Unknown - Game Over

Of course they do.

After bathing I feel in need of fresh air. Avocado green has never been my colour for bathroom suites. I decide to catch up with Darren and the children. Because what else can I do? Play bowls? I walk along the pier and spot them walking down the beach, which is more or less deserted as it’s January, it’s the north and it’s freezing. Anyone with any sense is sitting by their fireside or, less romantically but more realistically, their TV set and radiators. I wave and shout, and surprisingly Lucy and Charlotte start to pelt towards me, their little legs not keeping up with their will to be further ahead than they are. I succumb to the Calvin Klein advert factor and rush to meet them. I stoop down to hug them. I only do this because I’ll look good.

‘Hi,’ smiles Darren.

Is last night’s spat forgotten? I’m not sure, so I concentrate on the girls. I know he’s watching me examine their toffee apples and take due interest in the horrid plastic novelties that they’ve procured on the seafront.

‘You’re getting the hang of this kids thing. And Wellingtons too,’ he comments.

I glare at him. The Wellingtons are Mr Smith’s. I have just endured the most embarrassing thirty minutes of my life, well beyond anything I have ever encountered to date. Mrs Smith insisted that my Mulberry wide-leg trousers were ‘too good to be clarting on the beach in’ and gave me a pair of her ‘slacks’. She laughed out loud at my Gina Couture mules and set about finding me a pair of Wellington boots. I am a size seven shoe. Which caused much astonishment as the fact was repeated throughout Whitby by Mrs Smith, who rang all her friends and asked if they had a boot that large. None of them did. It’s obvious that they are still binding women’s feet in North Yorkshire. I was subjected to the humiliating experience of being the most ugly of Cinderella’s sisters as I tried to squeeze my feet into Shelly’s size six boots. They didn’t go anywhere near. I commented that cheap brands do come up small. Mrs Smith laughed and gave me Mr Smith’s Wellingtons. They are big and slip up and down as I walk but at least I can get into them. I didn’t manage to leave the house without accepting sheepskin mitts, a kagoul, a scarf and a duffel coat. The type most people wore at school. I didn’t. I refused then. However, no amount of objections could deter Mrs Smith. She kept insisting that it is bitter in January, and that I wouldn’t have known anything like it. The implication is that I’m a softy southerner. I explained that I had been to the north before – in fact, I went to university in Manchester. She let out a sound somewhere between derision and pity. That’s hardly north, is it, love?’

I look like the Michelin man. Except not as colour coordinated. Darren sweeps an eye over my outfit. How come he’s warm and manages to look sophisticated and rugged?

‘I see that Mam kitted you out appropriately.’

I don’t dignify his sarcasm with a response. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s being funny or if he’s trying to be irritating.

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?’