by Laura Tait
TEAMWORK. Together we achieve more.
Exactly. That’s why I spend so much time trying to come up with crap puns. Words have never been my forte but two heads are better than one, and all that. I look at the poster next to it.
ACHIEVEMENT. It is hard to fail, but it’s worse never to have tried to succeed.
This picture shows a lone smiling man on top of a snowy mountain with his hands in the air. Doesn’t that totally contradict the teamwork one?
‘JazzEast: this summer’s COOLEST festival?’ I offer.
‘That,’ Richard says, giving me an energetic arm-stretched finger snap and point, ‘is why I love you.’
My heart stops beating. He’s never told me he loves me before. This is momentous. I’m about to reciprocate with the obvious response when I realize he’s distractedly jotting in his notepad. He’s not waiting for a response. He didn’t mean it like that.
‘I think it’s about time we tell people about us.’
‘Why?’ he asks, still scribbling away in his notepad. ‘Pass me that document off the printer would you, babe?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I need it to send the—’
‘Not that.’ I grab the paper off the printer and pass it across the desk. ‘What do you mean “why”?’
He leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘In a couple of weeks I’ll be moving upstairs and you won’t be my PA any more. Why would we stir things up at the last minute?’
I breathe a sigh of relief. The reason it’s not been getting to him is because he can see the end is in sight. There’s no reason to keep it a secret once he changes roles. He’s right. We’ve done nine months of secrecy so another few weeks won’t make much difference.
‘So, you’re feeling pretty confident about this job then, eh?’
He flashes me a grin that implies it’s so much in the bag my question isn’t even worth answering and so I match his grin, and we both sit there grinning until the door flies open and Martin Cooper flashes us a grin of his own.
‘I’ll leave you two to it.’ I jump up and wave my notebook. ‘We’ve finished here.’
I try to get away at 5.30 p.m. because I’ve invited Alex over for comfort carbs – he’s suffering too.
‘Holly, can I see you in my office before you head off, please?’ Richard pokes his head out his office. ‘I need you to take down some dictation.’
Dictation/pants, tomato/tomayto.
As soon as his door is closed he’s kissing me.
‘Martin cancelled tonight’s conference call,’ he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. ‘So I’m all yours tonight.’
‘Nice as that sounds,’ I murmur back, ‘I have plans. Alex is coming for dinner.’
‘Oh?’ Richard pulls away, knitting his eyebrows slightly. ‘Can’t you cancel? You saw him last night, didn’t you?’
‘No, I can’t cancel – it wouldn’t be fair on him.’ Plus, I don’t want to cancel. I like hanging out with Alex. ‘I thought you were busy. It’s no big deal; he’s just coming for dinner. I’m making lasagne and I always make way too much.’ I don’t know why I’m justifying it. ‘You should join us.’
I wait for him to decline.
‘All right then,’ he nods.
‘Great,’ I say, hiding my surprise.
I head home to cook while Richard finishes at work. I couldn’t say no to him after the amount I’ve gone on about wanting him to get to know my mates. And why would I want him to say no? Them meeting is a good thing. Burying my inexplicable uneasiness, I’m about to call Alex to give him a heads-up when the doorbell goes, and in comes Richard brandishing a bunch of red roses.
‘For the host,’ he says, handing them over with a kiss before he goes into my room for a coat hanger for his suit jacket.
‘Aw, bless you,’ I call, chuffed (he’s never bought me flowers before), and put them in a vase. He fills me in on the latest on the merger while I prepare the lasagne (leaving out my usual layer of sliced mushrooms, because Richard doesn’t think they belong there) and I’ve just stuck it in the oven when the door goes again.
If Alex is still suffering, you wouldn’t know from looking at him, all fresh and bright eyed having cycled over from Greenwich.
‘Guess who’s here?’ I whisper.
‘The police?’ he whispers back, peering around me. ‘They’ve finally tracked down the phantom graffitist? If so, I’m off – you’re not taking me down with you.’
‘No.’ I giggle, pulling him in and closing the door. ‘It’s—’
‘You must be Alex?’ Richard appears at the living-room door, extending his hand. ‘So nice to meet you finally – I’ve heard so much about you.’
That’s not quite true – he never asks anything about Alex.
‘Alex, this is Richard,’ I offer, in case it’s not obvious.
‘Of course. Richard, hi.’ Alex quickly casts off his slight look of surprise and shakes Richard’s hand.
I usher them both into the living room nervously – why am I nervous? – and ask who wants what to drink with a single clap of my hands – why am I clapping?
‘I brought this.’ Alex holds out a bottle of red wine.
‘Here, let me.’ Richard takes it off him, and picks up the bottle opener from the table.
‘Good choice.’ He nods approvingly, reading the label.
‘Right,’ I tell them, shuffling towards the kitchen. ‘I need to grate the cheese for the top of the lasagne, so you boys just hang out and, um, talk boy stuff.’
Back in the kitchen I add the cheese then start the salad. I feel flustered for some reason. The murmur of Alex and Richard’s voices drifts through to the steamy kitchen, and I can hear Richard talking about a recent marketing conference he was on, and I surprise myself by silently willing him to shut up. That stuff isn’t interesting to anyone who doesn’t work in marketing. Christ, interesting is pushing it even if you do. It’s always nerve-racking when you introduce two people who are important to you for the first time – especially when they have little in common – but I hear Alex’s polite murmurs and follow-up questions, and feel myself relax a bit.
Thankfully, dinner goes well. It’s weird witnessing Richard channel Mr Schmooze in such a small social situation. I kind of presumed it was a technique reserved for work purposes. Still, by the time we’re mopping up the last of the tomato sauce on our plates with garlic bread, Alex is making us laugh with anecdotes about kids in his class, and we’re all reminiscing about our own school days.
‘I had no idea you were such a rebel,’ Richard laughs, after Alex tells him about the time I skipped school to go to HMV in London with Ellie because Take That were there signing CDs.
‘Only compared to you pair of kiss-arses.’
They both chuckle, then none of us says anything for a few moments too long before Richard leans forward and sits his elbows on the table, resting his chin in one hand and using the other hand to swirl his red wine around by the stem of his glass.
‘So,’ he begins. Thank Christ for that – I was worried it was turning into an awkward silence.
‘Given that you guys go way back, have you ever . . . you know . . . got it on?’
Whoa, where did that come from? The grin on Richard’s face and the twinkle in his eye indicate it’s a playful rather than a confrontational enquiry, but he must clock my look of horror because he quickly adds, ‘Back in the day, I mean. I wasn’t suggesting now. I just wondered if ever you—’
‘No.’ Alex smiles gently, meeting Richard’s eyes. ‘Holly and I have never got it on.’
‘No?’ Richard laughs. ‘That’s impressive. Not even a cheeky snog?’
‘No.’ Alex shakes his head, while I will this discussion to end. ‘Not even that.’
‘Not even an almost moment?’ Seriously, why are we still on this?
How I miss that sweet, sweet silence.
I’m conscious I still haven’t spoken and I’m probably blushing. I need to do something that
suggests this is as comfortable a conversation for me as it is for both of them, so that I don’t give away what did happen back in the day. Or what never did happen, to be more precise. So I laugh. Slightly harder than I mean to, which sends me into a fit of hysterical giggles. They both look at me oddly.
‘Me and Alex,’ I sigh, wiping a tear away then holding out the lasagne dish. ‘Anyone want any more?’
They both shake their heads and tap their tummies to signal they’re stuffed, then throw compliments at me about how good it was. Richard picks up my hand to kiss it before standing up to get another bottle of wine from the kitchen. I allow myself a glance at Alex, who looks thoughtful, until he notices me watching him and smiles. I smile back, then Richard returns.
‘You guys get a comfy seat while I clear the table,’ I mumble.
‘Let me help,’ says Alex, starting to pile the plates.
‘No, no,’ Richard insists, taking the pile from him, gloriously oblivious to my discomfort. ‘You’re our guest.’
‘Both of you leave them.’ I continue the game of Pass-The-Plates by relieving Richard of them. ‘I’ll just get this cleared away and I’ll be right with you.’
‘Well, that’s us told.’ Richard raises his hands, laughing. They sit at separate ends of the sofa, and Harold crawls up onto Richard’s lap.
‘Hello you,’ he coos, rubbing her under the chin and winking my way. I throw him a smile and disappear into the kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-two
ALEX
Richard shoos Harold from his lap and retrieves his glass of wine from the coaster beside his feet. He goes to take a sip but hesitates at the last second.
‘Chianti is actually the classic accompaniment for lasagne,’ he says, glass still hovering near his mouth. ‘That’s what they’d give you in Italy. You need a rich red with beef, and the pasta provides a superb canvas for the wine to strut its stuff. Then the tomato sauce and herbs are the ideal partner for the acidity and smokiness of the Chianti.’ He finally takes his sip. ‘You chose well!’
Holly’s in the kitchen finishing the dishes, oblivious to our wine chat.
‘All I know is that it was Hannibal Lecter’s favourite. I figured it’d go with red meat.’
Richard laughs heartily and I spot Holly glance over to where we are sitting, just for a second, before returning her focus to the dishcloth and plate in her hands.
This has been the routine all night, each of us playing a role: me the submissive guest, Holly the housewife and Richard the veteran host with his shirtsleeves rolled up and two buttons loose down his chest. It takes an air of Latin confidence, two buttons. I’ve never been able to pull off anything other than one. You have fewer options as a pallid northerner, though on occasion I’ve stood before a mirror, shirt fastened to the collar like a mod. I always bottle it before leaving the house.
When Richard came to the door and offered me a robust handshake, when I realized he would be joining us, I worried that it all might be a bit weird. Dinner with the girl I used to love and her secret boyfriend. But he put me at ease. He gave me compliments. And there hadn’t been a single awkward moment until he asked if anything had ever happened between me and Holly. Did he know something? Was his jokey exterior a mask for trying to warn me off? I did my best to not appear defensive while Holly just laughed it off. Why did she have to laugh quite so hard? I understand she never felt the same as I did, but I didn’t know she found the idea that ridiculous.
‘I was reading an article the other day,’ Richard says, as Holly wipes down the placemats and Harold, who has taken refuge under the dining table, licks her hind legs with long, thorough tongue strokes. ‘And from what I can gather, the problem with kids at the moment is they all know their human rights. This article, I can’t remember where I saw it now, but . . .’
A headache that afflicted me all morning and afternoon bubbles to the surface as Richard talks. My hangover is making it difficult to concentrate for any length of time. My eyes flick to a vase of roses on the windowsill behind Richard and, for a second or two, I lose myself in a distant memory.
‘. . . if anything, I think you teachers deserve more holidays.’
I find myself relieved as the extractor fan that chugged throughout dinner is finally silenced, acting as a full stop on our conversation. We watch Harold tiptoe from under the dining table.
‘So, how are you finding the girls down in London, then?’ Richard wraps his arm around Holly’s shoulders as she slips onto the sofa between us.
It feels like an odd question, especially after his earlier round of questioning about me and Holly, and I’m not sure how to answer, so I release a ‘Ha!’ in the hope that it will be enough, but the cramped hush that follows tells me it’s not. Holly eventually intervenes.
‘I should set you up with one of my friends!’ she blurts, holding out her arm in invitation to Harold, who trots over for a neck scratch.
‘Actually,’ I tell them, stung by the idea that I’m a charity case, ‘I was thinking about asking someone you know out.’
Holly looks up from the cat and glances at Richard as if I might have already confided in him while she was in the kitchen. He shakes his head. How could he know what on earth I’m on about when I’m not entirely sure myself?
‘Who’s that, then?’ says Holly.
Still unsure where I’m going with all this, I direct a bashful smile at Holly, then Richard, then back at Holly. ‘Melissa.’
Holly seems confused. ‘Melissa who?’
Richard furrows his brow knowingly but it takes Holly a few more seconds to twig.
‘We met at the pub quiz that time, remember? I told you she added me on Facebook.’
Holly lifts her body ever so slightly to adjust the waist of her pencil skirt, and then settles back again, arms folded.
‘Oh.’
The three of us bathe in silence once again and it dawns on me why they’re both concerned.
‘Don’t worry,’ I assure them. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
As I turn and see two incredulous faces, I suddenly feel like a complete prat. I haven’t exactly thought this through. I was as surprised as anyone when Melissa sent me a friend request, and again when she started ‘Liking’ all my statuses. Kev says she’s marking her territory, like a cat spraying its house, but until now I hadn’t seriously considered that there might be anything in it.
I guess Holly’s offer to set me up confirmed something that has been nagging at me all evening. Seeing her and Richard together for the first time: it’s made lots of things real in my mind. When I moved to London and we met up, I couldn’t believe how much Holly had changed, but lately . . . I don’t know. There have been moments over the last month or two where it’s started to feel like it used to – or at least I have. But tonight has made it clear: it’s not going to happen. This is Holly’s life now and she’s happy.
An awkwardness has settled between us, and it’s this that seems to prompt Holly to reach into her bag.
‘I haven’t shown you yet, have I?’ She produces a digital camera and shuffles closer to me, at which point Richard excuses himself to go to the bathroom and Harold jumps onto my thighs, eager to get a peep at the snaps herself. ‘I took some photos of our old house with everything boxed up. I never thought I’d be bothered but . . .’
I scroll through the photos, lingering on the ones of her bedroom for as long as I can without coming across as a weirdo. This place is to my teenage fantasies what Graceland is to Elvis, and although I barely even recognize it without all the junk on the floor, the sight of it still makes me syrupy inside.
After shots of the house come photos from a party.
‘Ooh, these are from the wedding I went to a few weeks ago,’ says Holly, and I feel obliged to continue.
I don’t know anyone in the first twenty pictures or so until finally Holly appears with a bouquet in one hand and Richard in the other. She looks overjoyed at having caught the flowers, while Richard, his chin
at a right angle to the lens, is sporting something of a pout. The pose is familiar from the framed photograph on the windowsill that I first saw while feeding Harold a few weeks ago.
‘So I guess this means you and Richard are next then?’ I venture, and Harold takes this as her cue to leap back onto the carpet, leaving a wig of cat hair on my trousers.
‘Sorry about her,’ says Holly, ignoring my question and taking it upon herself to brush the fur from my legs. Despite myself I start to blush and avert my eyes, because Holly Gordon’s hands are sweeping across my thighs, and because I’m fairly sure this could constitute pre-sexual contact under Kev’s definition.
I order myself to stop being absurd. Holly would brush cat hair from the trousers of any of her close friends, obviously.
‘All done,’ she says.
The bathroom door opens on the other side of the flat. Holly collects the camera from my palm and that would have been that.
Would have been that, but for the faintest, tiniest, most minuscule flicker of totally innocent eye contact that means when Richard walks back into the room, clasping his hands together for no apparent reason, I feel like a naughty schoolboy, as if I – we – have done something wrong.
A plastic bag wrestles with the bough of a tree to my left as I cycle around the heath and back to Greenwich. It’s losing and I know how it feels. An evening of lasagne and wine and weird moments has left me with indigestion, and the previous night’s frolics with Holly are refusing to be ignored. That’s why I decided to call it a night.
I’m almost home when my phone vibrates and I have to stop pedalling and disembark so I can answer. It’s Kev.
Steering my bike with one hand and holding the phone to my ear with the other, I listen as he reveals he went on a date last night. With Diane, the girl he met on the train. I crack up and he tells me to ‘fuck off’. And then he tells me to ‘fuck off’ again.
I mean, it’s good that for once in his life he isn’t being shallow, but he was the one who thought the snow globes thing was psycho, and what happened to ‘No one goes on dates any more’?
