‘Prejudice is rarely anything else,’ he comments.

Shelly and Mrs Smith seem actively jolly. We play several riotous games of dominoes and I win, which satiates my competitive streak for the evening. Richard is gregarious and well informed. He’s heard from Darren that I have ‘extensive local knowledge’. Much to my amusement he tumbles my source. ‘Someone from your studio told you about the abbey, did they?’ I nod, nervous that he’s blown my cover with Darren. He winks conspiratorially, taps his nose and adds, ‘Mam’s the word.’ I’m so grateful I want to kiss him. And Darren?

Darren is unprecedented.

Darren is all the above. He is sexier than the fishermen. His anecdotes are more wise, fascinating and profound than his father’s. He’s more fun than the Smith women, even at their most jolly. He’s charmingly competitive. He is more discreet than Richard – I don’t think anyone else notices him rest his hand on my knee. Like the happy atmosphere, he immerses me. He clings harder and longer than anything I’ve ever known.

Which horrifies me.

I’m drunk. But not too drunk, as I already hope the hangover comes with a sense of proportion.

At a quarter to nine I announce that I have to go back to pack. Darren says he’ll walk with me and I’m grateful when Mrs Smith says that she wants to go home too. In my slightly woozy state I know that if Darren wanted to touch more than my knee I’d definitely let him. When we arrive home Darren goes straight to the front room. Mrs Smith stays in the kitchen to fold some clean washing into piles for ironing and I drink a reservoir of water.

‘Had a nice day, pet?’ she asks. I nod enthusiastically. ‘You can tell. You’re a proper beauty when you smile. Really gorgeous.’ She leaves me alone in the kitchen, with the compliment for company. I feel brilliant. The word ‘gorgeous’ rolls around my head.

Gooorgeous.

Gorggessss.

Gorgeous.

I receive a lot of compliments – some from men who want to screw me, others from the girls at TV 6 who are too terrified of me not to compliment, and compliments from Mum, Issie and Josh. Mum’s my mum and whilst Issie and Josh are probably genuine enough, those two say nice things about everyone. In my book, indiscriminate affability cancels out the worth. But Mrs Smith’s compliment is something really special. I get the feeling that she doesn’t dish them out that often.

The back door swings open and Linda tumbles in after a fun-packed evening hanging around the bus shelter. She interrupts my thoughts.

‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream.’

‘I think I am.’ I smile back. ‘Cup of tea?’ I’ve put the kettle on before she answers. Now she’s grinning.

‘You seem much more at home here after just forty-eight hours.’

‘I am. Maybe it is the sleep, or the sea air—’

‘Or being around our Darren.’

What’s she implying? She’s bloody cheeky for a teenager. No, thinking about it, she’s absolutely normal for a teenager. I don’t comment, but instead concentrate on displaying the chocolate digestives on a plate. She says, ‘He always has this effect on women.’

Naturally.

‘Always?’ I venture.

Linda rolls her eyes. ‘Well, look at him.’ Fair point. ‘Women watch him in the street. Everyone fancies him, from Charlotte’s friends, to mine, to Sarah’s. Even Mum’s friends, come to think of it.’ Someone has thumped me very hard. Suddenly I’m sober. ‘It’s just the same with the women in London. I noticed when I visited him last summer hols. There was this constant stream of women dropping in on him. “Do you fancy a drink, Darren?” “Can you loosen this lid, Darren? – oh, you are so strong!” “Oh, a man who can cook – Darren you are very special.’”

I don’t really like what Linda is telling me but her impressions are hilarious and I can’t help but giggle. Besides, she wouldn’t be telling me all this unless she was saying that I’m somehow different. Would she? Well, maybe she would. After all, she’s only seventeen. Perhaps this is her unsubtle way of telling me that she (and he) have seen it all before.

‘He is a good cook,’ I comment. ‘He made me cheese on toast last night and it was really special.’

‘Special!’ Linda is derisive and she’s within her rights, considering what I’ve just said. I catch her eye, which is clever of me, considering the speed at which she is rolling them.

‘Not you as well! I thought you’d be impervious!’

‘Me what?’ As soon as the words are out I regret them. She’s youthful; she’s likely to tell me.

‘You’ve fallen for him.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Really, you haven’t fallen for him?’ asks Linda.

‘Really.’

‘What a shame, because I think he’s fallen for you.’

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Linda picks up an apple and takes a hungry bite, shrugs and leaves me to my thoughts.

Where is the cheese box? The fresh herbs? The avocado? The fridge is heaving but there is nothing I can eat. I’m faced with a dazzling selection from Rowntree and Cadbury. But fish fingers, Alphabite potato wedges and Heinz sauce were not what I had in mind for a romantic dinner for two. Where is the adult food?

What am I saying? Romantic? I’ve never had romantic dinners before.

Strategic, yes, but not romantic.

Still, the end result is the same: sex. So it’s simply a case of semantics.

I have to have sex with Darren. It’s obvious – why didn’t I think of it earlier? A surefire way to dispel any fanciful notions that I may be inadvertently harbouring. Having sex with Darren would bring him down to the same level as everyone else I’ve ever had sex with. He’s definitely not going on the show now, so there would be no concerns about a lack of professionalism if I slept with him. Nor would there be any possibility of seeing him again, which erases the possibility of tiresome consequential scenes. And as he is as sexy as hell, well, why shouldn’t I have a crack? I brush away my New Year’s resolution in the same way that every other year I sneak an extra fag or drink.

Unaccountably, I’m nervous. I have expertly seduced the most dazzling and dull array of individuals. Darren must be like one of them. He must fit into one of my types and as soon as I identify the type, I can select the most appropriate strategy. I rule out anything obvious that I would try with my bimbo boys. I rule out anything dishonest that I would try with the less scrupulous dates I’ve bagged. I rule out anything that requires a fake identity – he knows me too well already. I look at my clothes. An ensemble of things I’ve borrowed from Shelly and Sarah, plus the one or two practical pieces that Issie insisted on stealing into my case. I look dreadful, so I rule out anything that is entirely dependent on my couture. I only have tonight, so I rule out anything that requires a long lead time. I had thought of cooking for him – such an act of selflessness, the candles and, if all else fails, the wine would have the desired effect. But having seen the contents of the fridge and also considering how notoriously difficult it is to cook in someone else’s kitchen, I rule that out too. Yet I’m leaving tomorrow. I really do have to catch an early train. Bale will go ballistic if I delay any longer, unnecessarily so in my opinion. Fi can handle the film crews until I get there.

I look at my watch. It’s 9.15 p.m.

It’s now or never.

Never is not an option. I’ll have to wing it.

I track Darren down in the front room; he’s listening to Radio 4. ‘Let’s go out. I assume there is a restaurant in Whitby that’s still open after nine?’ I challenge.

‘Plenty. Get your coat.’

11

Darren uses the term ‘restaurant’ much more generously than I would. You can, after all, buy food at a hot dog stand, but I doubt that A. A. Gill would repeat purchase. The ‘restaurant’ has about half a dozen assorted tables, which have between two and six variegated chairs scattered casually at each. There are tablecloths but they are plastic, red and white checked. There are flowers on each table but they too are plastic. There is music but it’s from a jukebox. However, the candles are real and the food is good, although the choice is limited – spag. bol. or nothing – so we have the spag. bol. Darren also orders a bottle of house red. Neither of us bothers to ask if there is a wine list. There are three other couples in the restaurant and one woman has brought her dog. Loose tits and tummies surround me. This is not the sort of place where I usually hang out. The only mercy is that I’m so far from home that no one will recognize me. I am amazed that Darren seems as comfortable here as he did in the Oxo tower. I couldn’t be uneasier. I’m terrified that the provincial drabness will rub off on me. That I’ll start to think wearing blue and green together is acceptable or that a good night out is getting trollied in a threadbare pub. Oh no, it’s happening already. I have to make my move quickly and get back to civilization before something irrevocable happens to me.

The food and drink arrive. Darren is very quiet and my confounding lack of wit irritates me. I’m never stuck for words. Why now, when I want to be dazzling? I know the end result I’m looking for. Surely getting him to sleep with me can’t be that difficult? Right now it seems impossible. I sigh and gaze around the restaurant. I notice a couple of empty nesters asking the waiter to take their photo. I watch, amazed, as he doesn’t show the disdain or pity that must be filling his head. They grin and raise their glasses artificially. I’m just about to say something scathing when I notice that Darren is also looking at them and he’s smiling.