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 in bed? Who is he going to fall in love with next?
Is there still a chance it could be me?
What?
‘Should we go for a coffee?’
I agree immediately.
Darren doesn’t want to go to the station café but opts for a small ‘Italian’ café run by Iranian refugees. Their Italian accents are worse than mine but their cappuccinos are convincing. We sit on the sticky wooden benches and face each other over the tiny Formica table. So tiny that our heads are almost touching. But then this is OK, as the cappuccino machine is making so much noise that I’d have to lean close to hear him anyway.
‘About last night – I want to apologize,’ I offer. I’m not sure what I want to apologize for but I know that I feel awful. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for my toing and froing. I’m sorry for my ice-maiden act. And most of all that I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to trust him.
‘No, I should apologize. I rushed things.’ And whilst the words are kind the tone is curt.
‘It’s just that we hardly know each other.’ This comes out sounding like another criticism and I want it to be an explanation for my caution.
‘I wasn’t proposing, Cas. I was just suggesting that we could try to get to know each other. I admit I was a bit hamfisted. But look, it doesn’t matter. You made your feelings perfectly clear.’
But I didn’t, did I? I couldn’t have because I can’t. Make things clear. It’s mud. I want him. I fancy him. I respect him. I like him. He intrigues me. I’m in trouble. It strikes me, as I sit in yet another one of our silences, that our relationship to date, such as it is, has been a series of rows and silences. Which proves my point that intimacy always leads to cruelty and aggro. I look at Darren and he looks dejected and delicious. I am unaware of anything other than my pulsing sex, aching breasts and throbbing lips, all of which could be relieved if he’d just kiss me. He’s not going to and I can’t be tortured like this any longer. I stand up and I swear the room is partying. I put my hand on the table to steady myself. It’s hot in this tiny café.
‘Look… goodbye… and… thanks for the coffee.’
It’s frantic and hurried and amazing. He touches my hand. He’s not trying to restrain me. But he has. I’m rooted. His finger is resting gently on my wrist. I’m shackled. I’m ignited. I kiss him. He kisses back. Strong and dark. Engulfing. I’ve never kissed before. Or if I have, they were poor dress rehearsals. This is it. All the words that have fallen between us suddenly disappear, they are superfluous. We’re left with naked silence. Stripped to desire. He tosses a few quid on the table and, not waiting for the change, we dash out of the café, into the rain. He points to an alleyway behind the station. I’m already heading that way; I have an in-built mechanism that helps me to locate dark streets and other possible places for fornication. The rain is still pelting down, hitting the pavement and vaulting up again. It falls through the afternoon darkness in nasty, spiky, drops, but I don’t care. In fact, I’m gratefuclass="underline" the vicious elements mean that the streets are empty. I’m boiling over with anticipation. He takes a tight hold on my arm. We cross the road, not checking for traffic. Darren flings me up against the wall, barely pausing to check for privacy, I wrap my coat around him. His lips mesh into mine and we’re kissing so hard I can’t tell them apart. He scrabbles with his flies and then sinks into me. I stare into his eyes and he stares back, never losing me. Not for a second. It feels amazing. It feels important. It feels right.
He’s climbing, he’s filling, he’s plugging. He completes me.
It’s over in minutes.
I’m already scared that this will never be over.
12
Someone is holding his or her finger on my door buzzer. One of the inconveniences of my loft apartment is that it has nothing as old-fashioned as a spyhole. It is impossible to know who is at the door without talking to them, by which time it is impossible to pretend not to be in, if that is the desired course of action.
I long for the visitor to be Issie. Possibly Josh, but ideally Issie. And yet I am terrified it is. What will I tell her? What can I say? How can I possibly begin to explain my behaviour over the past two weeks?
Buuuuzzzzzzzz.
This persistence demands my attention. If I ignore whoever, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon wondering who it was. I drag myself towards the intercom praying it’s not Bale or Fi.
‘It’s me,’ says Issie. ‘Where the hell have you been? Open up instantly.’
I’m relieved and press the release button. Within moments she is pushing open my door. She’s really pissed off with me, so much so that she doesn’t bother to kiss me. I’m aware that offence is the best form of defence so I demand, ‘Why didn’t you use your key?’