‘Has he called?’
‘No.’
‘You still think he’s going to?
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
I realize that I’m in serious trouble. If Issie, the last of the great romantics, has no faith in this ending in a tulle and organza number then I must have more chance of winning the lottery, on a roll-over week, than ever getting an opportunity to talk to Darren.
‘I’ve told you, Issie, I trust him. He proposed to me. Darren wouldn’t do that just for TV.’
‘And I’ve told you, he might do it for revenge. After all, you did sleep with him for two weeks, all the time giving the impression that you were pretty committed, then you vamoosed. There’s not a man on earth who would take kindly to that type of behaviour. His pride was kicked into touch. Don’t you think that it’s possible he’s getting his own back?’
‘I know he had nothing to do with the programme, Issie.’ I’m trying not to become irate with her, but my personality transplant hasn’t been so entire that I can stay patient in the face of a constant barrage of criticism of Darren. ‘Look, Issie, why don’t you ask Josh if he thinks Darren was involved in stitching me up? He must know.’ I place a heavy emphasis on ‘he’; if I can distract Issie with Josh’s crimes for a while, maybe she’ll get off Darren’s case.
‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ she asks enthusiastically.
‘Do it for you, Issie, so that you believe in Darren. I don’t need anyone else’s word.’
We sink into a huffy silence. I know I can outsulk Issie. I haven’t even counted to three before she offers her olive branch.
‘OK, supposing you are right and Darren wasn’t knowingly involved in your unrestricted and unmitigated humiliation, why do you think he’s done a disappearing act?’
‘It’s obvious, Issie. He thinks I set him up.’
‘Oh.’
Issie is far too straightforward to pretend not to see why he’d make this assumption. She doesn’t even blame him.
‘I should have told him about the engagement!’ I berate myself.
‘So what are you going to do from here?’
‘Good question. I need to talk to him but I’ve looked everywhere. Work, home, pubs. I’ve even walked the streets but it’s futile. London’s a big city; England’s a big country.’
‘Well, actually, it’s quite small in geographical terms—’
‘It’s colossal when you are hunting someone who doesn’t want to be found.’
‘And of course he may not be in England, he may be abroad. He could be anywhere.’
I wonder if the position of Job’s comforter is currently available in some other time dimension, because Issie has all the qualifications.
I sigh. She’s right. I suddenly feel so small and the world feels so big.
‘Issie, there’s call waiting bleeping. Do you mind if I ring off?’ We both know I’m hoping it will be Darren. We both know it won’t be.
‘Fine. I’ll call you tonight,’ says Issie.
‘Hello,’ says a tiny voice on the line. I try not to drown in the disappointment that it is a female voice as I struggle to place it.
‘Linda?’
‘Yes. Hello, Cas.’ Linda sounds nervous and young. Even younger than her seventeen years.
‘Linda, I’m so happy to hear from you.’
‘Oh. Are you? I don’t know if I should be talking to you.’
‘Yes. Yes, you should,’ I urge. ‘Linda, I know things must look terrible from your point of view. I have done some very bad things, but you have to know I didn’t set Darren up on that programme.’ I’m speaking very quickly because I guess I have only a finite amount of time to convince her. She sounds on the edge of putting the phone down.
‘I know,’ says the tiny voice.
‘You do?’ I’m so relieved I can’t say any more. To have someone believe in me is an overwhelming relief.
‘I said to Mam that you loved our Darren. But Mam said I only believed that because I’m seventeen. No one else believes that you do.’
‘But you are right, Linda. You are right. I do love Darren,’ I repeat hysterically. It matters to me that she believes me.
‘Mam said I mustn’t call you.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s just that Darren called last night and he mentioned that he might go to the Natural History Museum today and I thought you might—’
‘Linda, Linda, I could kiss you,’ I yell down the phone. Of course, his favourite building. That’s where he goes to do his thinking. Suddenly my mind is splattered with a vision of Darren’s childhood bedroom. Aladdin’s cave meets Treasure Island meets Batman’s cave. With the zillions of books, the cardboard models, the Meccano eco-system and the painted Milky Way. ‘Thank you, Linda. Thank you so much. I promise you you’ve done the right thing. I love you, Linda!’ I drop the telephone, grab my keys and fly out of the flat.
20
I run to the tube, my feet thudding on the pavement, my blood thundering to my heart, my heart pounding. I run all the way to Tower Hill station. I pass the happy crowds drinking pints in the street; they leer and jeer at me as I’m sweaty and not wearing a sports bra. I keep running. Although I usually run eight miles in the gym every day, I haven’t been since ‘the show’. Not that I’ve been afraid of the inevitable pointing fingers (they like notoriety better than celebrity at our gym – the receptionist nearly orgasms every time she spots Jeffrey Archer using the treadmill); it’s just I’ve had no motivation. Every moment has been consumed with finding Darren. So now I’m panting heavily. Then again, the shortness of breath isn’t just to do with the rapidly decreasing levels of fitness. It’s also excitement. Hope. Possibility. A long shot. But a shot.
At the tube station I realize that I left the house in such a hurry that I didn’t pick up my purse. When did I become so disorganized?
‘Please can you let me have a ticket?’ I smile sweetly; it really is my most dazzling.
‘Where to?’
‘To South Kensington.’
‘£1.80.’
‘I have no money.’ The smile is frozen and stuck to my face.
The ticket officer snorts. ‘We’re not operating a charity.’
‘Pleeeease. It’s an emergency. I have to get to South Ken.’
I have abandoned my tone of pleasant authority and I’m begging. He’s impervious.
‘Mind along. There are other customers. Ones with money.’
I stay still.
‘Pleeeeease.’ I think I might cry. Tears that I’ve managed to hold back for years are now constantly threatening and erupting. The officer doesn’t even look at me.
‘No money, no ticket. Bugger off.’
That’s the proverbial straw. Huge, ugly overwhelming sobs storm out of me. I’m not sure where they come from – certainly not just my mouth, but my nose too and perhaps my ears.
‘I’ve got to get there. He’s there. He’s there,’ I sob, which is ridiculous on many counts. For a start, the Underground officer doesn’t know who I am or ‘he’ is, and anyway, he cares less. Secondly, I don’t know if I’ll find Darren there. There’s snot on my arm and days-old mascara on my cheeks. I’m blind with tears, bogies, regret, frustration, pain and loss. I slump to the floor. It’s too much. I can’t act any more. Years of acting as though I don’t care, then I care, and now I’ve hurtled past caring, straight, slap bang into despair. It’s too much. Life without Darren is not enough.