Love Life

by Nancy Peach

  He handed the inflatable penis to the L-plated bride-to-be with a suggestive wink and she asked him to take a few photos of the party, finishing with a group selfie featuring Simon himself, grinning up at the screen amidst an ocean of cleavage, pink glitter, and feather boas. Tess observed all this from her table where she sat quietly sipping her drink and trying not to feel too awkward. She had a smile fixed to her face that she hoped suggested she was entirely used to her date being so obliging and attentive to other women, but she did have to concede that Simon knew how to work a crowd. He was very personable and his cheeky charms were having the desired effect on this particular bevy of beauties. The television host had to shout quite loudly to make himself heard over the din.

  “I’ve thought of another one, Tess. How about, ‘Being on a Date with Me Is as Boring as Watching Paint Dry – How Will I Ever Get a Man?’”

  Tess muttered an expletive into her drink.

  Once the girls were happy with their pictures and Simon had taken a few with his own phone and uploaded them, he returned to Tess with an apologetic shrug as if to say, What can you do? The girls love me. Tess acknowledged the look with a smile and shrug of her own. She could hardly begrudge him the female attention he so enjoyed; she didn’t know him well enough to monopolise his time and he was only being friendly.

  “Quite the paparazzo,” she said.

  “Ah well, happy to help.” He looked down at Tess’s drink, which was still half-full.

  “Shall we go and eat then?”

  Not wishing to be a spoilsport, or to hang around to witness the further deterioration of the hen party, Tess picked up the rest of her gin and knocked it back in a few gulps. Simon waved to the girls on the neighbouring table.

  “You enjoy yourselves, ladies. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he shouted over his shoulder as they squeezed back through the crowd and out into the cool evening air.

  They ended up in a small Italian chain restaurant at the top of Park Street. Tess’s jeans were already feeling a little snug so she settled on a small salad which consisted of warm iceberg lettuce, four slices of over-ripe tomato, and a scattering of cheesy rocks that she presumed to be croutons. Simon, who tucked into his own Vesuvius Pizza with gusto, had nodded with understanding when she placed her order.

  “Probably a wise decision. Not that you need to watch your weight at all,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant – you’re just about perfect as you are. Just thinking maybe I should have followed your lead. I’ll have to spend an hour at the gym tomorrow to shift this bad boy. Knock out a few reps. It’s not easy staying in shape.”

  She had resisted the urge to contradict him, or to overshare the exact nature of her issues with food. Instead, she eyed his pizza jealously and, after almost cracking a molar on a crouton, she had to admit that she had made a poor choice. A bit of bloating would be preferable to gnawing hunger, particularly given the fact that the wine she was drinking was so vinegary she had almost mistaken it for salad dressing. Undeterred, she drank it steadily through the meal, the limp lettuce doing little to line her stomach as Simon regaled her with stories of life as an estate agent.

  “I’ve been promoted to the more high-end properties now,” he said, “which is nice. It’s where the money is. I mean, obviously.”

  Tess picked up another crouton and eyed it warily as Simon continued.

  “Some of these people though. They got more cash than sense. You wow them with a bit of a flash interior and they don’t even ask about the square footage or the plumbing. They’d barely notice if the place was falling down as long as it’s got a nice touch of Farrow and Ball on the walls. It’s crazy; they’re desperate for that perfect look. I’m just selling them the lifestyle, telling them what they want to hear.”

  “Do you not have to tell them about any major problems, structural issues, things like that?”

  “Not really. I mean, I try not to lie about anything. I want them to like the place at the end of the day – it’s a good feeling if you know you’ve helped someone find their dream home. But I’ve also got an obligation to the vendor; I want to get them the best price too, so it’s about balancing those two things. It’s basic sales technique, just some of us are better at it than others.”

  “I imagine you’re pretty good at it.” She smiled. She really could imagine him in full pitching mode and suspected he’d charm the pants off most buyers. He told her that he had recently won a local sales team award for total number of properties completed in March.

  “I was shortlisted a few years ago for the regional scheme but Shanice Voden in the Portishead branch won it.” He looked at Tess, smiling. “Not that I’m bitter or anything.”

  “Bloody Shanice and her reasonably priced terraces,” said Tess, and he laughed.

  “Too right. But yeah, I do okay. I like meeting my targets, which sounds a bit sad doesn’t it? But I enjoy it, enjoy the challenge and clients pick up on that. You must see it at work, people know if you hate your job or if you love it – whatever you’re feeling, it sort of transfers to them, I guess.”

  Tess thought about this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s nice to hear about someone enjoying their job. A lot of people just seem to hate work. Maybe we’re both pretty lucky.”

  “I certainly feel lucky tonight, sat here with a gorgeous woman.” He smiled broadly at her. “And a doctor and all. Is it as glamorous and high-adrenaline as it seems on the telly? Everyone having affairs and bonking in cupboards and the like?”

  She laughed. “It’s not really like that at all – sorry to disappoint. I guess it’s the same as any other job. Probably no more salacious than being an estate agent.”

  “Oh!” He pulled a face of mock disappointment. “D’you mean you’re not all at it like rabbits the whole time? Maybe it’s only the surgeons then,” he said, taking a sip of wine and grimacing. “God, this stuff’s a bit ropey, isn’t it? You not a surgeon I take it, Tess?”

  “No,” she replied. “No, I want to be a GP. I like a bit of variety.”

  “Yeah, I get that. It’s like a mixed property portfolio, I suppose. So, you working in a practice now then?”

  “No, still training. I’m in palliative care at the moment.” She saw his look of confusion. “In a hospice? I work with people who are dying.”

  “Right. I see.”

  “Yes. People often have that reaction. I don’t really know why. Bit of a taboo, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” He was thoughtful for a moment and she wondered if he was about to launch into a story of bereavement. Telling people that she worked in a hospice usually went one of two ways: they were either uncomfortable and didn’t want to discuss it any further, or they had an experience they wanted to share. With Simon, predictably, it was neither.

  “So,” he said seriously. “You work with people who are dying, hey?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I guess that would explain the lack of shagging then.”

  Tess began to laugh. “Yeah, I guess it would.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was just after eleven when they left Little Italia, their waitress wiping down the PVC checked tablecloths and mopping the floor with greyish water. They hit the fresh air outside and Simon suggested that they move on to another bar. As they headed down Park Street, a place caught Tess’s eye. It was an old pub but had been given a facelift, and the subdued light filtering through the leaded windows below the new signage triggered a memory. She pointed over the road to the bar.

  “Can we go there?” she asked, stepping out into the road and narrowly avoiding a taxi which was pulling up with its fare. Luckily Simon grabbed her just in time.

  “Oh thanks!” she said. “Farida at work mentioned it. It’s new, but supposed to be quite nice. Authentic feel, you know?”

  Simon knew all about authentic feel; it was one of his favourite estate agent phrases. He was less impressed by the idea of going somewhere that had been recommended by one of Tess’s hosp
ice colleagues and voiced his reservations.

  “Don’t worry. I promise if anyone from work is there we won’t talk about death,” she said, and he laughed as they stepped through the doorway and into the throng.

  The atmosphere in this bar was markedly different from The Garage. The main room was smaller, there was no wide-screen television on the wall, and no obvious hen parties or inflatable penises, which was a bonus. It was still noisy and people were enjoying themselves, but there was a more relaxed atmosphere compared to the frenetic alcopop-fuelled hysteria of The Garage happy hour, and the clientele were varied, with some smart city types surrounding a high table, a group of students sitting in the large bay window, and a family with teenage children poring over a theatre programme in the corner. The two of them had to squeeze together to make it through to the bar and the room was warm after the relative chill of outside. Tess slipped her jacket back off her shoulders and slung it over her arm. As she did so, her heel stuck into a gap between the intentionally rustic floorboards and she fell against Simon who mistook her stumble for an attempt to get closer to his manly physique.

  “Steady on, Tess!” he laughed, but his confidence was bolstered and he slipped his arm round her waist to steer her through the crowd. They reached the bar and Tess was just beginning to wonder whether she was entirely happy with Simon’s arm being placed so proprietorially around her middle when she felt her eyes drawn to a familiar figure to her right.

  Oh God. The evening had been okay up to now, but things seemed to be taking a turn for the worse when she realised who they were sharing the bar space with. It was Edward Russell. And some tall, sculpted, elegant creature who looked as if she might snap in half at any given moment. Tess turned her face away and pretended to be fascinated by Simon’s thoughts on pub renovation.

  “Dr Carter?”

  She tried to ignore his voice behind her. His tone was measured as opposed to loud, but there was a natural authority that was hard to avoid. Clearly the bartender responded in the same way because immediately he piped up, shouting over the throng to Edward, “What can I get you, mate?” and Simon nudged her, “That bloke’s trying to get your attention, love!”

  Tess turned very slowly and looked up into those deep-blue eyes. Edward gave her a tentative smile and she responded with the slightest of nods to acknowledge him.

  “Mr Russell,” she said with obvious distaste.

  He did at least have the good grace to look a little awkward and it seemed that they were both recalling the events of the previous fortnight, because an almost imperceptible expression of regret flickered across his face in the same moment that Tess’s mouth set into a hard, defensive line.

  Simon could not help but notice the waves of hostility radiating off his date and the way that her body had stiffened in response to this man. He attempted to break the ice by thrusting his hand across to Edward. “All right, mate?” he said. “I’m Simon, Simon Collins. How d’you know Tess then?”

  The barman had moved his attention elsewhere and Edward Russell flickered his gaze across Simon in a way that seemed to find him lacking. Simon was either blissfully unaware of this evaluation of his deficiencies or genuinely didn’t give two hoots; either way he went up in Tess’s estimation.

  “My name’s Edward Russell,” said Edward, “and this,” he gestured to the girl beside him, “is Clara Delaney. Clara, this is Dr Carter, she has been involved in the care of my mother.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed the gazelle, looking momentarily interested. She was the embodiment of what Tess’s mother would have described as a posh bint.

  “Are you the oncologist?” She extended a perfectly manicured hand whilst giving Tess a thorough appraising stare, taking in the cheap handbag, the tight jeans, and the low-cut top. Evidently Tess did not fit the bill of what Clara thought a doctor ought to look like.

  “No. Not me. I’m just one of the palliative care doctors. Nobody important. Isn’t that right, Mr Russell?” She looked across at him with an artificially bright smile.

  “That’s not strictly what I…”

  “Nonsense. I know how you feel about my particular branch of medicine.” The cool, detached sarcasm Tess was hoping for was sounding a little more hysterical than she’d anticipated. “Doctors like me just tend to, what was it? Oh yes, ‘Preside over death all day.’ That, and give people morphine. I’m more of a glorified pharmacist really.”

  “Dr Carter.” Edward’s attention was focussed entirely on her. “I’m so sorry if what I said caused you offence. It really wasn’t my intention.”

  She looked straight at him, her eyes locked with his, and for a moment it was as if nobody else was in the bar. She felt herself drawn back to that first meeting in the kitchen of Dan’s flat. The spark of electricity. Yet again she was trying to read his facial expression, searching for a sign of recognition. Did he feel it too? Out of nowhere, Jane Austen piped up:

  “The evidence of the gentleman’s agitation is clear in both his countenance and bearing, Tess dear. He too is struggling for the appearance of composure.”

  But just as suddenly the connection was lost, crowded out by the memory of his wounding words. She turned her back on both him and his girlfriend, aware that she was being rude but finding the feeling strangely liberating; it was not often that she deliberately forgot her manners. “I’ll wait over at the table,” she said to Simon and, ignoring the little sniff of outrage from Clara behind her, she strode away as confidently as her heels would allow.

  A few moments later Simon came over with their drinks, looking confused. “What’s the score there then?” he asked. “Did you two used to go out or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. We just don’t really get on, that’s all.”

  “Oh, okay. I have to say he seemed all right up at the bar. We had a bit of a chat about the housing market. He’s got that moneyed look, hasn’t he? I offered to show him a place over on the waterfront – great space. He wasn’t interested but I gave him my card just in case.” He put a hand to her cheek. “He must be a tosser if he’s upset you though. Don’t look so angry, sweetheart; it don’t suit you. Give us that nice big smile again. That’s better.”

  Clara had turned to Edward at the bar as they watched Simon walk back to the table with the drinks.

  “Quite extraordinary! That doctor…” she said, “she was so rude.”

  “She was a little.”

  “More than a little, Edward. I mean, it was just so unprofessional. And she was clearly drunk.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to have to act like a professional the whole time.”

  “What? You’re not trying to defend that obnoxious little display, surely?”

  “I just mean, she’s out with her boyfriend. Maybe she doesn’t want to be constantly being a doctor. Maybe she’s trying to draw a line between her life and her work? I don’t know.”

  “Edward, surely you can see that her comments were inappropriate? I’m baffled you think that behaviour is somehow acceptable – even if one has issues with work–life balance, there’s never any need to be that unpleasant. It’s just so passive aggressive.”

  “I think it’s quite out of character.”

  “Oh?” Her nostrils flared. “And you know her character pretty well, do you? She’s not normally a rude little madam, I take it?”

  “No, she’s not. She must have her reasons.”

  “Really? What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “If you must know, I upset her a few weeks ago. I accused her of… well, let’s just say she’s got every reason to be pissed off.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

  He sighed. “Nothing. Look, Clara, I don’t want to talk about it. And if we’re honest, neither do you. Let’s just leave it.”

  Clara folded her arms across her narrow chest, noting the distracted look on her boyfriend’s face. She quietly fumed as she sipped her white wine. “I see,” she said eventually. “No further explanation then?
”

  “No. Have you finished that drink?”

  Tess was starting to find Simon Collins significantly more appealing as the alcohol kicked in and the night wore on. His chivalrous attempt to protect her feelings made her warm to him even further. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Edward and Clara still at the bar, both exuding entitlement in their posture and their haughty assessment of the remaining clientele. She was also aware of Edward’s eyes on her and subconsciously she wanted to demonstrate to him that his opinion meant nothing, that his comments had had no impact on her whatsoever. She moved closer to Simon and pulled her hair back from her neck, leaning a little into the table and resting her fingertips near the edge of her top to draw his gaze downwards. She knew it would have the desired effect. Simon got an eyeful of ample bosom and responded by putting his hand back on her waist and letting it rest there while they continued chatting. She intensified the flirting in tiny increments, laughing ostentatiously at Simon’s jokes, which seemed to be getting funnier as the night wore on – all the time aware of Edward’s eyes boring into the back of her neck. She knew she was drunk and being more than a little ridiculous, but she wanted to convey a message in the most obvious terms: See? There are people here who think I’m worth being with. You forgot me and then you misjudged me, more fool you.

  Eventually Simon got the hint and his face moved closer and closer to hers until at last he pulled her into an embrace.

  “God, you really are gorgeous, love. D’you want to come back to my place?”

  Tess toyed with the idea for a few moments and then whispered in his ear, “Yes. Go on then. Why the hell not!”

  She kissed him lingeringly on the cheek as she rose to gather her belongings and made a point of completely blanking Edward and his girlfriend as she and Simon left the bar with their arms around each other.