He’s in front of the party.
He’s ascending the giant escalator that takes you up through the solar system.
I have no time to consider English tradition. I shove and barge and push my way through the queues of schoolchildren. They object noisily.
‘There’s a queue, you know, madam.’
They try and elbow me back, but their attempts are pathetic in the face of my love and panic-induced strength.
‘Excuse me. You are going the wrong way.’
But I’m not. I’m finally going in the right direction. I fasten my eyes on Darren’s head and don’t drop the link. He isn’t aware of me and I don’t call out. The schoolchildren dividing us may prove to be too much of an obstacle if he decides to run. The escalator rises through sheets of beaten copper, which represents the core of the earth, and we are accompanied by Indie music, which represents the poor taste of the curator. I pass the stars Ursa Major, Draco and Ophiuchus at an achingly slow speed. I want to stamp my feet and although I’ve squeezed past a number of other gallery visitors, by intimidating them with my sense of urgency, I’m stumped now I’ve reached a woman with a double buggy. Short of climbing over her, I’m stuck.
At the top of the escalators I turn right and follow Darren through volcanic eruptions and earthquakes.
‘Darren,’ I scream. ‘Darren!’
But my voice, usually powerful, doesn’t cut through the natural disasters or the fourth-form chatter.
‘Darren.’
He turns.
For a moment he doesn’t recognize me because of the haircut and the unfashionable grunge look.
‘Cas?’ As the word edges from his brain to his vocal cords I see his face flicker in surprise, disbelief, pleasure and then settle in irritation.
‘This is a coincidence.’ Darren puts his rucksack on the floor and folds his arms across his chest. My brain computes that he’s saying don’t come near. My stomach is oblivious; it becomes gymnastic as I see the muscles in his arms flex.
‘Not really. I’ve been looking for you.’ I don’t mention Linda’s tip-off. I don’t want to get her into trouble. ‘I’ve been here for hours,’ I stutter. He looks surprised. I push uphill. ‘I tried everywhere I could think of in the last week.’ I scratch my nose and pause. I’m looking for a credible place to start our conversation. He looks around too. I wonder what he’s looking for.
‘So where are the cameras?’
Ah, I see.
‘There are no cameras – well, none that I know of,’ I add nervously. He makes a sound, a mix between a snort of contempt and disbelief, which forces me to assert, ‘I had nothing to do with the show.’
‘Really?’ It’s just one word but I don’t think a half-hour soliloquy could have communicated his disgust and sarcasm quite so clearly.
‘I know it looks bad—’
‘Bad,’ he yells, attracting a number of curious stares from the wild children. ‘Bad isn’t how I’d describe it. I’d describe it as vile, corrupt, damning. You’ve made an arse of me, Cas, you’ve – ‘He’s shouting and stuttering. ‘You’ve fucking hurt me. I can’t believe you, even you, would sink so low. You slept with me for TV entertainment. You accepted my proposal for TV entertainment. What sort of animal are you? I can’t believe it!’ He’s spraying angry spittle and his face is contorted with pain.
He’s magnificent.
‘Well, don’t believe it, because it’s not true. I didn’t know that we were being filmed.’ I try to grab hold of his arm. He violently jerks away from me as though I’m insanitary.
‘You were engaged to Josh!’ he fumes.
‘Yes,’ I confirm simply, dropping my arms to my side again.
‘You were engaged and you didn’t think to mention it?’
He’s still shouting and we are now collecting a small crowd of onlookers. I don’t think he’s noticed. The teacher tries, but fails, to move the children along. She’s right – this may be a PG-certificate viewing; bad language and violence threaten.
‘Well, yes, I thought of it. But—’
‘And you accepted my proposal?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t lie to you. I was going to tell you—’ It sounds faulty, even to me.
‘When? Before or after you married Josh?’
He’s really furious. He is spitting, not blood, but pain and tension. His face is splintered into trillions of anxious particles and I can’t look at him and see the whole face. I can only see a hurt mouth, an angry nostril or a ferocious eyebrow. Desperate eyes.
‘I wasn’t going to marry Josh. Not after I’d met you again. I didn’t have anything to do with the show.’ I’m trying to sound reasonable and in control. It’s a tough act. ‘I love you. Just you. I’m in love with you and I have been since we were in Whitby.’
It’s a relief saying the big words.
‘So why were you engaged to Josh?’ Darren asks the floor this question. For the moment the anger has subsided and lapsed into a sadness. I like it even less. Deep breath. I know this is my last chance. And chance is probably far too generous a description. I choose each word carefully.
‘I was scared I’d end up like my mother. Or at least how I thought my mother was. Falling in love was too risky. I knew that I’d be safe with Josh. He loved me more than I could ever love him, so he’d never be able to hurt me.’
‘Didn’t you think how unfair that was on him?’
‘Not really,’ I sigh. There’s no option, other than to be honest. But the truth is so unflattering. I can’t imagine my looking more unsightly.
‘Jesus, Cas, do you know what you’ve just said?’ Darren suddenly looks up and his gaze punches me. ‘Josh is one of the few people I thought you truly loved. I had been heartened by your relationship with him because I thought it was indelible proof that you were capable of loving and the hard-bitch act was just that, an act. But you’ve just admitted you didn’t even think about him. He was just another piece in your game.’
‘It was what he wanted.’
‘I doubt he wanted a wife who didn’t love him.’
‘It wasn’t like that. I don’t think I knew how to love then.’ I try to wave the thought away.
‘I heard you, Cas. I saw the programme. You said sex with me, and I quote, was “risky, dirty, cheeky and above all fun”. I didn’t hear you tell the world you loved me. Why not?’ He doesn’t let me answer but gives in to his anger again. ‘Because you don’t. You’ve made all this up because Josh has dumped you, and the studio has dumped you, and all Britain hates you. I’m nothing more to you than your only option.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘How many kick-backs am I supposed to take, Cas? What’s an acceptable number? First I’m “too serious and homely”. Then you fuck my brains out. Then you disappear. You ignored my calls, threatened to call the police. Then you’re back and then you fuck my heart out and this time we get engaged and then that turns out to be for the titillation and edification of your audience.’
Put like this it sounds bad.
‘You act like a psycho. How do I know that this latest declaration isn’t just another publicity stunt? How can I trust you?’
‘I just know you have it in you, Darren. Some people have and you are one of them.’
I concentrate on the slight cleft in his chin, and on the exact colour of his eyes. I note the way he moves his hands and the precise shape of his wristbone. I consume it all because there is a real possibility that I’ll never see any of it again. If he walks away I’ll live in a permanent eclipse. I look at the group of schoolchildren, who are all but splitting with laughter and jeering. ‘Can we go somewhere more private to discuss this?’ I hiss through clenched teeth.