Unknown - Game Over

‘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.’

‘She wasn’t even that.’

‘85 per cent,’ I suggest.

‘Nearer 65 per cent.’ There is an unaccountable warm glow of delight in my stomach. He’s right, 65 per cent doesn’t sound like the One.

If you believe in the One.

Which I don’t.

‘So you are really over her?’ I’m disproportionately anxious to hear his reply. Which I hate myself for.

‘Yes.’

‘Then what harm can there be in appearing on the show? Can’t you just tempt her and leave it at that?’

Darren forces his mouth into a wry grin. Does he think I’m joking?

‘You just don’t get it, do you, Cas? Your show’s a travesty. Besides which, I loved her once. Why would I want to hurt her? I doubt she’d be tempted by me—’

‘I think she would,’ I interrupt enthusiastically.

‘Thank you.’ Darren’s face relaxes into the widest smile I’ve seen all evening. Ever, in fact.

Arrogant bugger!

‘I didn’t mean it as a compliment,’ I mutter sulkily into my plate. Unperturbed, his smile widens an unfeasible fraction further.

‘I’ll take it as one anyway.’

I scowl but try to appear unflustered by playing with the stem of my wine glass, caressing it as though it were a brand new pashmino. ‘Well, if you are convinced that Claire wouldn’t fall, the programme might be good for her and Marcus. We did have one couple, before Christmas, who managed to resist.’

‘Yes, I read about that. TV6 turned their wedding into a media frenzy,’ says Darren with obvious disgust. ‘That must have been marvellous for the ratings. Cas, haven’t you been listening to me? It’s not about whether she would want me or not. Any association with Sex with an Ex is contemptible. A need to “test” someone you should love exposes the fact that there is a problem with the relationship. I don’t want to embarrass Claire or anyone else for that matter. I don’t want her to know that her fiancé has this insecurity. I don’t want to drag up our past, not even to entertain your – what did you say? – 8.9 million viewers.’ I nod. ‘I loved her and that fact is still important and private.’

He believes all this. I look at him, this six-foot-two specimen of pure sex, sitting in front of me. I don’t understand him. He seems to be from another era. One that is perhaps a little more genteel. And trusting.

And pointless.

I try to think about my initial strategy.

‘Look, Darren, this show isn’t just about entertaining the general public. There are a lot of other serious issues hanging in the balance here.’

‘Such as?’

‘My job, the jobs of about thirty-five other people, advertising revenues.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Darren calls the waitress and asks for the bill. It’s time to go. I’m disappointed. The restaurant maybe empty but I don’t want to leave. I try to think of something else that will be damaged if the show doesn’t go ahead. There’s my ratings-related bonus. I don’t think it’s wise to mention this. I sigh, resigned. The quiet determined way he explains his views convinces me that he won’t change his mind tonight. I suppose it does sort of make sense in a horribly moral way. Never again will I attempt getting a thinking man on the show. I’ll stick to Neanderthals.

We leave the restaurant and start to wander back to the tube, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Although it is January my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat. I hope I’m not coming down with flu. Couples are edging up to one another, the foolish myth of intimacy protecting them against the late-night chill that is settling. And it must be chilly because the people who are on their own pull their coats about them. My bag weighs a ton. It’s full of my life: notebooks, Dictaphones, research manuals, schedules. The weight of it drags my shoulder down to the right, causing me to lean. I occasionally bump into Darren. Each time I do so I tut so that he, at least, is clear that it’s an accidental collision and I don’t like it.

My senses are on red alert. I can feel the cold night air not brushing my skin but laying icy hands on my forehead and shoulders. I hear a train rattle across Charing Cross bridge, splitting the night. Sparkly lights outline the bridges and pavements. An adult dot to dot. There is metal on my tongue. I can smell sweat, fresh and stuff that’s months old. The fresh twang is mingled with Darren’s aftershave. It rinses my nostrils. I tut at the dreamers hanging around the National Film Theatre, lost in nostalgia or stupefied with pointless hope.