by Unknown
‘No. That would be far too unchivalrous. How about to you? You’re always well, aren’t you?’ I don’t quite know how to answer that. He doesn’t sound 100 per cent genuine. I shake my head warily.
‘Proposing we toast to us seems a bit off key,’ he snipes.
‘Suppose so,’ I mutter reluctantly.
‘I’ve got it. Here’s to Sex with an Ex.’
I catch his eye. ‘Er, Sex with an Ex,’ I mutter, because really, here’s to it. But can Darren mean that? He can’t be toasting the programme. He loathes the programme. So does he mean a genuine ex? Me? Is he flirting? I clink my glass. I hope he’s flirting.
I can’t believe my luck. I keep expecting him to make his excuses and go and talk to someone else but he doesn’t leave my side. Instead he attentively fills my glass, fetches me caviar, walks the room with me, allows me to introduce him to innumerable colleagues. He stands outside with me when I feel overwhelmed by the heaving throng and then he dances with me when I feel so happy that all I want to do is fling my body in random, jerky movements to the thumping bass. He stays right by me, carefully watching my every action, listening to my conversations with other people, and he seems to be happy to do this. We both behave as though we’ve seen each other every day for the last six months. Darren doesn’t publicly rebuke me for my terse note and sudden disappearance; he doesn’t refer to a single aspect of my despicable and undoubtedly confusing behaviour. I don’t know what to make of this. Am I so insignificant to him that he can’t even summon up the curiosity to ask me why I behaved so strangely? But if that is the case, why spend the evening with me? If I were more trusting, the only conclusion I could draw is that he wants answers but he won’t embarrass me in front of my colleagues by demanding them. He’s too polite. He cares too much.
Believing that he cares at all sends me into a state of near hysteria.
Throughout the evening he is a delight. He charms and amuses everyone. He chats to Debs, Di and Jaki, who are enraptured with his good looks and general affability. Trixxie stands speechless, with her jaw hanging open as she listens to his theories on why women find Robson Green irresistible.
‘She’s literally mesmerized by you,’ I tease him.
‘No, it’s drugs,’ he grins modestly.
I watch as Darren works his sorcery on the celebs who normally make it a rule not to be impressed by or even civil to anyone other than their next pay cheque. He grips the ‘gentlemen’ of the press by quoting their own articles back to them and having an informed opinion on the broadest range of subjects – anything from the ins and outs of India’s election systems to the GDP per capita in Japan. He even impresses Bale, who, desperate to meet Darren, follows him around the room and contrives to collide in the urinals. In our two weeks together I’d painted a bleak, but accurate, picture of Bale which must now be colouring Darren’s judgement. Whilst happy to talk to everyone from the bar staff to the chairman, Darren steadfastly avoids Bale and won’t treat him to more than a casual wave across the room. And whilst everyone is captivated by Darren, I am bewitched. He is just as funny and interesting and polite and sincere as I remembered.
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’v
e 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.
‘I never stopped thinking about you, Cas. I never stopped wanting you. What I’m asking you now is why won’t you allow yourself to trust me?’
So he’s worked it out. I’m impressed – it shows dedication. But then I know he’s the dedicated type. I wonder how to answer his question. After all, he’s never let me down, hurt me or disappointed me. In fact, he consistently exceeds my expectations. He has attributes and characteristics that I thought had died out with Merlin and Arthur’s round table. And even they were myths.
I can’t think of a logical reason why I wouldn’t trust him.
I can’t think of a convincing lie. So I do the next best thing. I tell the truth, a part of the truth, something like the truth.
‘I do trust you.’
Darren’s face, previously tight and anxious, melts into the broadest grin. He takes my chin in his hand, tilts my head and kisses me. The kiss is strong, absorbing and complete. Darren is satisfied with my answer; he thinks that his six months’ wait on the sidelines has brought me to my senses. And so we move towards the lifts, to the bedrooms. I trust him but he shouldn’t trust me. I am engaged to Josh. And whilst I know now, for certain, that I made that promise for the wrong reasons, I did promise. Poor Josh. Poor Darren. And if I could bring myself to like myself more, I’d feel sorry for me too. I know I should pull away from Darren, stop him kissing me, stop kissing him back and tell him about Josh instead. But I can’t. I’m a coward. Whilst Darren has been the epitome of reasonableness thus far he won’t understand that my fear of loving him drove me into an engagement with another man. I hardly understand it. And I want him so ferociously that I don’t know how I’d continue to live if he stopped kissing me now. So whilst Darren’s kissing me, and illuminating my skin with his strokes, and warming my consciousness with the words he’s uttering, I am making another promise. This time to myself.
This will be the last time.
One last fling before I return to Josh. I may trust Darren but I don’t trust love. And whilst Darren has arrived in my life with a certificate of authenticity, he’s not carrying a lifetime warranty. Josh does. I plan to enjoy every moment of tonight and I’ll make memories that will fortify and edify me for the rest of my life.
That’s what I plan.
We fall on to the bed and he forcefully and repeatedly kisses me. My legs entwine around his, our hands race to rediscover every curve, crevice, ravine and fissure of each other’s bodies. We shed our sticky clothes in a matter of seconds as our skin burns and bleeds into one another’s. He kisses, strokes, licks every inch of my body. Exploring the obvious parts – my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, discovering the discreet parts, my toes, the crook of my elbow, the space between my fingers. I consume him. Tasting his sweat and smelling his sex. I concentrate on the feel of him, which bits of his body are rough, which are smooth. I become familiar with the texture of his hair, all his different hair. His thick, glossy locks, the downy fuzz growing in-between his buttocks, the hairs on his chest that thicken and become more coarse around his groin, the bristles that grow on his chin, right now whilst I’m with him. I listen to his heart and his breathing. Both becoming quicker and less controlled. I smell him. I taste him.
I see him.
The second before he enters me, he grabs my head in both his hands and he looks at me. He stares.
He knows me. Me with his pubes stuck to my cheek, him with my sex on his lips. I tighten my muscles in my thighs and groin in an effort to cling on to him. To keep him exactly where he is now. In me. With me. I wonder how I walked away from this. I wonder how I’ll walk away a second time.
It’s faster and faster and tighter and harder. I can feel my body responding and the response is rising. It’s coming from my toes, circling up through my legs. But it’s started in my fingers too, which seem to be lost in his hair and then running up and down his back. My arms ache with the exquisite brilliance of it. My head spins with the same shocking ecstasy. The intense feelings of luxury creep up my back and through my heart, meeting in my stomach. The meeting fulfilled in acute spasms of rapture. I jerk with sex. I jolt with sex. And when he screams out that he loves me I brim over with a feeling of gladness.
Suddenly everything is crystal. This is the last piece of the jigsaw, the glass of freezing water on a blisteringly, stifling day, the hot, creamy chocolate after an afternoon on the piste, the sunshine on a wet pavement after a summer storm, the thing the songs go on and on and on about. He’s it.
Exhausted and sweating, we fall on to each other.
I watch him execute the logistics of falling asleep: peeing, putting a glass of water on the bedside table, adjusting the air conditioning, discarding the duvet and selecting a sheet instead, and I’m fascinated. I watch him turn on to his side and see that, as his breathing calms, his shoulders rise and fall steadily. I tuck tightly into him. My breasts on his back. His bum nestling in my pubes. My legs folded into his, finishing with my toes in the arch of his ankle. And it starts to fade. The throbbing anger, cynicism and mistrust that I�
�ve carried around for twenty-six years start to fade. As does the terrible feeling of loss and grief that I’ve been soused in since January. I am simply full of love and hope and possibility. The revelation that we are imbued with something more interesting than physical gratification is velvety. The recognition that I, too, have a need for and ability to give respect, friendship, love and passion sings around my head. This man is my destiny. This man is my life. Fuck it, I’ll risk it. So he doesn’t come with a warranty – so what? I’ll risk it. And I’m so lucky to be able to.
‘Cas, you awake?’ Darren’s whisper interrupts my thoughts.
‘Yes,’ I whisper back, although I’m unsure who we’re being careful not to disturb.
‘I was just wondering.’
‘What?’
‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes.’
I know. It’s slightly unconventional that I am technically engaged to two men.
18
Here I am in the middle of realizing a dream, a dream I didn’t even realize I had, and it’s good. Really good. Wow. That shit about better to travel hopefully than arrive. Losers. Better to arrive spectacularly and I have.
I have! I’m drunk on euphoria (and only a little bit of fear). I want to bottle the experience and keep it on my dressing table. I know he is it The One. The only one. I’m not sure how I’ll maintain this constant high. But I believe it will all take care of itself.
We stay in the hotel all morning, excitedly talking about when and where we’ll get married. Darren is thrilled when I admit that there’s nothing I’d like more than to marry in St Hilda’s Abbey, Whitby.
‘You mean the church near the abbey. The actual abbey is decayed. It doesn’t have a roof.’
‘No. I mean the abbey. I want to be outside in the open.’
‘We can look into it. I’m not sure of the rules. I suppose once ground is consecrated, it’s always consecrated, long after the roof has fallen in.’ He pauses and kisses a mole on my back. T didn’t think you believed in God. What are you doing? Keeping a foot in each camp?’
