Unknown - Game Over

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.

‘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.