Straight Talking

by Jane Green

She started phoning him at home, crashing down the phone when his wife answered, leaving notes in his jacket pocket hoping that his wife would find them, leaving lipstick marks on his shirt, accidentally on purpose.

  David thought nobody else knew, but everyone knew, we all knew. Suzy would sit in the canteen in floods of tears and pour her heart out to anyone who would listen—which meant everyone because we all fed off the gossip for months—and finally, when it all got too much for David to cope with, Suzy was called into the executive producer’s office and “let go.”

  “Oh? And what kind of women do you think I have affairs with?”

  “I don’t know, David, why don’t you tell me?”

  “Why don’t I tell you over a drink tonight?”

  I can’t do this anymore. The game has turned serious and I want out. “I’m sorry, David, I can’t tonight but another time perhaps?”

  “Another time.” He nods, his ego smarting from the rejection, but hopeful for the future nonetheless.

  I leave David sitting in the canteen with his cup of coffee and head back upstairs. Jim, the producer of Monday’s show, sidles up to me and whispers archly, “Very cozy, Tasha. People might start to talk.”

  “For God’s sake, Jim, he wanted to talk about an item on the show.”

  “Oh, silly me,” he slaps a limp wrist, “and I thought he wanted to talk about another kind of item.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well, darling, they do say if you’ve got it flaunt it,” he looks me up and down, “although in your case I’m not entirely sure what it is.” He sighs dramatically and minces back to his desk while I raise my eyes to the ceiling and pick up the phone.

  “Hey Toots,” Adam’s latest pet name for me. Needless to say I haven’t got a pet name for him. It would be too intimate, too . . . couply.

  “Ad, you’re not going to believe what just happened.”

  “You’ve been made the executive producer of the program?”

  “Nope.”

  “Annalise has been shot and while she’s in hospital they’ve asked you to fill her shoes?”

  “Nope. Wrong again.”

  “OK, you got me. What just happened?”

  “David made a pass at me!”

  “No! That arrogant shit, what did he say?”

  This is what I love about Adam. That he is like one of my girlfriends, that I can phone him all day if I want to and tell him the ridiculous things that happen at work, and that he will always want to talk to me, to share in the gossip, to share my amazement.

  So I tell him and Adam says, “Well, I can’t blame him really. I couldn’t work in the same office as you and not try it on at least once.”

  “Yeah, well, you would say that.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you love me, dumbass.” I’m grinning.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “So are you going to go for it?” Adam is fitting perfectly into the role of one of my girlfriends.

  “Hmm,” I laugh, putting on my most confused voice. “I don’t know. Do you think I should?”

  “Well, remember that makeup girl, Suzy. If it all went horribly wrong, you could be out on your ear.”

  “But what if I just want some sex?”

  “Well, if you come home before eight o’clock tonight, I can organize a gorgeous, hunky, muscle-bound man to be waiting for you wearing just his boxer shorts and a dishcloth.”

  I laugh out loud. “A dishcloth?”

  “Well, he’ll have to have cooked you a gourmet meal.”

  “And what would that meal be?”

  “You’d start with a salad of grilled goat’s cheese, followed by salmon steaks and chive butter, with a few new potatoes and mange-tout.”

  “What’s for pudding?”

  “He’s for pudding.”

  “Damn,” I laugh. “I knew there was no such thing as a free lunch. And by the way, where did he get the muscles from?”

  Clip number two:

  It’s a Sunday morning and I have to find a present for Emma’s birthday. Emma is impossible to buy for—what do you buy for the woman who has everything? You buy the cheapest possible thing you can get away with from a designer shop.

  A key ring—even Tiffany or Louis Vuitton would be too telling, so Adam suggests going into town to the Conran Shop.

  Just before we walk out the door, Andy calls. “I met the most amazing guy last night,” she begins, before telling me the story I seem to have heard a million times before.

  And as I listen to her I find myself thinking, thank God I’m not out there anymore. Thank God I don’t have to do this anymore. I don’t have to spend days and nights sitting by a phone waiting for it to ring. I don’t have to worry that someone will go off me once we’ve slept together because he won’t like my body.

  But I have to be completely honest with you, a part of me is slightly envious. A very tiny part of me misses it. Not enough to worry about, but nevertheless it’s there.

  So I sit and listen to Andy and I don’t bother giving her advice because she never takes it anyway, and after she says, “What the hell, I’ll call him,” I put down the phone and walk out the door with Adam.

  We climb into the Saab and I pull the mirror down to check my hair.

  “You look gorgeous,” he says. “Stop fiddling.”

  “You always think I look gorgeous,” I moan. “I’ve stopped believing you. You’re like the boy that cried wolf. When I do look gorgeous I won’t believe you because you say it all the time.”

  “That’s because I think it all the time.”

  “Even first thing in the morning?” The ego needs feeding.

  “Especially first thing in the morning.”

  What’s so ridiculous about this is that it’s true. In all the relationships I’ve had in the past I’ve tried to look immaculate all the time. I’ve managed to look great, even first thing in the morning by sneaking into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and rubbing in some tinted moisturizer.

  I’ve never been relaxed enough for someone to see me au naturel. I’ve never been secure enough to think that it’s anything other than my looks that keeps them with me.

  Isn’t this quite common, though? That when relationships take off quickly the attraction is based on the physical? You go to bed with a man after a few dates and you worry about what he will think the next day.

  You wake up in the morning and you pray that he begins to like you. That the physical attraction will become a mental attraction too. When that happens, you are incredibly lucky, because more often than not you don’t even like the person you are sleeping with and they don’t like you.

  But Adam knew me so well before we slept together that I have never had to worry he’d disappear. I never worried he would suddenly realize that he didn’t like me, because as far as he can see my beauty comes from the inside.

  And the funny thing is I feel more beautiful. I’ve even cut down on the makeup I wear because I don’t have to prove so much anymore. I am a woman who is loved, but what are my feelings? Is it security? Is it love? Is it passion? What do you think?

  We park the car and bustle around the Conran Shop, admiring the furniture and balking at the exorbitant prices. We pick up the gadgets that look so tempting, and then ask ourselves what we would actually do with them.

  We decide to make a food hamper ourselves, because Emma is a foodie, and what better place to shop than this designer emporium? I hold the wicker hamper and Adam walks around the food section, picking out jars of chocolate truffle sauce, of succulent olives stuffed with anchovies, of olive oil swimming with chilies and peppers.

  We fill the hamper, both thrilled with our original present, and then we walk over the road to the brasserie for breakfast.

  The waiter leads us to the table and instead of sitting opposite me Adam comes to sit next to me, our backs against the wall.

  “It’s too far away from you,” he grumbles, and he kisses me qui
ckly on the lips. I order coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs, and smoked salmon. Adam orders coffee, orange juice, fried eggs, bacon, and toast.

  We cover the table with the Sunday papers we’ve bought on the way, and Adam keeps prodding me to hear a story he’s just read in the tabloid.

  “I never knew he was having an affair. God, I can’t believe he can still get it up,” says Adam in amazement over an aging politician caught spending the night with a young girl.

  And then Adam reads me an article about Simon’s magazine, about the rise in circulation, about the scoops they keep getting. Simon. A name I haven’t thought about in ages.

  “Have you spoken to him recently?” I ask, curious to know how Simon would react, whether he knows about us.

  “Briefly,” says Adam. “I told him about us, I wanted him to hear it from me.”

  “Was he OK about it?” Please don’t let him be OK about it, please let him be jealous, let this cause him pain. Not that I care about him anymore, it would just be sweet revenge.

  “I think so. He even suggested we go to his flat for a drink, said it was time we put the past behind us and were all friends.”

  “Is he fucking mad?” I’m outraged.

  “That’s what I said,” says Adam, grinning.

  “Do you think he was serious?” I find this hard to believe.

  “Unfortunately I do. I said I didn’t think that would go down too well with you, and he said it was a shame we couldn’t let bygones be bygones.”

  “What an asshole.”

  We sit in silence after that, punctuated with our idle chat about the stories we are reading, and then I immerse myself in a feature and when I’ve finished I look up and Adam is sitting there watching me and smiling. He puts a big arm around me and squeezes me to his chest.

  “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

  “Yes. All the bloody time,” I groan, but I’m basking in this love. Oh, how I’m basking.

  “Oh, OK,” he says, removing his arm. “I couldn’t remember, that’s all,” and he picks up a piece of toast, taking a big bite as I start laughing.

  There’s a table in the corner where four girls are sitting. One of them is facing us and I catch her eye. She gives me a wry smile and I recognize that smile. I recognize that smile as the smile I used to give when I caught the eye of a woman who was loved.

  A smile that says congratulations. A smile that says I want to be like you. I want to have your relationship. I smile back at her and I reach over and give Adam a huge kiss on the cheek. I ruffle his hair as he looks at me in surprise because I so rarely initiate affectionate gestures. “I think you’re wonderful,” I say and I give him a big smacker on the cheek. He grins happily and goes back to his paper.

  Clip number three:

  Did I mention that Mel is now living with Martin? Well she is, and it’s great, and Martin treats her like a queen.

  Mel hasn’t, thank God, become what I dreaded, she hasn’t abandoned anyone, and nor does she only see me during the day. The first flush of romance swept her off her feet somewhat, but that’s what it’s supposed to do, and now she’s settled down into a proper relationship.

  A fulfilling relationship. A relationship where they love one another.

  Adam and I and Emma and Richard—the three couples—have come to their flat for dinner. We are sitting in the living room and I am looking around—this is the first time I have been here—and I am looking at Mel and Martin.

  She loves him, I think. She is in love with him, I think. She is passionate about him, I think. I know this because she tells me, they cannot keep their hands off one another, she thinks he is the best-looking man she’s ever seen. She has found her lid.

  And I look at Emma and Richard, at the way Emma always has to have some part of her body touching Richard’s—French manicured fingers resting on his leg, an arm casually flung round his shoulder, a hand running affectionately through his hair—and I wonder why I don’t do the same thing.

  I look at Adam and think, you are Adam. You are still safe, still reliable, wonderful in bed and wonderful to me. What is it exactly that is missing? Why can I not just settle down in this comfortable security? Why can I not, as Jennifer Mason once said, be content? Maybe I am. Maybe this feeling is so unfamiliar I don’t recognize it. Could you be my lid? Could I be your pot? We move into their kitchen for dinner. Pine, pine, everywhere I look there is pine. Pine kitchen cupboard doors, thick pine floorboards, an old Victorian scrubbed pine table.

  A spice rack on the wall, wooden hooks with assorted pots and pans hanging from them. Clean but well-used. A kitchen that likes to be cooked in. A kitchen that smells like home.

  Martin, surprise surprise, is a vegetarian, and the four of us, Emma, Richard, Adam, and I, discussed this in the car on our way over.

  “But I’m starving,” I said. “What if it’s all brown rice and bloody lentils?”

  “If it is we’ll stop and pick up some Chinese or something on the way home,” said Adam.

  “Vegetarian is very healthy actually,” said Emma.

  “Not if you live on pastry, eggs, cheese, and bread,” offered Richard.

  “Well no, I suppose not,” she agreed, “but brown rice and vegetables are a fantastic diet, it really flushes out the system.”

  “Emma! Please, do we have to?”

  “Sorry, darling,” she flushed, and Adam and I exchanged a brief look. Emma again being the subservient woman, not wanting to offend Richard, letting him take charge.

  “Oh God, Chinese,” I groaned. “Oh Christ, you’ve just started a major Chinese craving.”

  Adam chuckled. “Spare ribs,” he said dreamily, knowing they are my favorite.

  “Crispy seaweed.”

  “Deep fried crispy beef.” It was Richard’s turn.

  “Noodles with roast pork,” I added, as my stomach rumbled menacingly. “Do we have to go? I want Chinese,” in my best little girl voice.

  “Yes we have to go, but if you behave yourself then we can have Chinese later.”

  “You’re not serious?” said Emma.

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” Adam looked at her in the rearview mirror.

  “You wouldn’t really eat two meals?”

  “My woman has a huge appetite.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you put on a bit of weight actually. You’re looking a bit thin at the moment.” Richard pinched a millimeter of skin on Emma’s thigh, unaware that her life, with the exception of Saturday lunchtimes, is spent on a permanent diet, permanently trying to look the very best she possibly can for Richard. Terrified he’ll leave her for someone younger, or prettier, or thinner.

  But the meal is a delight. A cheese strudel, the cheese speckled with chives oozing out of the puff pastry, swimming on a tomato coulis. An assortment of salads and a home-made tiramisu for pudding. I’m stuffed, and Adam keeps grinning at me across the table as I keep helping myself to more. Grazing. A lick here, a spoonful there. Emma has a tiny portion of everything, and then leaves half of it on her plate, and Richard devours as much as I do, happy I think to have found a fellow pig.

  And Mel and Martin are a delight. The six of us quickly get over the initial awkwardness, because Martin, Richard, and Adam don’t know one another, really, but they soon become friends-in-the-making. How could they not? How could anyone resist Adam’s easy charm, Martin’s soothing voice, Richard’s well-meaning humor?

  Mel whisks Emma and me aside after dinner, to show us a new painting she bought.

  “You’re so good together, you know,” she says to me. “Who would have ever thought it?”

  “Look who’s talking. You and Martin are fantastic.”

  “Yes,” agrees Emma, “you are,” but I can tell she’s thinking, why doesn’t she say that about us? What’s wrong with Richard and me, so I hurriedly add, “And you, Emma. You two are the envy of all of us. God, I spent years hoping I’d meet someone like Richard, someone who treated me the way he treats you.”

&nbs
p; Her face lights up. “Really?” Incredulous.

  “Really. And Mel’s got it now, haven’t you, Mel?”

  She smiles happily. “It almost makes all the rubbish I put up with from Daniel worthwhile.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t be in this relationship if it weren’t for Daniel. It took me ages to realize it but because Daniel was so awful to me, it made me aware of what I was looking for, even though I wasn’t really looking.

  “But I knew that I would never put up with less than the best. Martin adores me, he thinks everything I do is magical, and that’s what I deserve now. That’s what we all deserve, and both of you?” She looks at Emma. “You’ve got Richard and you’re the most perfect couple I know. And you,” she looks at me, “you’ve got Adam who is so besotted he can hardly think straight.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “I should be the happiest woman in the world but I still feel there’s something missing.”

  “Not that old passion thing again?” Emma looks at me curiously.

  “Not exactly. I mean our sex life is unbelievable. Seriously, I never dreamed Adam would be such a good lover, and I’m really happy with him. There’s something that I just can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know,” I shake my head.

  “Tash,” Mel says, gently putting a hand on my arm. “Love can be many things. There is no such thing as a perfect love, and what you have with Adam is what most women dream of achieving. You have to wake up and recognize what you’ve got, how special it is.”

  I nod but I don’t say anything. I know she’s right, I just don’t know how to wake up.

  The four of us analyze Mel and Martin’s relationship all the way home until Adam suddenly screeches to a halt outside a parade of shops.

  Richard leans forward, “Why are you stopping the car?”

  “Just popping into the takeout to get some Chinese for Tash.”

  “But she ate loads,” says Emma, before clapping her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I’m stuffed,” I laugh, holding my stomach before hitting Adam playfully on the arm, and we drop Emma and Richard off and drive home to go to bed.

  No sex tonight, a few chapters of the book I bought the other day and sleep.