by Jane Green
She sighs deeply. “I’m so fed up with it I’m thinking of turning gay.” Yes! This is what I’ve been waiting for. She’s only saying what all my friends have been joking about for years, but they’re not famous and they don’t say it on live television. This means big headlines tomorrow, I can see them now: RUBY COMES OUT; RUBY RUNS TO WOMEN; LESBIAN LAUGHS FOR RUBY. The tabloids will have a field day.
The first call comes in. Some sad woman from Doncaster whose husband has been having affairs all their married life. But she loves him and she doesn’t want to leave him. Why do so many women put up with this treatment? Why do so many women not think they deserve any better? But Ruby tells her you either put up with it or get out, and, harsh as it sounds, I suppose she has a point.
And then I fall silent as I hear the next call is Simon from London. It couldn’t be, I tell myself, he knows I work here, but of course Sod’s law is working and it is. It really is.
His well-spoken vowels dipped in a bucket of sarcasm fill my ears through the headphones as he says hello to the hosts, and I can’t breathe. I think, in fact, I’m going to throw up.
I haven’t spoken to Simon for three years. Not since the bastard dumped me out of the blue after nine months. And I loved him, Jesus how I loved him. It wasn’t love of course, even I can see now that it was infatuation, but at the time it near enough killed me.
I know exactly what you’re thinking, how could she have loved him after nine months, but occasionally, or not so occasionally if you’re me, a nine-year relationship can be condensed into nine months, or even nine weeks, and sometimes nine days.
They’re so passionate, so intense, so painful, that even years afterward you still feel the hurt when you hear their name. This is how it was for me and Simon.
I’m so wrapped up in memories I don’t even hear what he’s saying, and when finally I pull myself together I hear him say, “I didn’t mean to have an affair with Tanya, but my girlfriend was so dynamic and exciting when I met her, and then she changed. She was this vital successful career woman, but by the end all she wanted to do was shop for the flat and iron my shirts.”
Excuse me for running out of the gallery with my hand clapped over my mouth, but this is all a bit too much for me. I am going to be sick.
2
I remember that night clearly because I didn’t want to go. It was a party, some friends of Andy’s, couple called Matt and Kate. I couldn’t be bothered. Couples invite other couples, with a few single friends thrown in for good measure, and all the couples have a great time and all the singles are bored stiff.
All I wanted to do was put on a big sloppy sweater, order a Chinese takeaway big enough for four people, and watch hopeless American sitcoms.
But don’t feel sorry for me, I just have nights when I have enough of people, enough of small talk, enough of makeup, enough of worrying that every hair’s in place. I have nights when all I want to do is slob out and eat. Got a problem with that? Good.
So this was one of those nights, but Andy wouldn’t let me stay in. I tried everything. I told her I was working, I told her I had a headache, I told her my period was coming and I felt like a fat pig, but she wouldn’t listen.
Sometimes that’s a good thing with Andy. You know that when you go out with her she’ll always bring at least three people you’ve never met before, but sometimes you’re just not in the mood. Sometimes you just want it to be the two of you, quietly chatting about life, the universe, and sex. Sometimes you don’t want to have to make the effort.
In the end I looked in the mirror and decided I could do without a Chinese meal for four, and I knew if I stayed in I wouldn’t be able to fight the temptation for longer than about two minutes, so I thought what the hell, I’ll go and I’ll leave after an hour.
Because every now and then you have to do things you don’t want to do, and this wasn’t a night when I secretly hoped that because I didn’t want to go, I’d meet the man of my dreams.
Because isn’t that how it usually happens? The nights when you make an effort, the nights when you spend hours slapping on makeup, blow-drying your hair, wearing your expensive new outfit are the nights when you never meet anyone. Not even the ugly ones.
I know I don’t have to tell you that you only ever meet men when you least expect it, but I swear, this wasn’t one of those nights, it really wasn’t.
So there we were at this party, and out of habit I’d already sized up every man in the room and decided none of them were worth talking to. It was the kind of party I usually hate anyway. I long for parties from my student days, when the room was lit in the murky glow coming from one lamp in the corner, when music was turned up, when no one gave a damn, when you could get drunk, stoned, dance, forget about yourself.
But when you’re a grown-up, parties change. Now you walk into a flat, or a house, with stripped wooden floors and proper champagne glasses, none of that plastic stuff anymore, and you sip kir royales as you pretend to be interested in what some sad geek does for a living.
And I miss student food: hundreds of pieces of thick, doughy french bread, with hunks of cheese still in its wrapper and a few pâtés with a jar of Branston pickles being the most sophisticated thing at the party.
Doesn’t matter how much you eat, you can’t fill up or pig out or chow down on Marks & Spencer canapés. But they look pretty, so people think they’re being so clever and smart by serving them.
And this was a Marks & Spencer, cheap-sparkling-white-masquerading-as-champagne-and-mixed-with-cassis kind of party. The boring kind.
Andy was getting overexcited—full of piss and vinegar as usual—because there were men around. It doesn’t matter whether she fancies them or not. So I was standing in the corner getting more and more pissed off, and dreaming of Chinese takeaways.
I remember looking at my watch thinking, If I can get away within half an hour, I can stop at the takeaway and quench my hunger. You think it’s an emotional hunger? Really, tell me something else I don’t already know. I haven’t been in therapy that long, but even I know that when the food cravings overtake me, it’s not to fill my stomach, it’s to fill that big empty space inside my heart.
Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mention therapy before, but to be honest I haven’t decided how much I want to say about it. If you must know, I’ve gone because of this lack of relationship business, but it’s very private, it’s my time, my space, and I pay a hell of a lot for it—a hundred an hour. I might tell you later, we’ll see.
So there I was, planning a binge, when Simon came over, only I didn’t know it was Simon then, did I? I just thought it was some ugly bastard with glasses, although they were Armani, those little round numbers, and actually he wasn’t ugly, my mood was ugly.
He had a funny face. He looked like a little wise owl with sticky-up black hair and his suit—which was black and trendy, worn over a crisp white T-shirt—was at odds with his face. He looked like a little boy pretending to be a grown-up. I know that at that point I should have realized that my maternal instincts would kick into play very shortly, but I didn’t, I honestly didn’t, I swear, I just thought he was an ugly nerd.
I was waiting for him to say something incredibly naff, something like “Would you like a drink?” or “How do you know Matt and Kate?” but he didn’t, he just stood there and looked at me, not from a great height I might add. In my three inch heels we were more or less the same height. Possibly he was even shorter, but time and memory have added a few inches. Don’t they always?
And he looked at me and he looked at me and he looked at me. And I, Miss Tough, Strong, Television Producer, blushed. And then he opened his mouth and said, “Would you like a drink?”
And I smiled sweetly and said, “I’d love one,” but he didn’t do anything, he just stayed there and looked at me, very seriously, very intently, as if I could be the woman he was searching for.
And as he stared, six words went through my head: “Uh-oh, here we go again,” and my stomach lifted up and di
d a very short twist, the kind of twist that means I’m going to fall for them.
“You’re the best-looking bird in this room,” he said finally, and after a long pause I replied with, “But you’re not the best-looking bloke.” Sorry, I’m almost embarrassed to tell you that now, but it was the best I could come up with at the time.
“Ah, but I am the cleverest.”
“Using a word like cleverest I very much doubt it.”
“But I am, Anastasia, I’m clever enough to stop you making the great escape.”
I smiled broadly, couldn’t help myself. “How did you know?”
“Which bit? Your escape or your name? I decided you look like an Anastasia, although I could have had a bit of help there, and I can always tell when someone’s about to do a disappearing act, and you were about to make a run for it. Crap television on tonight, though. I already checked.”
I laughed, amazed that this bloke, this bloke with a funny nerdy face was on to me, and that’s when I decided we would make a great couple, and even while we talked, even that first evening, I was wondering what my life would be like with him.
We’d live in Islington, I decided. In one of those ramshackle Georgian houses which we’d do up ourselves. Simon would be great at DIY, I thought, and together we’d sand the floorboards and paint the walls white.
We’d have a bohemian wedding, because Simon, although he must have been successful—the editor of a men’s magazine—Simon didn’t look the type for a big, flashy, smart affair. We’d each choose a poem and a song for each other, something that would mean everything. I’d already chosen it, Ray Charles, “Come Rain or Come Shine.”
And as he talked, as he made me laugh, over and over again in my head I could hear I’m gonna love you, like no one loves you, come rain or come shine.
Jesus, Simon was funny. He was sarcastic, brilliantly intelligent, and almost as cynical as me.
“Load of assholes,” he said, looking around. “What I could really do with is holing up in a dark cozy pub, with a few bottles of ice cold beer and a lovely Anastasia by my side.”
I hate pubs, hate them. Working-class hovels smelling of beer and cigarettes, and while I like beer and cigarettes, I hate pubs. But what did I say? As if I need to tell you.
The pub was exactly the kind of pub I hate, but it had one redeeming feature, a real fire, a fire to feed my fantasies, to make it look as if we were in a film, not a sad daytime television film, a Hollywood love story, a Sleepless in Seattle.
And when all the chairs were on the table and the staff were huddled behind the bar glaring at us and daring us to leave, we stood up, and walked out, with Simon’s arm draped casually over my shoulders as my heart pounded so hard I couldn’t talk.
Neither one of us needed to say come back for coffee, it was left hanging in the air, an unspoken agreement that tonight, even if only for one night, we would be together.
Jesus, I sound like a romantic novel, but that night was amazing, it was so, I don’t know, special. He was so special. He made me feel like the only real woman in the world. We got outside the pub and turned to face one another and he put his finger to his lips, took his glasses off and bent to kiss me.
A soft, warm, strawberry-beery kiss. He kissed me on the lips again and again, and I tentatively licked the inside of his mouth, before it became a great big passionate snog. No other word for it, I was finally acting like the student I wanted to be at the party. We stood on a street corner, with people walking past and making vomiting noises, and we snogged for minutes and minutes and minutes.
We climbed into his beautiful old dark blue Citroën, and he drove to his flat in Belsize Park. I remember driving past the Screen on the Hill, past Café Flo, already planning our breakfast of coffee and croissants with the Sunday papers, sitting on the pavement outside in the sunshine.
And we drove home and we made love. It wasn’t shagging, or fucking, or screwing. It was slow, tender, beautiful. It felt like the kind of making love you do when you’ve built a relationship, when you know the ins and outs of someone’s body, when you really care about them.
God, he was a brilliant lover. Behind those boffin glasses and mismatched clothes he was a funny, selfless, experienced lover. I should have known then, I should have known, but me being me, I wanted to believe I was different, I wanted to think that he’d never made love with anyone like this before.
There was nothing awkward about that first time. Even that moment when he crawled between my legs and propped my knees up, licking and sucking my clitoris, sending me into spasms of pleasure, while occasionally raising his head and meeting my eyes, even that wasn’t awkward.
It was delicious, the whole thing was delicious, and after he’d led me to the peak of excitement, when he finally pushed his lovely thick cock into me, he showered my face with kisses, murmuring, “My Anastasia, my beautiful Anastasia.”
I couldn’t help myself, I cried, didn’t I? It was so beautiful I lay there with tears streaming down my cheeks and Enigma playing in the background, and Simon propped himself up on one elbow and licked the salty tears off my face.
“We’re going to be good together, you and I,” he said. “I wish I’d known you forever. I wish I’d seen you as a little girl, I bet you were gorgeous, tumbling dark curls and those big brown eyes. Mmm, delicious,” he said, as he bent to kiss my right nipple.
Neither of us slept that night, but that first night, when you’re not used to sharing a bed, to sharing your space with a body you’re unfamiliar with, you don’t care, do you? You lie there replaying every touch, every lick, every kiss, and you lie awake the whole night with a huge bloody smile on your face. Well, I do anyway.
Every time I tossed and turned, Simon would lay a hot, sticky hand on my stomach, or plant a soft kiss on my shoulder, or fling a big, hairy thigh over mine.
“Good morning,” he finally said, at six, when neither of us could pretend that we had slept, or were going to sleep, or wanted to sleep.
“Good morning,” I replied sleepily, and what I hoped was sexily. It worked though, I felt his hand slowly move up my leg, brushing over my pubic hair and lazily circle my stomach, moving further and further down while he flicked his tongue expertly over my nipples.
I watched him as he was doing it, a mixture of feelings going through me, not least because there’s a hotline directly from my nipples to my clitoris, and I was becoming more and more excited. But he looked like a little boy, and I’m not trying to be sick or anything, don’t get me wrong, but at that moment, despite getting bloody turned on, I wanted to look after him, I wanted us to look after each other.
So we made love again and I can’t tell you it was better than the first, because although you’re meant to say that, it was about the same, maybe even a bit worse because I wasn’t so keen on the kissing, I was sure my breath smelled like a coffin.
And afterward he stood up, stretched and while he was absentmindedly messing about with his cock, he told me he was taking me out for breakfast.
I should have been repulsed, I mean I know he wasn’t having a wank or anything which, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have minded, actually I find it a big turn-on, but it was so intimate, and I was so touched he was already that relaxed with me.
I know now it wasn’t a big deal. I know now that all men are relaxed about their bodies, whenever, wherever, whatever. They don’t care if they’ve got paunches, or droopy asses, or small cocks, because when they look in the mirror they see Mel bloody Gibson.
He went to the bathroom and I stretched in his big grown-up bed, scissoring my legs out to either side of the bed, smiling up at the ceiling. Not my taste, I thought, looking around, but things can be changed. The rickety wooden shelves are a bit naff, but they can go, and all it needs is a good tidy up.
There’s nothing quite like lying in a new lover’s bed by yourself the morning after you’ve first had sex, just at the time when you determine what your future’s going to be together, whether in fact, the
re is a future.
When they wake up in the morning and kiss you and cuddle you and screw you before disappearing to shave, then you know it’s a one-night-stand.
When they wake up in the morning and kiss you, and cuddle you, and want to take you out for breakfast, then you know you could be on to a winner.
It’s exhilarating, exciting, it makes you tingle all over. You assess their bedroom, their belongings, decide whether you’ll be staying at their flat, or whether they’ll be staying at yours. You look around the room, at the sun streaming in through filthy windows and you think, I could be happy here, I could be happy with this.
And when Simon came back from the bathroom he jumped on top of me, squashing me until I begged, and he bit my nose. Yeah, it sounds stupid, but I just grinned, and I couldn’t stop grinning. I didn’t even care when I had to get out of bed with no clothes on. I still sucked my stomach in, I’m not that stupid, but I didn’t give a damn about my cellulite, my unsupported tits, my ass. I knew he was watching and I knew he liked what he saw. What a great feeling.
“Has anyone ever told you you look beautiful when you come?” he said, in a very loud voice as I was biting into my toast in Café Flo, because, you clever readers, they’d run out of croissants.
What do you say when someone asks you a question like that? You can’t say yes, which may or may not be true (actually it is true, three blokes have said it to me but not because I do look beautiful, because they think it’s something they ought to say. Only problem is I never believed it. Until now), because then they start getting paranoid and jealous of all the men you’ve ever had sex with, and you can’t say no because it sounds, well, it just sounds prissy if you ask me.
So I shook my head while Simon carried on, in an equally loud voice, “You do, you look really wild and abandoned, and you taste wonderful. All wet and warm and gushy and yummy. It feels like I’m coming home.”
