Unknown - Game Over

11

Darren uses the term ‘restaurant’ much more generously than I would. You can, after all, buy food at a hot dog stand, but I doubt that A. A. Gill would repeat purchase. The ‘restaurant’ has about half a dozen assorted tables, which have between two and six variegated chairs scattered casually at each. There are tablecloths but they are plastic, red and white checked. There are flowers on each table but they too are plastic. There is music but it’s from a jukebox. However, the candles are real and the food is good, although the choice is limited – spag. bol. or nothing – so we have the spag. bol. Darren also orders a bottle of house red. Neither of us bothers to ask if there is a wine list. There are three other couples in the restaurant and one woman has brought her dog. Loose tits and tummies surround me. This is not the sort of place where I usually hang out. The only mercy is that I’m so far from home that no one will recognize me. I am amazed that Darren seems as comfortable here as he did in the Oxo tower. I couldn’t be uneasier. I’m terrified that the provincial drabness will rub off on me. That I’ll start to think wearing blue and green together is acceptable or that a good night out is getting trollied in a threadbare pub. Oh no, it’s happening already. I have to make my move quickly and get back to civilization before something irrevocable happens to me.

The food and drink arrive. Darren is very quiet and my confounding lack of wit irritates me. I’m never stuck for words. Why now, when I want to be dazzling? I know the end result I’m looking for. Surely getting him to sleep with me can’t be that difficult? Right now it seems impossible. I sigh and gaze around the restaurant. I notice a couple of empty nesters asking the waiter to take their photo. I watch, amazed, as he doesn’t show the disdain or pity that must be filling his head. They grin and raise their glasses artificially. I’m just about to say something scathing when I notice that Darren is also looking at them and he’s smiling.

Fondly.

‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ He nods at the ugly couple. He doesn’t seem to be aware of how dreadful they are, but instead starts going on about how great it is to see couples of that age happily married, still in love. I interrupt and point out that the couple are probably on a dirty weekend, and as Blackpool and Brighton were full, they’ve opted for Whitby. He smiles, ignores me and continues on about how he really believes in fidelity, friendship, familiarity.

‘And fucking,’ I add. Let’s cut to the chase.

‘Lovemaking is part of it. Of course, that’s important.’

He means this junk and the strange thing is that, as he waxes lyrical, I almost begin to believe it, too. His optimism is infectious. It must be the wine. In the nick of time I recover.

‘Christ, you’re wet,’ I spit nastily. I’m not sure why I’m being nasty. Perhaps it’s habit.

Darren refuses to take offence but smiles. ‘Maybe, but I prefer it to being a cynic.’

‘I’m not a cynic,’ I bite back. ‘I’m a—’

‘Realist,’ he finishes for me. ‘I take it that you don’t believe in everlasting love?’

‘Everlasting love!’ I snort my contempt. ‘There is no such thing. People use each other, wear each other out and then move on. You see it all the time. I bet you believe in the Loch Ness monster and Father Christmas, too,’ I snap. I look at Darren and his jaw is clenched. I’m not sure if he’s angry or upset. Turns out he’s both.

‘Why can’t you be civil? I’m doing you the favour here, remember. You invited yourself to my home. Has it been so awful for you, being here with my family and me?’

For a moment I’m floored. I sigh, sip my wine and answer honestly.

‘No, actually it hasn’t been awful at all. I’ve…’ I hesitate and then take a deep breath, ‘Really had a great time. You have a lovely family.’

Darren relaxes immediately and beams at me. ‘I hoped you had but I couldn’t be sure. One minute you’re laughing and the next you’re—’

‘What?’

‘Well, snarling, for want of a better word.’

I sigh again but accept his observation. ‘I do believe people fall in love, or at least lust, or something. We are a very weak species, generally. But they don’t stay in love, again because we’re too weak. Someone always gets hurt. And in my view it’s better to avoid any messiness altogether.’

‘Aren’t you being a little bit extreme?’

‘I can’t see a middle lane. Just a tiny bit in love doesn’t seem to be an option.’

‘Now I do agree with you there.’ He pauses and then asks gently, ‘Do you remember the other night at the Oxo restaurant?’

Was that just three nights ago? It seems a lifetime.

‘I asked you what really hurt you.’ I nod. ‘And then I realized it was none of my business and changed the subject.’ I nod again. ‘I wondered if you considered it my business yet? Because I’d really like to know what hurt you so badly that you shut down?’ He drops his eyes, not looking at me as he asks this question. He’s playing with the condiments.

I’m amazed he cares and I want to explain it to him. I wonder if I can.

‘It’s just that I’m not prepared to accept the flotsam and jetsam of humanity.’ He looks up quizzically. The debris that passes for a relationship,’ I moan, weary with it all. ‘Look, it doesn’t exist. This exciting love thing that you are obviously searching for, it doesn’t exist. I know I’ve had sex with over fifty men and I’ve never made love.’

I fall silent and wait for his reaction. He doesn’t look shocked or horrified by my confession. Which – irrationally – irritates me. I really want him to be disgusted with me. It would certainly be easier if he walked away now. Or I did. But I’m not sure I can. He’s waiting for a more thorough explanation.

‘In my experience, and as I’ve mentioned it’s wide and varied, people use each other and when they’ve finished using they leave.’ I pick up my knife and scrape the edge on the plastic tablecloth. I note the irony that a rather bad cover version of ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ is playing in the background.

‘Who left?’

The way his voice breaks between the words ‘who’ and ‘left’ means it is absolutely impossible for me to resist.

‘My father.’ Stupid angry tears well up from nowhere. I’m stunned. I’ve kept them at bay for twenty-six years. Why now? Darren sweeps the tear away with his thumb and for a nanosecond the palm of his hand is in contact with my chin. It blisters my skin and oddly soothes it in the same instance. I look at him and despite my years of experience, despite the fact that I’ve only known him for a few days and despite the fact that he is devastatingly gorgeous-looking – which should always be a warning sign – I want to trust this man. I think I do trust him. Which is dangerous. I have to get a grip.

‘Look, I’m sorry. Can we forget that?’ I push away my tears and his thumb. ‘It’s been a long week and what with you pulling out of the show, I’m under a lot of pressure.’ He looks hurt. Which is exactly what I want. I want him to feel guilty. I look around the restaurant, desperate for a change of subject. Unless Darren has very strong views on flock wallpaper or plastic flower arrangements, I’m pretty stuck. The evening’s gone AWOL. I had thought that by pudding (it’s packet trifle, so the term ‘pudding’ is perhaps philanthropic) we would be flirting and talking exclusively in doubles entendres. Instead I’m drenched in big stuff, emotions, feelings of betrayal and, more extraordinarily, feelings of trust and possibility. The stuff I arduously avoid.