‘But it’s my programme. I thought of the concept.’
‘And you are proud of that, are you?’
‘I am. Very. TV6 was in deep trouble until I came up with this. People could have lost their jobs.’
‘Why couldn’t you think of something instructive?’
‘I think this is,’ I nod wryly. ‘It’s a warning, if anyone is sensible enough to listen. Infidelity is out there. I think I’m helping civilization come to terms with itself.’
Didn’t we do this last night? Why bring it up again? I’m never going to agree with him. I know why I wanted him to see my point of view: it was to get him on the show. But why is he so urgent about my seeing his point of view? What can it possibly matter to him? What does he want from me?
‘Your show doesn’t help anyone. It cheats civilization.’ He’s raising his voice. Which encourages me to remain irritatingly calm. I adore the upper hand.
‘It captivates 8.9 million viewers. Actually 9.1 million last show. Di called to tell me.’
‘Oh, I admit that it holds attention, and consumes energy whilst ignoring the fundamentals of life.’ He’s stamping on the pavement and I don’t know if it’s because he’s cold or furious. He’s waving his arms around and a woman, walking her dog, is looking at us.
‘So?’
‘Your programme incessantly touches the audience but on a superficial level.’ I stare at him, uncomprehending. ‘Television doesn’t require any acceptance of responsibility. Every one of your viewers who has hoped for an infidelity has committed a small betrayal of standards. But no one, except the poor sucker on the show, has to answer for his or her actions.’
I touch my temples. I can see his argument but he’s wrong.
‘No, Darren. Television merely reflects and observes society. It should not be blamed for the degeneration. It might not be pretty, but I’m just telling it how it is. Why does it make you so angry?’ I sigh.
‘Why don’t you admit it makes you furious?’ he asks.
I shrug and lick my ice cream. ‘Do you want some?’
‘Go on, then.’ We stop and he licks my ice cream. He has to hold my hand steady to do so, because it’s shaking. It must be the cold. He’s right – I shouldn’t be eating ice cream in January. His tongue is pink and slim.
‘I don’t buy your thing about collective responsibility, society, the greater good, blah blah. Bugger it. The more people I meet, the more disappointments I see.’
‘So who are you responsible for?’
‘Myself. And I look out for my mother, Issie and Josh when I can.’
We both fall silent. I stare at him. Looking directly into his eyes, which I rarely do, at least not when he’s looking back at me. My stomach hiccups. It’s stress.
‘I won’t be on your show.’ And he manages to sound genuinely upset by this. ‘That’s not how I could help you.’ I shrug. To be frank, I’m not even sure I want Darren on the show any more – I’m almost certain I don’t.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m used to helping myself.’ I walk on briskly, not waiting to see if my rebuff hits as deeply as I hope it will. He doesn’t need to know that I don’t need him any more. It’s much worse than that.
I just want him.
I call Bale and am relieved that he’s in a meeting. The best I can do is leave him a message. I lie. I tell him that Darren is very near to agreeing to being on the show, that it’s imperative that I get him to agree and that he can’t call me because the battery on my mobile has run out. I am aware that the opposite is true – in all three cases. But I don’t believe in hell.
When Darren and the girls arrive back home, about ten minutes after me, I am sweetness and light incarnate. I often pull this stunt with men. One minute moody, the next a delight. It makes them grateful. It’s getting late, we’ve missed tea and more criminally we’ve made the girls miss tea. Mrs Smith offers to make sandwiches but I can’t eat. I’m churned up. Sarah takes the kids home for their baths. Mr and Mrs Smith, Shelly and Richard decide to go to the pub. They ask if I want to join them. I’m absolutely desperate for a drink. As soon as I agree to go, Darren grabs his coat and says he’s coming too. He obviously hasn’t done enough baiting for one day.
The pub is heaving. It’s full of raw and rough-looking fishermen. Who, surprisingly, look quite sexy despite their wellies. They wear black skullcaps and oilskins, which are for real, rather than a fashion statement. I seduce the Smiths, offering to buy the drinks, and I even go so far as to join them in drinking the thick, treacly stout that’s obviously their favourite tipple. The pub is filthy, tasteless, well worn and patently loved. Remarkably, I soon forget the sticky, ripped lino that curls to expose a far stickier wooden floor, I ignore the tattered cushions, ragged flock wallpaper and frayed rugs as I melt into alcoholic oblivion. By my second pint, try as I might, I can’t find anything shabby. Instead I’m surrounded by laughter, warmth and goodwill. It swirls like cigarette smoke, sticking to my hair, clinging to my clothes and penetrating my essence. By my third pint Mr Smith (senior) seems the wisest man I’ve ever known. His stories about Whitby are fascinating and his silences are profound. I forget my fears that the locals probably still indulge in cockfighting and even say so to Mr Smith. I try to dilute my prejudice by admitting it’s entirely unfounded.
‘Prejudice is rarely anything else,’ he comments.
Shelly and Mrs Smith seem actively jolly. We play several riotous games of dominoes and I win, which satiates my competitive streak for the evening. Richard is gregarious and well informed. He’s heard from Darren that I have ‘extensive local knowledge’. Much to my amusement he tumbles my source. ‘Someone from your studio told you about the abbey, did they?’ I nod, nervous that he’s blown my cover with Darren. He winks conspiratorially, taps his nose and adds, ‘Mam’s the word.’ I’m so grateful I want to kiss him. And Darren?
Darren is unprecedented.
Darren is all the above. He is sexier than the fishermen. His anecdotes are more wise, fascinating and profound than his father’s. He’s more fun than the Smith women, even at their most jolly. He’s charmingly competitive. He is more discreet than Richard – I don’t think anyone else notices him rest his hand on my knee. Like the happy atmosphere, he immerses me. He clings harder and longer than anything I’ve ever known.
Which horrifies me.
I’m drunk. But not too drunk, as I already hope the hangover comes with a sense of proportion.
At a quarter to nine I announce that I have to go back to pack. Darren says he’ll walk with me and I’m grateful when Mrs Smith says that she wants to go home too. In my slightly woozy state I know that if Darren wanted to touch more than my knee I’d definitely let him. When we arrive home Darren goes straight to the front room. Mrs Smith stays in the kitchen to fold some clean washing into piles for ironing and I drink a reservoir of water.
‘Had a nice day, pet?’ she asks. I nod enthusiastically. ‘You can tell. You’re a proper beauty when you smile. Really gorgeous.’ She leaves me alone in the kitchen, with the compliment for company. I feel brilliant. The word ‘gorgeous’ rolls around my head.
Gooorgeous.
Gorggessss.
Gorgeous.
I receive a lot of compliments – some from men who want to screw me, others from the girls at TV 6 who are too terrified of me not to compliment, and compliments from Mum, Issie and Josh. Mum’s my mum and whilst Issie and Josh are probably genuine enough, those two say nice things about everyone. In my book, indiscriminate affability cancels out the worth. But Mrs Smith’s compliment is something really special. I get the feeling that she doesn’t dish them out that often.