Oswt’s, wasn’t she?’
‘Correct.’ Darren is orgasmic. Knowledge is power. Luckily he doesn’t ask where I gained such a detailed grasp of the history of his home town, Smallsville. He’s so ridiculously pleased. A little part of me would hate to disappoint him. Truth is, Fi sent me a text message through my mobile with this and a number of other facts about Whitby. We always research our subjects thoroughly.
‘Would you like a closer look at the abbey?’ he asks. The abbey is on a cliff top. I could do with the workout. I nod and we set off. ‘What do you think of Whitby?’
I think it’s cold and I think it’s unfashionable. I never thought I’d be pleased to see a Woolworths’ and greet it as though it was Harrods’ food hall. But just as I’m about to say this I turn to Darren. He’s looking out to the sea. It’s shimmering turquoise and lustrous waves are breaking on the sand, which looks pink and peach by turn. I can’t see any of the greyness that had been so prevalent earlier.
‘It’s overwhelming,’ I mutter, which is at once truthful and vague enough to satisfy.
Darren grins widely. ‘Isn’t it? I knew you’d love it. It’s such a riot of colour and smell and sound. My senses feel electric.’
His skin looks cold and transparent, which is perfect for hanging on such strong, jilting cheekbones. My senses feel electric, too, but I’m not sure that it has much to do with the smell of fishing nets and creosote. We begin to walk through the cobbled streets. The children surprise me by not whining about having to climb up a couple of hundred steps; in fact, they are keen to do so – they want to look at old gravestones. Darren doesn’t seem to think this is at all odd, so I can only assume it’s a northern thing. The walk takes quite some time, as I go to extreme lengths to avoid being anywhere near a seagull. I swear Whitby seagulls are baby elephants in fancy dress. I’m almost deafened by their constant, hungry squawking. They look fierce, and whilst it may be lucky to be used as a bird’s public toilet, it’s a pleasure I can do without. I buy ice creams for the children and me. Darren’s determined to act his age and points out that it’s freezing. Charlotte looks at him pityingly, as though he is a lost soul. I can smell fish and chips or, more specifically, I can smell vinegar seeping into newspaper and, as we climb higher, I can smell smoke from the chimneys. It’s different.
We finally reach the church and whilst the girls run off to find Dracula’s tomb I puff furiously on a cigarette, not caring if it’s taking me one step nearer to joining Drac.
‘Have you heard from the studio?’ asks Darren.
‘Oh yes. Dozens of calls. They can’t seem to muddle through without me.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ I don’t tell him that Fi has found a replacement for him. Because if I do tell him, he’s bound to ask me why I’m still here.
‘I’m sure they can’t do without you, Cas. I mean such an intellectually challenging programme needs your unique input.’
I’m stung. I thought we were having a nice time, even amongst the tat and bric-à-brac. I’m trying – why can’t he?
‘Why do you hate me, Darren?’ I ask directly.
He looks genuinely surprised. He must be taken aback by my straightforward approach.
‘I don’t hate you. Hike you. I just don’t like the programme.’
Hmmm. He likes me.
Hmmm. Obviously not enough. Part of me wants to change the subject. Talk to him about the jet or herring industries. Indeed both those subjects suddenly appear riveting. But I can’t. Darren has thrown down the gauntlet; in fact, he’s spat at the family crest. I have to respond.