I sigh, bored, losing interest in my own line of thought. A new level of tedium. It must be this place. I light a cigarette. Richard stares at me through the driving mirror. So as not to be rude I wind the window down an inch, which I think is very considerate of me in these sub-zero climes.

‘Would you mind not smoking?’ asks Richard.

I shift uncomfortably and for a second I’m tempted to say that yes, I would mind very much. I have a thirty-a-day habit to feed. I have a metabolism to send into frenzy. Instead I smile, falsely, and throw the cigarette out of the window. Richard doesn’t congratulate me or thank me but simply nods curtly. I’m surprised. I thought he fancied me. The lust men normally experience when meeting me is, if not a licence to print money, at least a certificate which exonerates me from obeying the no-smoking signs. What is it with these Smith blokes? Don’t they have hormones?

The towns disappear and soon even the villages are spasmodic. The bleak warehouses and graffitied bus stops detailing that, despite the odds, ‘JEZ LUVS BREND 4EVER’, vanish and are replaced by wide open fields of mud, splashed with snow, ice and the odd farmhouse. The sky is still lavender but is now streaked with silver layers of light.

‘I can see the sea,’ shout Richard and Darren at once. Then they both laugh. ‘It’s sort of a family tradition,’ explains Darren. ‘Not a very unique one at that. I’m sure you know the thing.’ I don’t, but I follow their gaze anyway.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I sigh, despite myself. And I immediately regret saying so. My city platitude hardly captures the breath-taking splendour of the scene and I do try to make it a rule not to say anything unless it is original or cutting, yet I’m at a loss for words that are grandiose enough. I catch sight of Darren’s face in the wing mirror. He smiles at me as though he finds my lacklustre comment adequate.

‘You don’t think you’ll be too bored, then?’ he asks. Does he have a tent at a funfair to practise this mind-reading thing?

‘No, I think I’ll find enough to amuse me,’ I answer honestly, with only a smidgen of flirtation.

Richard wiggles uncomfortably.

Whitby is higgledy-piggledy. Built on an undulating coastline, the houses and teashops (closed) look precariously stacked. We steer through narrow streets and climb steep slopes. I’m suddenly in a period drama. Eventually we draw up in front of a row of terraced street houses. I am sure they are going to fall into the sea if anyone coughs too loudly. Darren assures me that the houses are tougher than they look. As they’ve been in place for over a hundred years. I concede he’s probably right; even so I make a mental note not to move too suddenly once inside. From the outside the house looks minute and I wonder how the Smiths managed to bring up four kids in something so small. Isn’t property cheaper in the north? I consider passing this comment as a way of making conversation but decide against it. We don’t go in the front door but slip up an alley-cum-path, which leads to the back door.

‘Alleyways are called ghauts around here,’ explains Darren, doing his psychic party trick again. I wish he’d stop that, it’s freaky.

I realize that the house is in fact deceptively large as it stretches back in a seemingly endless row of rooms. Mrs Smith and Linda are waiting on the back step to greet us. Mrs Smith keeps yelling to ‘Father’ that Darren and his friend are here. Father turns out to be Mr Smith, her husband. He doesn’t get up from his chair in the sitting room but waves cheerfully from where he’s sitting. This is understandable; he’s watching a repeat of The Waltons – pretty compelling viewing. Mrs Smith eyes me mistrustfully. I know from experience that women generally, and mothers specifically, are always wary of me. I also know from experience that if I want to ingratiate myself with Darren I have to make his mother like me. It’s amusing that almost always the reverse is true of a man trying to impress a woman. My mother’s approval is a grade A turn-off. Mrs Smith can’t drag her eyes from my skirt and mutters something about her ‘being sure it’s all the rage’ in London. Linda, by contrast, greets me in a manner with which I am much more accustomed – unadulterated praise and flattery. She loves my hair, likes my bag, adores my skirt and would die for my shoes. Her mother tuts impatiently but I answer all her questions about where I got everything and I let her touch the fabrics. Poor kid, she probably hasn’t ever seen anyone dressed in anything other than a shellsuit before. I offer to take a B&B so as not to inconvenience Mrs Smith but she won’t hear of it and in fact appears offended that I’ve suggested it. She says that Darren can share Richard’s room and I can have Darren’s old room. Linda enthusiastically offers to take me to it straight away and I agree. I haven’t touched up my lipstick since I arrived at Darlington.

Linda is a delight to be with. Adoring me is obviously a point in her favour and she has all the advantages that youth can offer – buoyancy, an uncynical view of the world, hardly any wrinkles and an ability to be oblivious to the humiliation of slavishly following fashion. Besides, she – like Darren – has won the gene lottery jackpot. I much prefer to be surrounded by beautiful people. Linda has thick black curly hair that she wears shoulder-length. She has Darren’s to-die-for eyes and Bambi lashes and she’s slim. Perhaps her most attractive feature is that she seems to have no idea how beautiful she really is. It’s a shame she lives in the armpit of nowhere and won’t ever be seen. In London she’d be a hit. She could get a job in media, modelling or working in the city, all of which require more than a pretty brain. Instead she’ll be consigned to marrying young, raising a football team of children and counting her stretch marks. Blissfully unaware of her fate, she chatters vivaciously and non-stop as she guides me to Darren’s room.

The house, like the county, is a diverse mix of ancient and modern. I spot a warehouseworth of electrical goods: three TVs, two videos, a computer, a number of computer games, radios, hi-fi systems and all white-good mod. cons. Yet the wallpaper and carpets must have been hung and laid before the war (and I’m talking Crimean). I take in endless brass wall hangings and crocheted doilies and make a mental note that next time we are producing a period piece the props department would do well to consider Mrs Smith as a source. Whilst the fixtures and fittings are old-fashioned and, frankly, ugly, they are immaculate. My mother could run her finger along any skirting board or wardrobe top and fail to find cause for concern.

At first I’d been embarrassed by Mrs Smith’s insistence that I stay in their family home. I don’t do family homes. I occasionally stay over at Josh’s but his parents’ houses (note the plural) are so big that there is never any danger of bumping into a parent on the stairwell. Anyway, you can’t justifiably call Josh’s places ‘family homes’. His parents are only together in a nominal sense, negating the term family. And the term home. They both take advantage of the size and number of their abodes to avoid each other. If his mother is in the country, you can put money on his father being ‘up in town’; if his father is in the country, his mother is ensconced in their Spanish villa. Married bliss. Yet despite my reservations about accepting Mrs Smith’s invite I do have an inexplicable, but overwhelming, curiosity with regard to Darren and so I am delighted at the prospect of sleeping in his childhood bed. I casually try to establish if the room I am about to be shown has always been Darren’s and Darren’s alone. Linda assures me that it has: ‘This room has seen everything from bed-wetting to’ – she hesitates – ‘well, bedwetting, I suppose.’ Too much information.

She pushes open the heavy wooden door and we both struggle to get my (extremely large) case into the (extremely small) room. Like a lot of parents, Mrs Smith has lovingly preserved the shrine of her eldest son’s childhood. I feel I’ve just been handed Darren’s diary. The room is a thumbprint. There is a skinny, hard-looking bed pushed up to the wall under the window. It gives the impression that sleeping was a low priority for the youthful Darren. I can’t help but wonder if the same still holds true. There’s an ancient wardrobe and a small hi-fi/dressing-table unit. It’s from MFI and I expect the twelve-year-old Darren demanded it as an act of rebellion against the fifties’ bedroom suites. There are posters on the wall that I would expect in the room of any male who had grown up in the seventies and stagnated in the eighties. Original Star Trek, the A Team and Starsky and Hutch, then Debbie Harry and Pam Ewing. These are the only nods towards a conventional bedroom. The rest is an Aladdin’s cave meets Treasure Island meets Batman’s cave. There are zillions of books. They line the windowsill and countless shelves, and the overflows are piled in precarious, wavering, waist-high stacks around the walls of the room. There’s everything from Beano Annuals to a Reader’s Digest collection of Charles Dickens’s work. His taste is wide but the thing that all the books have in common is that they are well thumbed. Lying on top of the books are a number of models that have obviously been made by a young Darren. I think his mother has arranged them in date order as the ones nearest to the door are childish (although charming in their naïvety) – rockets and submarines, made from loo rolls and cornflakes boxes. Then Darren must have introduced elastic bands and Dairylea tubs to make helicopters and combine harvesters. The models grow in complexity and size until finally, in the corner opposite the door, there is a massive Meccano model about three foot high and two wide.