Watermelon

by Marian Keyes

  But I wanted something that wasn’t very taxing. So, just to be on the safe side, I bought complete trash.

  After I came out of the bookshop, clutching my child and my gold-em-bossed best-seller, I just happened to be passing the café that I had gone to with Adam the previous Saturday and I just happened to have an hour or two to kill so I just happened to sit there and—guess what?—Adam just happened to walk in only an hour and a half after I arrived.

  What a coincidence!

  Well, I suppose I had better come clean.

  I had kind of, I suppose, nursed a little hope that maybe, just maybe, if I were to go into town that maybe, just maybe, I might run into Adam.

  So I suppose that, when he finally walked in, I couldn’t call it either a spiritual or a metaphysical event.

  I could even be said to have engineered our meeting.

  Although, dammit, that’s not fair.

  God helps those who help themselves.

  God can’t drive a parked car.

  If I had stayed at home in bed with the chocolate and the Marie Claire would I have met him?

  The answer has got to be no.

  I was sitting there, with half an eye on Samantha’s takeover bid and the other eye on the door. Although I was hoping that he’d come in and even half expecting him to appear, I wasn’t prepared for how I felt when he actually did arrive.

  He was so, he was so…so gorgeous.

  So tall and strong-looking. But at the same time so boyishly cute.

  “Easy, easy,” I told myself. “Take deep breaths.”

  I resisted the urge to dump Kate on the table and run over and fling myself on him.

  I reminded myself that I had used up my neuroses quota on him and that it might be a good idea to behave like a normal well-balanced woman.

  Hell, after a bit of practice I might even become one.

  So I sat there, poised and perched, trying to exude calmness and well-balancedness and unneuroticness.

  Finally he saw me.

  I held my breath.

  I waited for him to rear and neigh like a startled horse and then make for the door like the hounds of hell were after him. I expected him to run like a hare through the café, knocking over tables and chairs, spilling pots of tea and cups of coffee over innocent bystanders, his hair standing on end, his eyes wide and staring, and shout at anyone who’d care to listen, stabbing his finger wildly at me and Kate. “She’s crazy, that one, you know.

  Pure mental. Have nothing to do with her.”

  But he didn’t do anything of the sort.

  He smiled at me.

  I have to admit that it was a bit of a wary smile.

  But it was a smile.

  “Claire!” he said, and came over to the table.

  “And Kate,” he continued.

  Correct on both counts.

  Not much got past him.

  He kissed Kate.

  He didn’t kiss me.

  But I could live with it.

  I was just so glad to see him, gladder still that he wanted to speak to me.

  I really wasn’t that concerned with which one of us he kissed.

  “Why don’t you sit down and join us?” I said politely.

  Poised. Polished. The hostess with the mostest, that was me.

  Impeccably mannered. Emotions—if indeed I had any at all, that is—firmly, strictly even, bound and strapped into place.

  “All right,” he said.

  Wary. Cautious. Watching me carefully. Maybe waiting for me to accuse him of having the hots for my mother.

  “I’ll just go and get a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Fine,” I said, giving a magnanimous smile, well-balancedness and relaxedness exuding (I hoped) from my every pore.

  Off he went.

  And I waited.

  And waited.

  Oh dear, I thought sadly, he must have made a break for it. He mustn’t want anything to do with me at all. I seemed to be developing quite a knack for this.

  He was probably wedged in the tiny window in the men’s room, struggling to get out among the smelly trash and cabbage leaves and empty brandy bottles that are found outside the back exits of restaurants and cafés.

  I put my book in my bag—do you know, I was so glad to see him that I totally forgot to hide the cover of the trashy novel?—and rearranged Kate in the sling.

  At least I tried, I thought.

  And I was glad.

  I hadn’t got what I wanted, but at least I’d taken responsibility for my life. I’d tried to fix something, I’d tried to make something happen.

  I hadn’t behaved like a passive victim, just letting life happen to me.

  I had taken control.

  It hadn’t worked, but so what.

  The important thing was to try.

  And the next time I met a nice man I wouldn’t go all slushy and school-girlie on him, thinking of him as a boyfriend and suspecting every other woman of coveting him.

  I had just organized myself to go when he jauntily came around the corner with a tray with coffee and pastries on it.

  The bastard!

  I’d just been all grown up and mature and wise for absolutely bloody nothing. I was feeling so good about myself, feeling saddened but enriched by the mistakes I had made. Then he had to come back and destroy it totally on me.

  There went my rosy, introspective, pensive glow.

  The selfish bastard!

  I had a good mind to tell him to get lost and leave me alone. I had just come to terms, not even five minutes before, with losing him, so now what was I expected to do with him?

  Enjoy his company?

  Are you out of your mind?

  “Sorry I was so long,” he was saying. “The cashier had a fit and…hey!…where are you going?!”

  He looked really surprised.

  And then he looked upset.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling mortified.

  If he ever had reason to think that I was hysterical and neurotic before now, this could only convince him that I was a complete tantrum-throwing little bitch.

  “Why are you going?” he asked, sounding both angry and hurt. “I’m sorry I took so long. But I thought you’d wait.”

  “I thought you’d gone,” I muttered.

  “But why?” he asked in total exasperation. “Why would I leave?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling queasy with embarrassment.

  Oh, you’ve messed it up really well this time, I told myself.

  “Look!” he said, and he banged his tray down on the table and sent coffee spattering everywhere.

  I jumped with fright.

  “Sit down,” he said angrily. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down into my chair in no uncertain terms.

  “Jesus!” I thought in shock. “Take it easy.”

  “Oh sorry, Kate,” he interjected apologetically. Her little face must have registered surprise at this abrupt change in altitude.

  “Now!” he said, back in angry mode again. “What the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked in a little voice.

  He was obviously trying to keep a lot of anger in check and it was frightening.

  “Why are you treating me like this?” he demanded angrily, his face very close to mine.

  I couldn’t believe that this was happening.

  Where had nice pleasant understanding Adam gone?

  Who was this furious man in his place?

  “Like what?” I asked, mesmerized. I was scared of him, but like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, I couldn’t tear myself away from the angry blue of his eyes.

  “Like I’m some kind of low-life.”

  “I’m not,” I protested in surprise.

  I wasn’t, was I?

  “Yes, you bloody well are,” he barked at me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. “You have
, practically from the first time we met.

  “I met you, I really liked you, I wanted to see you, what’s wrong with that?” he said furiously.

  “Nothing,” I whispered.

  “So why do you behave as if I’m some kind of Casanova bastard type, why did you think I was messing with your little sister, why did you think I’d walk away and leave you sitting here, just tell me, why?”

  People from other tables were starting to glance interestedly at us, but Adam didn’t notice and I didn’t really think it would be terribly sensible to point this out, at least not while he was in his present mood.

  “Don’t you see how insulting it is?” he flung at me.

  “No,” I said, almost afraid to look at him.

  “Well, it is!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there looking at him, his blue eyes boring into mine.

  I suddenly became aware of just how close I was to him.

  Our faces were inches apart.

  I could see the individual hairs of his stubble, the lightly tanned skin stretched tightly over his beautiful cheekbones, the evenness of his white teeth, the sexiness of his mouth…

  He suddenly went very still.

  All the anger and violence seemed to lift from him.

  We sat there like statues, his hands on my shoulders. We stared at each other.

  I was so aware of him, his strength, his vulnerability. There was tension between us, vibrating slightly in the stillness.

  Then he pulled away from me. Exhausted and utterly, utterly weary, he sat with his arms hanging limply by his side.

  “Adam,” I ventured tentatively.

  He didn’t even look up at me.

  He sat there with his head bent.

  Giving me a view of his beautiful dark hair.

  “Adam,” I said again, and gingerly touched his arm.

  He stiffened slightly but he didn’t pull away.

  “It’s not you, it’s me,” I said awkwardly.

  There was a pause.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Well, at least I thought that’s what he’d said. It was kind of hard to hear him because his voice was all muffled because he was practically resting his head on his chest and talking into his sweater.

  “It’s my problem,” I said. I found it very hard to say.

  He said something else.

  “Er, sorry Adam, but I didn’t quite catch that,” I told him apologetically.

  He lifted his head and looked up at me.

  He looked bad-tempered but beautiful.

  “I said, what’s your problem?” he repeated, rather nastily.

  Another thrill of fear ran through me.

  I had to make this all right.

  But it was very hard to talk to him when he was being so intimidating.

  “It’s because I’m insecure and suspicious,” I said.

  He said nothing, just sat there looking moodily at me.

  “You haven’t done anything wrong,” I continued falteringly.

  He gave a grim little nod at that.

  Of course, he might just have been readjusting his head’s position on his neck.

  But it was enough to encourage me to continue.

  “I thought you’d left here because you didn’t want to speak to me,” I told him.

  “I see,” he said without any noticeable emotion.

  I felt like giving him a little smack.

  React, for God’s sake!

  Tell me I’m being ridiculous, tell me that you’d always want to see me.

  He didn’t.

  Maybe he didn’t appreciate being manipulated into complimenting me.

  Fair enough.

  Maybe it was time I stopped manipulating him.

  Or anyone else, for that matter.

  But sometimes it was as instinctive as breathing.

  Not that I was proud of it or anything, mind.

  I tried to explain to him.

  “I thought that you wouldn’t want to speak to me after I’d been so unreasonable on the phone on Sunday night.”

  “You were unreasonable,” he agreed.

  “But I’m frightened,” I said sadly.

  “Of what?” he asked, not sounding quite as fierce.

  “Of, of, of…everything really,” I said. And to my horror my eyes filled up with tears.

  I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear I didn’t.

  I was as shocked by my unexpected ocular moistness as he was.

  “Sorry,” I sniffed. “I’m not doing this so that you’ll be nice to me.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because it won’t work.”

  The heartless fucker, I thought briefly, but then banished the unworthy thought from my mind.

  “I only respond to crying women if they’re under the age of two,” he continued, half smiling, as he touched Kate’s face.

  “Oh,” I said. I made a valiant attempt at a laugh, even though I was still crying.

  “So what are you so frightened of that you have to be mean to me?” he asked. This time he almost sounded gentle.

  “Oh, the usual,” I said, trying to pull myself together.

  “Like what?” he persisted.

  “Caring for people and then losing them, making a fool of myself, being hurt, scaring people away, being too forward, being too aloof…” I rattled off. “Do you want me to go on? I could do this for hours.”

  “No, that’s all right,” he said. “But we’re all scared of those things.”

  “Are we?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” he assured me. “Why do you think you’re so special? You haven’t got a monopoly on feeling like that, you know. And anyway, how am I making you feel frightened?”

  “Because I thought you were playing me off against Helen,” I said.

  “But I told you I wasn’t,” he said in exasperation. “And I told you that I could understand why you felt like that, even though I didn’t like it.”

  “Anyway, why are you so touchy about it?” I asked him.

  “Well, I just am,” he said. He looked sad and thoughtful. I knew that he wasn’t just thinking about me and Helen.

  What had happened to him?

  What kind of grief was he carrying?

  I had to get to the bottom of this.

  But first I had to sort out our current difficulties.

  I plowed valiantly on.

  “And after I spoke to you on Sunday night, I felt that I had seemed hysterical and like I was overreacting and like I had scared you away and that you wouldn’t call me anymore,” I blurted out, and then watched him carefully from under my lashes to see how he reacted to this.

  “Well…” he said slowly.

  Oh, speed it up to God’s sake, I thought frantically. My nerves can’t stand it.

  “I wasn’t going to call you,” he continued.

  “Oh,” I said.

  So I had been right.

  Ten for ten on my instincts.

  Minus several billion for my sense of well-being. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

  Actually that’s not true, because I’d never been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Do you think that I’d be sitting here now talking to you if I’d been the lucky recipient of a kick in the stomach by a horse? The answer has got to be no.

  But I felt the way I felt when I was about ten and I fell off a wall and landed belly-flop on my stomach on a lawn that had been baked hard by the summer sun and was as hard as concrete. There was that horrible feeling of shock and nausea as all the breath in my body was abruptly forced out.

  That was the way I felt now.

  “Not because I didn’t want to call you,” he continued, unaware of how much pain I was in. “But because I thought it would be best for you.”

  “How do you mean?” I squeaked, feeling infinitely better.

  “Because you’ve been through
too much lately. I didn’t want to upset you in any way or add to your troubles.”

  The angel!

  “You weren’t upsetting me,” I told him.

  “But I obviously was,” he said.

  “But you weren’t doing it on purpose,” I protested.

  “I know,” he said. “Which is why I lost my temper earlier—sorry about that, by the way—but just being in contact with you seemed to cause you to be annoyed or upset or whatever.”

  Relief washed over me in waves.

  “I’m sorry I was difficult,” I told him. “But…”

  And here I took a deep breath.

  I was taking a bit of a risk.

  Putting my feelings on the line.

  “I’d rather see you than not see you,” I finally managed to tell him.

  “Really?” he said, sounding hopeful and excited and boyish.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Oh, Adam,” I said, half laughing, half crying. “I said I wanted to see you. No one mentioned anything about trust.”

  “Okay,” he said, laughing also (no sign of any tears). “But will you trust me when I say that I want to see you and not Helen?”

  “Yes,” I said solemnly. “I will.”

  “And if the cashier has a fight with someone over his change and has a fit and runs off so that I have to wait hours to pay for my coffee, you won’t think that I’ve made a break out the back way?”

  “No,” I agreed. “I won’t.”

  “So we’re friends?” he asked oh-so-appealingly.

  “Yes.” I nodded in agreement. “We’re friends.”

  Although my brain was saying to me, “Excuse me, excuse me, friends, did you say friends? I don’t think mere friends behave in the way you want to with Adam. Laura is your friend and you don’t rip the clothes off her back anytime you see her and correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t that precisely what you want to do with Adam?”

  “Shut up,” I muttered at it.

  “Sorry?” said Adam, looking at me in alarm, obviously thinking, “Oh God no, here she goes again.”

  “Nothing.” I smiled at him. “Nothing at all.”

  “Well,” he said. “Seeing as we’ve sorted out all this misunderstanding, when can I see you?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” I said, going all shy and girlie on him.

  “Are you doing anything on Sunday night?” he asked.