‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Ed. ‘I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking over these lonely months without you, and I have come to the conclusion you have had quite a dull time with me in a lot of ways over the years. I am a fuddy-duddy, I know that, but it’s just the way I am. I’m stuck in my ways, Amelia, and I can see now that perhaps I have been unfair – selfish – imposing that on you. We’re still young, and I’ve made you live like an old person.’
‘But it was your quirky little ways that made me fall in love with you,’ I said, truthfully. ‘I knew what you were like and I chose to be with you but, to be honest, in the last few years it did start to get me down a bit. As I said before, I hated the separate beds…’
‘And as I said before – why didn’t you tell me how much that bothered you? I know we joked about it, but you should have told me that it was a big problem for you, instead of bottling it up.’
I looked at him. I really didn’t know why I hadn’t been firmer about it. I had always just gone along with all of Ed’s little rules and regulations, until those last few weeks, when my sudden rash of acts of rebellion had caused all the problems.
‘It’s what I’m used to,’ I said eventually. ‘I’ve always done what Dad told me to, or risk a clip round the head, so I suppose I always did what you told me to do as well. And to be fair, Ed – when I did try to change things, like your birthday, you went ballistic.’
‘Only because you didn’t tell me first. If you’d discussed going to that dreadful sushi bar…’ he laughed. ‘No, the food was really good actually, superb, I was just in a foul mood. But if you’d talked to me about wanting to go there, I would have psyched myself up. So talk now, Amelia – tell me the other things that were getting you down.’
I sighed. I finally had my opportunity, and it was scary.
Really scary. My heart was pounding. I decided to start with the simple stuff and work up to the big one.
‘Well, you work too hard, Ed. I ended up spending most of my time on my own while you were in your study, and I was just really lonely. I think that’s why I got so caught up with Kiki and that crowd, it was such fun to have company.’
‘You’re right, I was working too hard,’ he said.
‘ “Was”?’ I said, surprised.
He held the paper up to me. It was the Times, I noticed, rather than his customary Telegraph, but even more surprising was the headline on the front of the business section:
LAUREL CORP TO UNCORK BRADLOW’S BOTTLES
‘I’m selling the business, Amelia,’ he said. ‘I’m bored with it. Dragging around France on my own. Doing the deliveries, long nights drinking with all those overly wealthy blowhards – it’s boring. I’m bored with being professionally hungover, I’m bored with stroking egos to ease another few thousand quid out of people. I’m even bored with obscure French wine and the dipsomaniac freaks who make it. I want a change.’
I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told me he was having a sex change.
‘That’s why I went to Italy,’ said Ed, grinning broadly. ‘I’ve developed quite a taste for Prosecco… Well, I can drink it without throwing up, anyway, and Italian wine is quite interesting when you look into it. But what really interests me is the Italian approach to coffee. I know there are a million cappucino bars in London now, but very few of them actually make decent coffee. It’s all bland garbage. So I might start a new business based on that. High-end coffee for the masses. This suit is Italian, too, do you like it? It’s Brioni.’
I had to laugh. Ed never did things by half.
Our talk had gone so well we decided to continue it over lunch, and the maître d’ at Scott’s was so pleased to see us, it was rather sweet.
‘But how can you sell the business?’ I asked him, once we were settled at our usual table. ‘You are the business.’
He chuckled to himself.
‘That’s what I’ve been stuck in my study figuring out for the past year. I’ll still be involved – for the first three years anyway – but over that time I will train up various wine writers to do the journal for me. What they really want is the brand name, which they are going to exploit in truly horrendous ways. There’ll be all kinds of Bradlow’s Bottles-branded wine paraphernalia, with concessions in big stores and stand-alone duty-free boutiques selling it. Crap like that. There’s going to be a blog…’ He pulled a face.
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ I asked, amazed. He had always been so particular about the sanctity of the brand.
‘Ten million quid can ease a lot of pain,’ said Ed and raised his glass to me.
I raised mine back. ‘But why didn’t you tell me you had that in the pipeline? I might have understood why you were working so hard.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. I know the gloss went off the whole wine scene for you a long time ago, Amelia. I was going to tell you when it was all sorted, as a jolly surprise. I had been planning to do it on my birthday, actually. That was why I was so cross when it all went wrong.’
He smiled at me, sadly, and tears pricked my eyelids.
‘Anyway, I’m sick of thinking about all that,’ he said, clearly trying to cheer things up. ‘It’s in the past. Tell me about your new place.’
‘Well, it’s very small, just a pied à terre really, within walking distance of the station, so I can go easily between there and Winchelsea.’
‘How are things down there? How is your potager? I was very impressed when I saw it.’
I had a pang as I remembered the happy afternoon I’d spent with Sonny and Oliver and Kiki and Joseph finishing off the raised beds. Although I was desperately hurt by what they’d done to me, it was still hard just to dismiss them. We’d had such good times together. But there was no going back: I had to put them out of my head. They weren’t real friends – and the longer I talked to Ed, the more I felt he was.
We carried on chatting right through lunch, so companionably and easily I almost forgot that there had ever been a problem between us. I just sank back into the familiar comfort of his company.
He was so original and smart, I realized all over again as he talked about his plans for the coffee business. No wonder all those hedge-fund billionaires loved hanging out with him – and no wonder some big corporation was prepared to pay so much for what was really a piece of his brain. He just wasn’t like anyone else. So when the waiter came to offer us coffee and Ed asked me if I would rather have it back at the flat, where he had some rather special single-estate Kenyan beans, it seemed natural to say yes.
It was strange being back there – odd because it was so familiar – but I soon relaxed into it and, as we sat on the sofa talking, drinking amaretto with our espressos – which were amazingly good – I really felt I had come home. So when Ed put his arms around me and started kissing me, it didn’t seem inappropriate.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said. ‘Our bed. We won’t have separate bedrooms any more, Melia, I promise. Come home and live with me again, starting right now.’
I didn’t answer him, but just let him lead me to his bedroom, where he walked over to the bed and took Mr Bun off it, placing him on the bedside table, facing the wall. Then as I watched him take something out of the drawer, I realized I had made a terrible, lazy-minded mistake letting things get this far.
It was his precious condom which he’d got out ready, and it was a cruel reminder that I still hadn’t told him the real reason I had left him.
I was instantly furious with myself for letting it come to this without having discussed the big issue with him. Yet again, I’d let him steamroller over me, seduced by his style, brilliance and charm into forgetting about my own needs. No wonder he was such an amazing salesman, I thought. In his quiet way, he could get you to do exactly what he wanted.
‘Ed,’ I said, and my heart sank when he turned around and looked at me, his face all bright and happy, clearly convinced everything was now sorted.
I let out a big sigh. I ju
st had to say it.
‘Ed, this is all a bit hasty. We need to talk some more before we start behaving like nothing has happened. There is one major issue we still haven’t discussed.’
His face fell, and the way he flicked the condom on to the bed indicated his irritation. He had thought it was all going exactly the way he wanted it to, and suddenly it wasn’t. I looked at him intently, expecting his expression to darken as he realized what I was referring to, but it didn’t. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to have to spell it out to him yet again.
Playing for time, I suggested we had some more of that amazing coffee and went through to the kitchen to make it. I was struck by how easily I slipped back into automatic pilot in there. Everything was where it had always been. The same cups, the same French sugar cubes in the familiar box with a parrot on it. The only thing that was different was the coffee. He always used to buy a French blend from the Algerian Coffee Shop in Soho but now the cupboard where we kept it was full of neat canisters of different beans, clearly labelled in Ed’s writing. I smiled despite myself.
He came in to join me, as I fiddled about, sitting on one of the high stools by the brunch counter – a leftover from his mother’s 1970s decor – and looking brightly at me. He had clearly decided to hide his earlier disappointment to try and keep everything sweet between us. I gave him mental points for effort.
‘So come on, then,’ he said eagerly, as though it were all a huge lark. ‘What is the other issue that’s bugging you? Tell me?’
I sighed deeply. ‘Oh, Ed, surely you know? It’s the family thing. If we don’t get on with it right now, I’ll be too old. I’m nearly on the black ski run already.’
He looked confused. ‘What ski run? What are you talking about? You want to go skiing with your family but you’re worried you’re too old?’
I couldn’t help laughing, but I was getting exasperated. ‘No. That’s not it.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I want a baby, Ed. Remember?’
This time he did understand. I could tell by the frown that had immediately appeared between his eyebrows.
‘Oh, not that again,’ he said wearily.
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about,’ I said, making a Herculean effort not to raise my voice. ‘You think it’s a boring old subject that’s been discussed, dismissed and can now be forgotten – but for me it is very much still a hot issue. In fact, it gets hotter with every day that passes and takes me nearer to my thirty-seventh birthday, which is when my fertility will go into freefall.’
‘You mean it would be harder for you to get pregnant after thirty-seven?’ said Ed, at least making an effort to understand.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And harder and more risky still with every year that follows. I’ve got a serious deadline with this, Ed.’
‘But what about Madonna?’ said Ed.
‘Statistical freak,’ I said, trying to remain patient. ‘Not many other women can fill Wembley Stadium either. Or buy Cecil Beaton’s house…’
He sipped his coffee and looked thoughtful. ‘I understand your sense of urgency,’ he said slowly, as if he were thinking it out as he spoke, ‘but I’m afraid it still doesn’t change my position. I don’t want to have children, Amelia. You’ve always known that. I’ve never indicated otherwise, or done anything to string you along that I might change my mind. You’ve always known the score, and the fact that your window of opportunity to have them is getting smaller doesn’t make any difference to that. I wouldn’t want them if we only had one more day to do it. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I do not understand why a brilliant, intelligent, wonderful person like you, who professes to love me, would not want to celebrate that love by having a child together.’
He put his cup down. He looked serious, but not angry, I was relieved to see.
‘Let me try and explain,’ he said. ‘I think I am an unusually lucky person, Amelia, because I love my life – or I love the life I had with you in it. I know what makes me happy and I am in a financial position to do those things. I have watched all my friends have kids, and I know what happens. If we had a child, I would have to give up my freedom to do what I enjoy when I want to, and I am not prepared to do that.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but he stopped me. ‘I’m only going to say this once, Amelia, so please let me finish. I categorically do not want to have a child, so if I give in to you on this point just to persuade you to come back to me, I would be giving my consent to having a child I don’t want. As far as I am concerned, it would be an unwanted child.’
He paused, sighing deeply, and looked at me very seriously. ‘I was an unwanted child, Amelia,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want to do that to someone else. So – no. No children.’
I could feel the disappointment that had been growing in me turning to anger. I was about to lash out when I saw Ed had tears in his eyes. It had not been easy for him to say that last thing, I realized.
I went over and put my arm around him. ‘Has that been the real reason, all this time?’ I said. ‘And you couldn’t tell me?’
‘It’s a big part of it,’ he said.
‘But don’t you think that having a child of your own could help to put that right?’ I asked him quietly. ‘By loving your own child, couldn’t you somehow love the lonely child you once were?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to do that, and I will never change my mind, Amelia. It’s not just my rubbish childhood, it’s about how I want to live my adult life. I’m sorry, but I have never led you on about this. So if you come back to me – and I dearly hope you will – it has to be on those terms.’
This time, I believed him.
I left the flat in Mount Street sadder than I had ever been. I didn’t feel angry with Ed at all. He had finally been completely honest with me and at least I knew exactly where I stood. It just wasn’t where I wanted to be.
As I walked once again along those almost unbearably familiar paving stones towards Berkeley Square, en route to my new flat, I felt as though I had been cast adrift with nothing and no one to anchor my life to. I had never felt so lonely.
I could still go back to Ed, I reminded myself. As I left he was still telling me he desperately wanted me to ‘come home’, but I’d said I needed a lot more time to think about his non-negotiable terms. He’d been very reasonable about that, and we had parted in sadness, not anger. Which almost made it worse.
If we’d had another huge blow-up, I could have fled decisively on the energy of my fury but, like this, I felt every step was carrying me away from the nicest man I had ever known. But, I had to ask myself, was that really love – or was it familiarity?
I felt even more alone when I got back to my little flat. It had seemed like an exciting new phase to have a place of my own for the first time when I had moved in, but now it felt like some kind of nun’s cell – a horribly furnished one too. And while being at the back of the building was great for avoiding the traffic noise, it meant my outlook was an ugly lightwell and brick walls.
I knew there was a beautiful summer evening out there, and I felt trapped inside, as if I were missing out on life. I found the sitting room, with the kitchen at one end of it, particularly claustrophobic, so I sat in the bedroom, which felt more homely, with a big pile of my own cushions piled up on the bed.
I leaned back on them and thought about the day’s events. Since that morning, I’d had what had seemed like a lovely rapprochement with Ed, then narrowly escaped what would have been a very ill-advised sexual reunion, which had led directly back to deadlock on the big problem in our relationship.
So there I was, all alone, with two men looming large in my life, both of them hopeless. One of them seemed to love the idea of children but couldn’t keep his pants zipped; the other was devotedly faithful but absolutely refused to have children. It was too much to take in. Meanwhile, I was another day closer to my thirty-seventh birthday in September.
I wondered what they were each doing now. With regard
to Joseph, I put the thought out of my mind again as quickly as it had come in. I dreaded to think what he had planned for a Friday, beyond deciding which of his willing lady friends he would be servicing.
Ed was more predictable. It was just after seven o’clock, and he would be sitting in the bar at Duke’s Hotel, sipping one of Alessandro’s legendary vodka martinis. That was how he comforted himself when he’d had a particularly bad day and I was sure this one would qualify. It was another of his precious Ian Fleming moments. Then he’d go for dinner at Morton’s, where he’d sit at his favourite table and order the steak frites, cooked rare, nursing a glass or six of Pomerol – or perhaps now more likely something obscure and Italian – and it gave me a pang as I realized I didn’t even know what kind of Italian wine Ed would drink.
If I had agreed to go back to him I could have shared that whole adventure with him, I realized. We could have learned Italian together, something I’d always wanted to do.
Thinking about that – and imagining him sitting alone in that so-familiar bar, thinking sadly about me, I didn’t doubt – it would have been so easy just to get off my bed and go and join him there, taking up my exquisitely comfortable old life where I had left off, to climb back into my fur-lined rut. But I just couldn’t.
It was absolutely clear to me now that my choice came down to this: I could have Ed and definitely no children. Or I could give up Ed for the possibility of finding someone to have a child with – and my misadventure with Joseph had already shown me the pitfalls of that path.
The odds of a thirty-seven-year-old woman finding a man who wanted to have children with her in time for her still to be able to have them were very short indeed. So, the way things were, I was most likely to end up with no Ed and no children.
Maybe, I thought, the same old arguments going around in my head again, I should just cut my losses and at least have the lovely man and the enviable lifestyle – even more luxe now he was selling the business – but, even thinking about that option, I felt a stab of pain somewhere in my belly.
How to Break Your Own Heart Page 32
