‘What else is there?’ I asked, slipping my Manolo Blahnik lilac open-toe shoes into my bag. I would have been extremely grateful if Issie could have answered me; however, she just scowled.

‘It doesn’t sound like you have the faintest chance of getting him to change his mind.’

‘I don’t know, I might have. After all, he agreed to let me shadow him.’

‘Yes, I wonder why he did that. Does he fancy you? I expect he does.’

‘More likely wants the opportunity to save my soul.’

‘Oh lord. His chances are poorer than yours,’ laughed Issie as she walked me to my waiting cab.

Yes, Issie was extremely irritating all round.

*

‘I’ve bought your ticket. Come on, the train is in. Platform Three – we have to run,’ urges Darren.

Despite the fact that we are travelling zillions of miles to (practically) Scotland, the timetable tells me that we will arrive in Darlington in two and a half hours’ time. I’m incredulous, but Darren explains it’s the electric line. I’m still incredulous. What about the obligatory leaves on the track and the right and wrong types of snow? My heart plummets. Even if by some miracle the train does arrive on time, two and a half hours is going to seem like ten and a half. What will I say to Darren? It was OK chatting in the restaurant last night, but I’d had a shedload to drink. But now, in the cold light of day, I’m beginning to regret volunteering to shadow him. I know my chances of persuading Darren to appear on Sex with an Ex are slim. I could be on a wild goose chase! What will I do with myself outside London? How will the studio manage without me? Will Bale buy my reasoning for shadowing Darren? Besides all this, sitting on a train with a moralistic do-gooder is not my idea of fun. Even a devilishly attractive one.

The train journey is awesome.

Besides buying the ticket, Darren also had the foresight to buy up half the magazines and sweets in WH Smith’s. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me sweets. Big fancy boxes of chocolates, yes, I get those by the dozen. I just pass them on to my mum. She eats some and gives the other boxes to local geriatrics (cellulite not being a major concern of theirs). But Darren hasn’t bought me chocolates in a box. Instead he’s bought the sweets of our childhoods: Jelly Babies, Liquorice Allsorts, Flying Saucers and Sherbet Dib-dabs. Undoubtedly I’ll feel sick by the time the journey is over. Even so, it’s a good call. Instead of the slow and stilted conversation I feared, we have an unlimited avenue in discussing childhood. What were your favourite sweets as a kid? (He remembers Spangles, Space Dust and Cream Soda, he agrees that Snickers definitely used to be bigger and anyway they were Marathons.) What was the first book you read? (Neither of us is sure but, satisfyingly, he’s clearer on his TV viewing habits; he recalls every episode of Mr Ben and swears his sister looked the image of the girl who sat with the clown when there was nothing on TV.) So what was your favourite TV programme? (We agree Mark from EastEnders will always be Tucker from Grange Hill.) When did you learn to swim? (He learned after seeing the advert with the fairy godmother. I learned after seeing Jaws.) And whilst I remember all this I completely forget to uphold my icy reserve. Trivia, but this and reading magazines together mean that the journey to Darlington flies past.

Reluctantly I acquiesce: he does a great line in small talk.

Grudgingly I have to admit that perhaps we do have some things in common.

But nothing fundamental.

I watch the landscapes change. The parks of the south melt into the woodlands of the Midlands, and in no time at all into the rugged, Gothic hills of the north. Although it’s only mid-morning, the sky in North Yorkshire is mauve with damson clouds. Not the cottonwool clouds of textbooks but strong, imposing smudges, more like a painting a child would make with a thick brush. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.

But then, once you’ve seen a scene, it’s over with. It’s not as though you can wear it.

I call Bale on my mobile to explain what I’m doing. It’s a difficult call, as I have to make it from the minuscule British Rail loo, awash with urine and with a dodgy door lock designed to make occupants nervous.

‘If we get him on the show I’d put money on the fact that hell be a pin-up within weeks and he’ll have his own chat show within months,’ I enthuse to Bale.

That good, hey?’

That good,’ I assert.

‘And do you think Fi will manage?’

I enthusiastically sing her praises to reassure him (it doesn’t – he’s understandably suspicious). He wavers, trying to decide whether any guest can be worth my absence. I sense his indecision, so dramatically turn up the charm. I promise I’ll give it two days and travel back overnight on Tuesday in time for Wednesday’s filming. In the meantime, I reassure, he can reach me on my mobile.

When we arrive at Darlington station Darren’s brother, Richard, is waiting for us. Richard is younger than Darren by three years, but he’s beefier (that will be the fish and chips and Yorkshire pudding) and so looks a bit older. Darren’s filled me in with details of his family. There is Sarah, who is thirty-seven, married with three kids. Darren who is thirty-three, like me. Richard, thirty, he’s engaged to Shelly and finally Linda, who was a bit of a surprise to Mr and Mrs Smith. She’s seventeen now. Darren is the only one who has moved away from home. I must ask why. Richard and Shelly are buying a house a few streets away from her parents. Sarah and her family live in a nearby village. I commit all these details to memory in an effort to flatter him and ingratiate myself with his family.

The two men slap each other on the back and this action instantly makes them appear boyish, but in the very best sense. Whilst not obviously showing affection by embracing, it’s clear that they are delighted to see each other.

‘Richard, this is Cas.’ Darren hesitates and then adds, ‘A friend.’ I’m strangely gratified to be described as such and therefore treat Richard to my most winning smile. Naturally he’s enchanted and falls over himself to help me with my luggage. I catch Darren’s eye; I want to know if he’s noticed that I’ve impressed Richard. I can’t be sure; he’s laughing to himself.

I am keen to leave Darlington station behind. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with the station – it has everything one expects; small WH Smith, cookie-cut café and smelly loos – but it is a station and I try to avoid public transport whenever possible. However, I’m not thrilled when Richard indicates which is his car.

The Escort?’ I ask, hoping there’s been a mistake.

‘Yes. The one with the red door,’ says Richard.

‘And the blue body,’ adds Darren in case the situation demanded any more clarity. I try not to show how disgruntled I am, but quietly climb into the back seat, which I share with furry dice (honestly) and an entire forestworth of sweet wrappers.

I don’t say much in the car journey from Darlington to Whitby. Instead I let Darren and Richard catch up with each other’s news. As an only child I’m always fascinated to see siblings’ reactions to one another. Richard is obviously delighted that Darren has paid this surprise visit. I can’t imagine that my arrival anywhere would be awash with such excitement. Except perhaps for Harvey Nics – my personal shopper is always blissed out when she sees me. When Richard asks Darren how he came to have unplanned holiday, I’m unaccountably relieved that Darren fudges the answer. I’m also mollified when Darren comments vaguely that we ‘met at an interview’. Richard obviously feels bad that I’m not part of the conversation and tries to include me by sharing details of the route.

‘We’re on the A66, heading east. We could’ve come across the new road. They both join at A171 to Whitby.’

I’m not sure what response is required of me. This fascination with routes, alternative routes and ‘the road we could have taken’ is definitely a boy thing. I nod, not committing, and turn to gaze out of the window.

I’m in a foreign land. Not least because of Richard’s accent but also because of the strangeness of the landscape. It’s an eclectic mix of the very modern (brand-new and impressive football stadiums, architecturally complex bridges), quaint, old-fashioned poverty (bingo halls and boarded-up shops) and stunning countryside (sheep). I notice that the women standing at the bus stops, in each village, look alike. They are fat and tired – don’t they ever work out? Richard’s Escort pauses at a red light for a couple of minutes and I look more closely. A woman is waiting at the bus stop; another shouts to her from a fifty-yard distance. The first one makes the bus wait whilst the other heaves her excessive weight and carrier bags to the stop. The driver of the bus becomes animated and jovial and doesn’t seem to be too irritated by the delay. As the woman hoists herself on to the bus all the other travellers shout and wave to her. Am I missing something? Is she famous? I don’t recognize her. But she must be because why else would they be so nice to her? The warmth they so obviously feel for one another momentarily sends a freak glow through me.

Which is a bloody miracle, considering that the temperatures I’m enduring are arctic.

As in a wartime era, the men on the streets are either very young or very old. They are malnourished. On the young men, this looks chippy and sexy; on the old men, it looks pathetic. I try to remember some facts from my geography A-level and the news in the eighties. North Yorkshire wasn’t a community annihilated by the closing of the mines, was it? No, definitely not. It was a community ravaged by the collapse of the ship-building industry. I wonder where the men of working age are. Have they got on their bikes? Or are they at the Cargo Fleet Social Club doing their best to support the Bass dynasty?