by Freya North
James continued to whistle behind the wheel of his Land Rover. He stopped, however, when Barry and Beryl joined in, yowling and whining and inadvertently filling the air with dog breath. James found it difficult to tell whether they were singing and happy, or downright distressed.
‘Hullo, Miss McCabe,’ James says, phoning Fen’s direct line at Trust Art.
‘James,’ she says, a little slowly, wishing it was her who had made the call.
‘You rang?’ he says. ‘I was up to my wrists in horse shit.’
‘I’m not coming tomorrow,’ Fen states briskly, after a moment’s silence, ‘I can’t come at all this weekend.’
Images of the ironed sheets in the airing cupboard and the larder full of fine provisions flit across James’s mind. ‘Any particular reason?’ he enquires flatly.
‘I’m going to France,’ Fen tells him.
‘France?’
‘With Pip,’ she informs him, ‘to find Cat.’
‘Is everything OK?’ James asks.
‘Yes,’ Fen replies. There’s silence. Fen’s uncharacteristic aloofness and lack of manners astound James. Cancelling him is one thing – indeed, the reason for doing so would be totally understandable – but the manner Fen has seen fit to employ is quite another.
‘Sorry,’ she says perfunctorily.
‘Fine,’ James replies with a coolness equal to hers.
However, it merely makes Fen stroppy that James should sound cross. ‘It’s last minute,’ she says, but not by way of an excuse. ‘I have to prioritize,’ she adds in a tone to suggest that James is being unreasonable.
‘Fine,’ James says again, tonelessly.
Fen really doesn’t feel remotely flattered that both her men are obviously discomfited by plans which exclude them. Instead, she feels encumbered.
Thank God it’s France tomorrow. And the focus can be on Cat.
Fen goes home. Both Abi’s and Gemma’s beds are unmade. Jake’s shoes are in Gemma’s room but there’s a pair of his jeans strewn on Abi’s floor. Fen packs a rucksack and phones Pip to say that doesn’t it make sense for her to stay the night at Pip’s.
‘I’m working this evening,’ Pip reminds Fen.
‘That’s fine,’ says Fen, ‘I’ll just watch TV at yours, if that’s OK.’
‘Of course it is,’ says Pip, wondering why Fen would choose not to spend her last night with Matt, but also knowing instinctively when not to probe.
Both Matt and James do a fair amount of carpet pacing and blank-wall contemplation that evening. They both feel uncomfortable. It occurs to both just how much they were looking forward to seeing Fen. And both feel singularly perturbed at her behaviour. Because it is anomalous, is it ominous? They hope not. They are both rather in love with her, you see. Thus, they both feel somewhat rejected. No one sleeps particularly well that night.
FORTY-ONE
No, when the fight begins within himself, A man’s worth something.
Robert Browning
Who is it to be, then? Any ideas? Preferences? Inklings? Does one man deserve her more than the other? Is she truly deserving of either? Can and ought she to carry on as she is? Sense would suggest Matt, who adores her so vocally and looks after her so well. If we were to feed his attributes and those of James into a computer love-compatibility programme, Matt would probably score higher on account of age, logistics, job, personal wealth. But then, the romantic would suggest James. There’s an undeniable, almost indefinable, wavelength link that Fen shares, mostly unspoken, with him. Here, age and location, pasts and circumstances are irrelevant. The still point of the turning world. But that’s just it. In life, time can’t stand still and it’s unrealistic to attempt to create a state where it does. There again, time passes all too quickly and lives are too short to make the wrong decisions and have regrets. Should Fen follow her heart or her head? Therein lies the nub – because it is not as if Matt exclusively occupies the one place, or James the other. Fen really is in love with both men – head, heart and body.
Is this a moral dilemma, then? What is morality but a human construct? Just because morals differ, does that mean that one set is superior, more correct, of higher virtue, than another? Who decided that monogamy is the morally superior way? Ah! this is where the issue of consent swings the pendulum. Abi, Gemma and Jake consent to a non-monogamous way of life. Fen, however, has gone ahead and chosen this for herself but without the go-ahead from those with whom she is now deeply involved. There is, therefore, an element of deceit and duplicity and though she won’t admit to lies, essentially they are there too; in abundance. Would Matt and James agree to their arrangement if they knew about it? If they knew about it, how would they feel? Appalled? Amenable? Hurt? Happy? Betrayed? Or just bewildered?
Pip, Cat and Django firmly believe the choice and responsibility lie with Fen. But maybe it won’t be that simple. Perhaps the best solution, the ultimate conclusion, won’t lie with her at all.
So, Fen McCabe has, quite literally, left the country. She has no idea where she and Pip will be staying for the next three nights, just that they are heading by train for Grenoble. Her phone has no network in France. There is little room in her rucksack for much other than a weekend’s worth of clothes, the Procycling official guide to the Tour de France, the current issue of Cycle Sport and packs of Mars Bars for Cat. She has left behind, in a messy pile, all her ditherings. She is focusing instead on the welfare of her sister. Because she cares, does Fen; she truly cares for those she loves. And those she loves, she loves intensely.
FORTY-TWO
Women – their nature is not ours, we are far from grasping it.
Auguste Rodin
Barry and Beryl joined their master in a spectacular meal, taken as a carpet-picnic in the snug. They dined on duck-liver pâté, the finest slithers of cold cuts, olives drenched in Provençal herbs and garlic, the most pungent of premium cheeses. To accompany were melt-in-the-mouth breads, an exceptional potato salad and chutneys so delicious that it was completely acceptable to scoop fingerfuls direct from the jars.
‘Lovely,’ James said out loud though his dogs were asleep at his feet, bellies distended. James was convinced and satisfied that the food would not have tasted better for Fen’s presence. It would have tasted no different. In fact, there would have been less to go around, on account of her hearty appetite. She wouldn’t have added anything at all, James decided.
Bedtime, though, would have been more fun.
Matt had a really nice meal too. He and his ex-girlfriend. Cosy as you like in their favourite restaurant. Alberto, the manager, welcomed them back to his bosom as if they were his children, presenting her with a stem of white freesia, clasping his heart and cooing, ‘Bene bene,’ while regarding the couple with hope and benevolence. Julia was glowing, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and expectant. She could hardly eat for gazing at Matt and making every effort to appear chatty and gorgeous. And she did indeed look gorgeous and Matt found her very amusing and entertaining. There was lots of laughter, and gentle sighs, and ‘remember when’-ing.
Are you shouting out, ‘No, Matt! Don’t be tempted! Give Fen a chance!’? Or are you quietly thinking, ‘Go for it, Matt, give Fen a taste of her own medicine!’?
What will he do? How well do we know him?
‘Come back to mine?’ Julia suggests, the candlelight spinning sparks into her eyes. Matt shrugs and nods and says, ‘Sure.’ They go back to her flat and she pours Amaretto and dims the lights and puts their all-time favourite Neil Young CD on softly for maximum background ambience and subliminal memory manipulation. Cleverly, Julia now steers away from talking about ‘us’ to focus instead on simply chatting and conversing about work and politics and television and gossip, just like new couples out on a date tend to do. As stimulating intellectually as it’s been, she is desperate now to reach over and trace her fingertips down his neck, to slip her hand under his shirt and feel his chest and find his heart beating. She sits on her hands while Matt pours more Amar
etto.
‘Have you seen the new Sean Connery film?’ he asks her. ‘It’s good – fairly standard brain-rest fare, but entertaining. And that man is so damn cool.’
‘No,’ Julia says, ‘I haven’t, but I intend to. Who did you go with? Jake?’ She asks as nonchalantly as possible while her heart races in anticipation of his answer.
‘A colleague from work,’ Matt says, noncommittally.
I went with Fen. I went with Fen. I went with Fen. I bought her a Häagen-Dazs choc ice – she nibbled off all the chocolate outer, got bored with the remainder after a couple of licks and gave it to me to finish. She grabbed my hand at the twist in the plot, then she softened her grasp and knitted fingers with me.
Matt awoke at four in the morning. He wasn’t in his own bed. Nor was he in the four-poster in the charming country house hotel in Suffolk. He was in Julia’s bed. Her limbs were wrapped around him; her head was nestled against his chest. Her breath smelt of garlic. Her hair smelt very fragrant. Her shoulder was digging into Matt’s side. The only thought in Matt’s head was what was the best way to extricate himself. It was difficult to tell whether she had wrapped herself around him like a cocoon or a praying mantis. He wasn’t comfortable, that was for sure. Physically or otherwise. He debated whether to go for speed or dexterity. He went for a mixture of the two. She woke up of course.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, a tinge of panic underscoring her sleepy voice.
‘Home,’ Matt whispered.
‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded, sitting up in bed and holding her arms out.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said.
‘Stay,’ she implored, hugging her knees and rocking, ‘please?’
‘I’ll call you,’ he said, kissing her forehead lightly and leaving her flat for his.
Matt felt very at peace walking home because he loved London passionately at a time like this, at 4.37 in the morning, when the city was dozing without actually being asleep.
Jake rolled home just after lunch-time the next day.
‘What are you doing here?’ he greeted Matt.
‘I live here,’ Matt said, ‘I own the place.’
‘I thought you were going for a dirty weekend?’
‘So did I,’ Matt said glumly.
‘Where’s Fen?’ Jake asked, actually looking around the flat because it was so normal to see her there.
‘France,’ Matt said.
‘France?’ Jake said. He regarded Matt and decided that they should watch the cricket on the television whilst getting drunk. Matt thought this a splendid idea.
‘I spent the night with Julia,’ Matt told him between innings.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jake exclaimed, with extravagant displeasure.
‘Not sexually,’ Matt stressed. ‘I called her. We went out for a meal. We went back to hers. Had half a bottle of Amaretto. I slept in her bed.’
‘Did she try and seduce you?’
Matt had to think hard on that one. ‘No, actually – oddly – she didn’t.’
‘Whoa!’ Jake said, waving his hands, ‘There’s a reason for that! She has a cunning plan, something up her sleeve – you know, take the pressure off to lure you and insure you return?’
‘Possibly,’ Matt agreed. ‘She did beg me to stay.’
Jake turned a glance out of the window into a contemplative gaze at the window-sill. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t take a leaf out of my book,’ he said, quite seriously. ‘The chapters may be full of fun and frolics but I have a hunch that the ending won’t be a particularly pretty one.’
Matt raised his glass to Jake.
‘I’ll talk it through with Julia tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think Fen’s back on Monday.’
The next day, Matt did just that – he phoned Julia and took her out to lunch. As gently as he could, holding her hand and maintaining unflinching eye contact, he told her that he really did love her, that he always would, but that their romantic and sexual relationship was over and no amount of hope or elaborate plans could possibly revive it. Julia stared at her plate, dabbing her fingers on the cocoa-powder-and-icing-sugar design that had encircled the chocolate mousse cake. She gazed up at Matt. Ironically, it was the care and kindness in his gaze that convinced her it was indeed over. She knew then that he loved her. But in the past tense.
‘Is there someone else?’ she felt confident enough to ask.
Matt dabbed at her plate. Shyly, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is.’
‘Did you go and see the Sean Connery film with her?’ Julia asked, but non-accusatorily.
‘Yes,’ said Matt, ‘we went last week.’
‘Did she enjoy it too?’ Julia asked.
‘Yes, she did,’ said Matt.
‘More than I would have,’ Julia stated without malice. ‘Not really my sort of movie.’
‘No,’ Matt affirmed, ‘you’re probably right.’
‘What is her name?’ Julia asked.
‘Fen,’ Matt said, ‘Fenella McCabe.’
Julia went very quiet, Matt’s heart felt heavy. He had loved Julia very very much. In their early days, he’d seriously entertained theories of marriage and babies and happy ever after. He felt sad now, but without feeling that they had failed in any way. It wouldn’t have worked. But he knew that neither of them was at fault or to blame. They had grown over the years – but grown apart instead of together.
‘I do love you very much,’ Matt told Julia.
‘I know you do,’ Julia said. Oddly enough, she felt rather calm. She couldn’t feel any tears welling, could not detect a knot in her throat, experienced no desperation in her heart, sensed no longing in her soul. ‘I know you do.’
They smiled meekly at each other. Matt asked for the bill.
‘Do you mind if I go?’ Julia asked.
‘No – do,’ Matt said.
‘One last thing,’ Julia said, standing then sitting again, ‘was there an overlap? Between me and Fen?’
‘No,’ Matt smiled gently, ‘there wasn’t.’
Julia had suspicions about indiscretions on Matt’s part in the latter months of their relationship. Yet one-off shags or brief physical flings were suddenly easier to stomach and accept than if he’d fallen in love and left her for someone else. For this Fen.
‘Bye, then,’ Julia said, standing again, tilting her head and giving him a little wave.
Matt stood, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. ‘You take care,’ he said and he really meant it.
Matt leaves the restaurant and emerges on to Hampstead High Street where the pavements are awash with the usual proliferation of nattily dressed Sunday shoppers browsing the windows for this week’s must haves, despite having to dodge the young families with three-wheeled baby buggies heading for the Heath. Poor Julia. Lovely Julia. She’ll be fine. I know she will be. Bye bye, sweet girl. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it didn’t work out. Matt feels like crying. He heads for a bench on the Heath and sits quietly with his thoughts. Telling Julia that there was indeed someone else was to end the relationship once and for all. No room for hope, no doors left ajar. You can’t come in here now. I know – I won’t try again. Her acceptance was surprisingly hard on Matt, too. Though he was relieved that the anger and tears and delusions she had foisted on him over the last few months were now resolved, though he truly wanted her to move on, he also knew deep down that it had been just a little comforting, secretly flattering, to have her in love with him from afar. He was having to say goodbye to that. No more e-mails or text messages or voice mails or phone calls from her. Would he miss these? Quite possibly. But you’ll have Fen, Matt.
I don’t think so.
Pardon?
‘I don’t think so,’ Matt says aloud, rather hoarsely, which causes the couple sharing his bench to move off promptly, pushing their baby, in the three-wheeled buggy with mini mountain-bike tyres, over the grass with ease.
Matt! All she said was that she was going to France rather than Suffolk!
‘No,’ Matt repeats, ‘I don’t think so. Not Fen. I don’t think it’s what I want.’
Matt marched to Highgate, stopping at benches along the way to collect his thoughts and regain his composure. He now realized why he had found Fen’s behaviour so unnerving. He felt utterly compromised. It was a feeling he hadn’t yet encountered with regard to women. Work, occasionally. Mates, once or twice. Women? Never. Had he always had the upper hand in relationships? Probably. What did that mean? Did it mean that his women had always felt more deeply for him than he for them? Possibly.
I’ve never had to do much chasing. I’ve never had to look around or hedge my bets or worry about rejection. If anything, I’ve had pick of the crop.
Women falling at your feet?
Well, I may have caused many a heart to flutter but, to my knowledge, I haven’t made anyone faint.
I mean, there’s always been someone – you’ve never really been single, have you?
No, not in my twenties. I was blessed with a veritable succession, a queue, if you like. Always someone in the offing, no need to spend a night – let alone a week – on my own.
But your relationship with Julia finished before Fen was on the scene.
Yes. But that was my longest relationship. It had staled long before I met Fen. I succumbed to temptation a fair few times. It didn’t make me any happier. But I knew, I guess, that it was wrong just to keep it going whilst keeping my eyes open for a viable alternative.
A Viable Alternative dressed in a skirt and making eyes at you?
Yes. But though I was no longer in love with Julia, though things were pretty grim – non-communicative, complacent – I still had a certain respect for her. And for myself. I didn’t want to spend years to come having furtive shags behind her back. Been there, done that. It had become boring. Thrill of the chase – and then what? Feeling guilty, feeling flat. Though I was no longer in love with her, I didn’t want to hurt her. And I really didn’t want the reason for our split to be the presence of someone else. I had to believe unequivocally that the relationship was over purely because it had run its course.
