Unknown - Game Over

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, you’re not my type.’

‘Why not?’

Why not! Why not? God, this guy is arrogant. ‘Well, you’re a bit too serious and, erm, homely, for me.’ Darren looks at his empty cup. I feel like the bitch everyone says I am. I try to make amends. ‘I’m not saying I don’t fancy you. I do fancy you. I’d be happy to fuck.’

‘Sex is not supposed to be separate from love.’ Darren stares at me horrified and yes, I think it is disgust I can see there. Well, that should make things simpler.

‘Aghh, but I’ve had great uncomplicated sex.’ I try to cheer him.

‘Yes, but have you ever made love? All that variety. The flings, the shags, the affairs, the nameless wonders—’ He waves his hand, dismissing the men in my past, just the way I do. ‘You’ve never had love. It’s just too easy to avoid.’

‘I don’t need it,’ I say matter-of-factly.

‘You think you are so brave, don’t you, Cas?’ I never indulge in these conversations. They lead nowhere. They lead to— ‘Well, you’re not. Being brave is trusting. Being aloof is easy.’ I stifle the yawn. Go, Einstein. I reassure myself that it is only his pride that is hurt. ‘You use your parents and your career to avoid intimacy because you are scared.’

‘Did you go to college to come up with that?’

We glare at each other over the single bud vase with the plastic flower and the empty wine bottle that is doubling as a candleholder. I know enough about men to realize that pursuing this scenario is going to waste my time. Darren’s too intense. Someone would get hurt. Yes, he’s a shag, undeniably fanciable, but it’s not worth it. He has bunny boiler written all over him. He obviously cares for me and I simply can’t allow myself to feel the same way. I admit it would be tempting to allow myself to believe that the intensity and the caring could last. But it simply doesn’t. And what if I do feel the same? What if I do… care for him? Where would it lead? Nowhere, that’s where. I’ve got to be brutal to be benevolent.

‘You are obsessed with love. It’s not your fault. It’s popular culture. You’re right, TV does have a lot to answer for. This ridiculous ideal, which doesn’t exist, is touted in every song, poster and book. I’m sure if the Beatles had sung songs about world peace we’d be war free by now.’

‘They did.’

‘Oh, well not just the Beatles, then, but everyone.’ I try to joke but he remains deadly serious. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook.

‘Do you know what I think? Searching for love, the One, it’s such a lot of wasted energy. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for the human race. I think we should move on. I blame Shakespeare! Love, it’s insane. Get the bill.’

It’s excruciating. Darren and I travelled home from the restaurant in silence. I went to bed immediately. This morning I had my breakfast with Linda; Darren was out walking the dog. It’s pouring. I packed and he came home to drive me to the station. We’ve travelled the entire distance without using a double-syllabled word. It’s a disaster. Being here is a disaster. Opening up is a disaster. Teasing Darren is a disaster. I take solace in the fact that soon I’ll be on the train to King’s Cross. I can go directly to the studio and make my peace with the increasingly irate Bale. I can finish the filming and manage the editing for this week’s show and by Saturday night I won’t even remember Darren’s name. I am determined that he’ll be consigned to history.

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.