Unknown - Game Over

He is more sexy.

I feel as though I am swimming in champagne. Bubbles of euphoria zip through my body where blood and lungs and my nerve system used to be. I feel giddy and light-headed and light-hearted too.

Fuck – what if someone tells him about the engagement before I can?

I saw my way through the crowd of women who are congregating around him. It’s slow progress and so I eventually whisper to one of them that Robbie Williams has just arrived. Fickle, they rapidly disperse, leaving Darren to me again. He looks relieved.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Yeah, it’s great meeting your friends.’ There’s a ‘but’ in his voice and I’m glad.

‘Fancy going somewhere less frantic?’

He agrees immediately.

We leave the party and start to stroll aimlessly along the river. We take a similar route to the one we took in January, past the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, the Queen Elizabeth Hall. We walk on to Westminster Bridge and stop to look at the London Eye.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ comments Darren.

‘Very,’ I agree.

‘This is what I love about London. The space, the crowds, the progress, the history. The morphing culture.’

So he starts to tell me about what he does with his time in London and how he ended up here in the first place, why he left Whitby and also how much he misses and loves it. I ask him about his family and he gives me their news. Sarah’s expecting another baby and Richard and Shelly had a lovely wedding day. He shows me a photo of Charlotte receiving her certificate for swimming twenty-five metres. The image of her tiny, wet and shivering body, erect with pride, makes me smile. I ask dozens of questions but he can’t give me enough information. I hadn’t known I could miss anyone so much.

‘They often ask about you,’ he says.

‘Do they really?’ I’m aglow.

‘Yeah, they have a pet name for you.’

‘What?’ I ask tentatively, not sure that I want to know.

‘Naomi Campbell,’ he grins.

I start to laugh. ‘I’m going to pretend that is because of my fetish for shoes and modelesque looks rather than my stunning ability to throw a hissy fit.’

Darren laughs nervously, too frank to confirm or deny my suppositions. His nervousness makes me laugh louder. I’m laughing at myself and it’s OK because I’m part of the Smith family jokes. He tells me how his sick trees are and makes me laugh again with descriptions of his new flatmate. We talk and walk for hours. We leave the river at Charing Cross and start to head to St James’s Park; we pass Buckingham Palace and march on to Hyde Park.

I can’t remember exactly when he took hold of my hand. I think it was when we crossed the Mall. I have never held any man’s hand in public. It’s so territorial, so tacky. Their hands are always clammy and it’s difficult to walk in a straight line with someone hanging on to you.

Don’t let go.

I’m firing on all cylinders. It’s been a particularly warm evening, so there are still hundreds of people on the streets. Including the terrorists of the speed walker – tourists, roller bladers and pensioners. But tonight their stop-start-stop styles, dangerous speeds or dithering steps don’t annoy me. They seem like part of the tapestry. As do the Big Issue sellers, the gangs of Euro-trash teenagers, the groups of friends finishing their picnics, the traffic wardens, the dog walkers, the mounted police riding up Birdcage Walk and the other happy couples.

Other happy couples.

Other happy couples.

‘My feet are aching.’ I finally submit. ‘Let’s go and get a drink somewhere.’

‘OK. Where?’

‘Dunno. It’s late and this is not my end of town.’

And I want to take a hotel room.

It’s just like that. Because besides all the hand holding, and the conversation, and the laughing, and the fact that I was desperately proud of him at the party, there’s something else. There’s my breasts, which have taken on a life of their own: nipples upturned and out-turned, aching, desperate for him to clutch and ply and grasp and tongue. And there are my exploding knickers. Creamy with desire. Dizzy with craving.

We hail a cab within seconds, which is fluky and seems to me to be a sign that this is meant to be. Unashamed, I instruct the cabby to take us to a hotel.

‘Which one?’

‘Any,’ I reply, irritated by the interruption, for by now he is interrupting. He’s interrupting Darren’s long, filthy looks of undisguised want.

The cab pulls up outside some hotel. We pay in a daze, wildly overtipping. We muddle through the inconvenience of having to check in and decide which paper we want in the morning. And just as I think we are about to stumble into bed in a stupor, Darren stops in the foyer.

‘We have to talk.’

‘We’ve done nothing but talk all night,’ I say whilst tugging at his jacket sleeve, impatiently trying to drag him towards the lifts.

‘Talk about us.’ The only topic we’ve avoided.

‘But you’re a boy,’ I joke.

Darren won’t be deterred and leads me to the hotel bar. I reason that a drink is a good idea. I haven’t had one since I left the party, which will have been near nine o’clock. It’s nearly twelve now; I’m in serious danger of sobering up. In the past I’ve often found myself in London hotel bars. I know the form. There will be a waiter who shuffles in a manner that is ostensibly discreet. Eyes averted, addressing us as ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ rather than anything that hints at our real identity. The waiter will ensure that we’ve located the loos, knowing that the purchase of condoms will be necessary and as likely as not somewhere to throw up the night’s excesses. He will take away the dirty ashtray and leave a clean one; he’ll leave a small bowl of cashew nuts and a cocktail menu. He’ll expect us to get heinously drunk in an attempt to shed responsibility and any visions of consequences and he’ll expect us to leave a massive tip before we stumble to our bedroom. Darren breaks precedent by ordering a lemonade. His boyish choice makes me giggle until he says, ‘And you, Cas? I suggest we keep clear heads.’

I want a double vodka and a fuzzy head but I order a mineral water. We don’t say anything in the time it takes the waiter to go to the bar, fix our drinks and return with them. When the drinks do arrive neither of us suggests a toast. The silence clings to my brain and congregates in my nose and throat, suffocating me.

‘Why?’ The question, disgustingly direct, shocks me. Darren is naively expecting an equally open response. He wants truth to shape all his dealings. Whilst when I stumble across it (which is rare) I view it as an obstacle. The late hour and the raw expectancy in his voice defeat me.

‘Is that an all-encompassing “why”? Why didn’t I call? Why didn’t I return any of your messages? Why did I dodge you when you came to see me?’

‘No, Cas, I know the answers to those questions.’ He does? How? ‘I know why you ran. I know you are terrified of commitment and I reasoned that I couldn’t do anything about that except wait. I hoped time would show you that I’m serious about you. If I hadn’t known at least that much about you, how do you think I could have brought myself to speak to you this evening? Don’t you think I was blistering with anger and’ – he pauses –’ pain? But I reasoned that whilst you hurt me you didn’t do it to be cruel, although you were; you did it because you didn’t know how else to behave. You hurt because you are always hurting. That’s why I didn’t rail at you this evening. Believe me, I wanted to.’

He pauses and I look at him. His eyes are a mass of confusion and wisdom, certainty and terror. I feel so ashamed. If he had ranted at me I could have walked away. I could have sidled back to the sanctuary of aloofness, feeling justified that he didn’t understand me and never would. But he does understand me.