by Jane Green
Just as I’m drifting off to sleep, Adam’s hand reaches for mine under the duvet and he squeezes it gently.
Now do you get the picture?
18
Oh Christ, I hate hen parties. A gaggle of women, all pissed, all acting like a bunch of blokes who don’t know when enough is enough.
Jilly is one of my researchers and she’s getting married. Yup, this little kid of twenty-two is getting married, while I, a sophisticated woman of thirty, am still on the shelf, except I’m not quite as dusty as when we first met.
So here we are, at some Godforsaken dive in the West End, some nasty, tacky, seedy nightclub where Jilly has managed to wangle VIP passes, so we get to sit in an empty VIP lounge overlooking the dance floor.
Half the people here are from work—mostly researchers—and half are her friends from way back when. I’m sure they’re sweet, really, but right now they are looking the worse for wear, and I’m not entirely certain I’m going to make it through the night.
I should be drinking. I should have consumed, as the others have, the best part of a bottle of wine over dinner. I should have held the wine bottle, as the others did, and licked the glass rim, taking the bottle deep into the back of my throat and bobbed it up and down, gone down on a bottle.
I should have, as the others did, gotten progressively more and more drunk until even the waiters shot our table nervous glances and refused to come over unless they absolutely had to, and when they did they stood there brushing away the women’s hands from their crotches, their bottoms.
I should have shrieked with laughter at the clothes the other girls made Jilly change into when we left the restaurant and headed over to the nightclub. A dress made out of a black garbage bag, with pictures of soft willies, cut from soft-porn magazines, stuck all over it, and a hat covered with condoms. In her hand was a huge vibrator, a thick black plastic cock that Jilly is using as a magic wand.
I should have laughed, but I didn’t, I wanted to go home.
“Abracadabra,” Jilly slurs in front of the doormen standing menacingly outside the nightclub. “Abracadabra,” and she waves the vibrator at them while the rest of the girls clutch their stomachs with laughter, shrieking at her antics. The doormen manage a vague smile, and when we produce our VIP passes they stand back and let us in.
“Hen night,” I say with a weary air as we troop past, me being the only sober one there.
“I’d never have guessed,” says the burly black doorman with a knowing smile, and we walk upstairs, or should I say stagger.
I can’t be in central London, I think, looking around at the people in the club. Who are these people? Where do they come from? It’s a world away from everything I know, and I feel so old. The music is deafening and surrounding the dance floor are packs of men, fresh-faced youths on the make, not talking, just looking, searching around for a woman who might go home with them.
A few brave souls are strutting their stuff on the colored glass squares that flash every few seconds, women in tiny sequined mini-dresses, crop tops, hot pants, acres of fake-tanned legs and black platform sandals.
I feel so old. The boys, for they are boys, stand around drinking from bottles of beer, and Jilly pulls her friends onto the dance floor to jeering from the onlookers.
I wish I were at home with Adam.
I hit the dance floor in a half-hearted fashion, and stand there idly bopping away to the latest chart sounds. I have to look as if I’m enjoying myself, I have to make some sort of an effort.
“You all right?” shrieks Jilly, whirling round to face me. “Loosen up, Tash, have a drink.” She offers me her champagne bottle and I pretend to swig but in fact only a few drops enter my mouth. I hand the bottle back and Jilly whirls off, straight into the arms of a boy, a boy who fancies himself as a young blade, a boy who pulls Jilly close and immediately puts his hands on her buttocks, all the while looking over her shoulder at his mates and winking.
They writhe together, his hands squeezing her bottom, his crotch pressed against hers, and she pushes him away to tip back more champagne. But he follows her, he thinks she could be a conquest, and within seconds he has his arms round her again, same position.
I go to the bar, find a spare sofa on one side and collapse, chin in my hand, bored to tears.
“Wanna dance, love?” A tall, greasy Italian-looking guy is standing over me.
“No thanks.”
“Mind if I sit here?”
He squeezes in next to me and introduces himself as Maurizio, a twenty-five-year-old waiter who’s Italian but was born here. He also drives a Ferrari. Or so he says. By way of introduction.
“Sorry, Maurizio, I’m married,” I say, standing up. “But good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I don’t hang around waiting to see his expression, I melt into the crowd and try to find Jilly.
I wish I was at home with Adam.
And then Jilly falls upon me screaming with laughter, and drags me to the front of a tiny stage I hadn’t noticed to watch the cabaret. I look around me and see that all the faces pushed to the front are female, eyes bright with anticipation as the music starts and a fireman walks onto the stage.
Oh shit, I knew it, I bloody well knew it. What good would a hen night be without a stripper?
“Which one of you gorgeous gals is Jilly?” Our party screams and all hands point to Jilly, grinning at the fireman, who, it has to be said, is really rather dishy.
He pulls Jilly up onstage and the music starts. Never taking his eyes off her face, he undoes his jacket and lets it drop to the floor, gyrating to the music and grinding his hips. If he didn’t look like such a wanker he’d be quite gorgeous, but his dance moves are more than a little ’80s. In fact, if I didn’t know better I’d think he’d come here straight from a gig with the Village People.
His shirt comes off, and then Jilly has to unzip his trousers. I groan, I know what’s bloody coming next, don’t I? Sure enough, he puts his hands around Jilly’s head and forces her face into his jockstrap-covered crotch while he grinds his hips into her face.
He lets her come up for air and she’s grinning. She loves this. Sensible, organized Jilly is pissed as a newt and she’s loving every second of this attention.
Need I tell you more? Oh all right, yes the baby oil comes out, yes she shoves her hands down his jockstrap to massage it in (after massaging his pecs of course). Yes, the jockstrap does eventually come off and no, we aren’t disappointed.
There. Happy? When the cabaret finishes I can’t cope with this anymore. This is not my scene and all I can think of is getting home, pulling off these bloody high heels and climbing into bed with Adam.
Adam is probably fast asleep now. It’s one o’clock and as I sit in a taxi winding its way through London I picture him, warm, sleepy, tucked up in bed, and I can’t wait to get home and climb into bed with him.
I tiptoe into the bedroom, and unless my eyes are mistaken there’s no Adam. Where the hell is Adam? I feel a pang of unease, a small voice saying perhaps he’s gone for good, but that’s ridiculous, that’s the old insecure Tasha talking, the old insecure Tasha who used to worry that every man was going to leave. That’s not Tasha who basks in the comfort of her newfound relationship.
But all is explained by the red flashing light on my answering machine.
“Hey Toots, I’m not staying tonight because I don’t want to be woken up by you staggering in and throwing up all over the duvet. I’ve gone back to my flat, yes, my flat, I’d almost forgotten I had a flat, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Drink lots of water before you go to bed and take a couple of aspirin. I won’t call too early. Love you. Bye.”
I’m smiling as I get into bed. Smiling because he makes me laugh, and because I miss him. I really miss him, and it’s strange sleeping on my own again after all these shared nights.
This doesn’t mean I’m in love with him, you understand, it’s just that I’ve become accustomed to him. That’s all.
“I’ve be
en thinking of asking Adam to move in with me.” I exhale loudly, and then inhale more quietly, taking in the soothing smell of the lavender oil burning in the corner of the room.
Louise doesn’t say anything, just nods, encouraging me to continue.
“I’ve got really used to having him around, you know? I know this might seem like a huge step but maybe if I see him more, maybe I’ll start to fall in love with him.”
“You’re not in love with him?” One eyebrow is raised.
“No.” I sigh deeply. “There’s still this passion thing.”
“Why do you think the highs and lows that you’ve experienced in the past are so important, hmm?”
“That’s all I’ve known.”
“Does that make it right?”
I don’t say anything and she continues, “Does that make you happy?”
“No,” I grudgingly admit, “but there’s still something missing. It’s too comfortable.”
“Is there something wrong with comfortable?”
“No. Comfortable is, well, it’s comfortable. Comfortable isn’t love. Comfortable isn’t passion.”
But comfortable is nice. Comfortable has changed me, even in the space of these last few months, comfortable has made me a different person. I’ve noticed it and my friends have noticed it.
My cynicism has gradually started to disappear, so slowly I barely even noticed it. But I notice that I’m softer, more gentle, not so quick to judge people.
You must have noticed a difference since when we first met, surely? Yes, I’m still full of the sharp retorts, the biting comments, except I’m learning to hold my tongue a little more, and actually, if I’m telling the truth, I don’t think of them nearly as often as I used to.
I think that chip on my shoulder has started to go, I think perhaps that I have started to like myself. And in liking myself, I’m learning to like my world. It’s not such a bad thing. Is it?
The phones are going crazy at work and I can’t concentrate on a damned thing.
“The next time this thing rings I’m going to bloody scream,” I say to Jilly, who’s still finding it difficult to look me in the eye after the escapades of her hen night a few days ago.
(For your information the fireman turned out to be straight, single, and desperate for sex. He spent the rest of the night snogging Jilly on the fire escape, and her friends rescued her just before anything serious could happen. What fun and games eh? The wedding’s still on, this Saturday. God help them.)
“What?” I scream into the receiver.
“Calm down, it’s only me. Bad day?”
“Oh Ad, this bloody phone just never stops.”
“Shall I call you later?”
“No, of course not. I wanted to have a chat with you anyway.”
“Uh-oh. I hate those words, it always makes me think of when I was a little boy and my father used to say, ‘We need to have a talk.’ I always knew I’d done something wrong.”
I smile into the receiver. “Well, you haven’t. It’s just you know how we’ve talked about spending so much time together, and how you keep forgetting that you have a flat because we never go there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve just been thinking that maybe it would be a good idea if you came to live with me.”
There’s a silence and I think, oh shit, this isn’t a good idea after all.
“Ad? I mean, if it’s a crap idea then say so, but it just seems crazy having two mortgages when one of us could be renting out their place, and you spend so much time at mine I thought maybe you should move in. Ad?”
“Fantastic idea! Brilliant! Yes. I’d love to!”
“Really?”
“Absolutely! When can I move in?”
“Whenever.”
“OK, whenever it is. I’ll start moving my stuff in tonight. In fact, I can leave work early today. If I start to clear the flat now then next week I’ll go to an agent’s and put it on the rental market. Perfect!”
We say good-bye and I sit there thinking, what have I done. This is a serious commitment. I’m about to make the biggest commitment of my life to a man I’m not in love with. Am I completely bloody crazy or what?
The rest of the day passes all too quickly, and I can’t quite believe what I have just done. Calm down, Tasha, I keep telling myself. If you hate it you can always tell him to leave. You can always say you need some space.
You can spend your whole life thinking you want commitment. You grow up with a clear idea of exactly what it is that you want, and yet when you have it, when it’s there, attainable, on your doorstep, you change your mind.
Perhaps this is what we need. A dream, a hope for the future, something to aspire to, and perhaps we need to keep replacing this dream with something a little bigger, because when we manage to fulfill the dream, we usually find out that it’s not what we wanted in the first place.
Or if it is, it doesn’t feel the way we always thought it should.
Sometimes, if you’re very mixed up, very stupid, or very thoughtless, you screw up the dream just as you get it. You tell yourself you don’t deserve it, and you have to start all over again.
I put my key in the lock and the door doesn’t open more than a crack. Pushing and shoving, I manage to squeeze in, and there on the floor of my hallway are boxes of CDs, of books, of papers.
Clothes are strewn in between and as I pick my way through the mess I think again, what the hell have I done? Harvey and Stanley are sitting at the other end of the corridor, watching me belligerently as if to say, “What on earth are you doing to our home? What’s all this stuff?”
Adam’s left a note: “Gone back to get some more stuff together. Probably won’t be back till late, got so much packing to do! Sorry about the mess in the hall, I’ll clear it tomorrow. Adam xxx.”
Well, where the hell will he clear it to? I look around at the junk, feel slightly sick at the prospect of even more turning up, and then I look around at my lovely immaculate flat with not a lot of storage.
I need a bath.
The bubbles rise high above my body as I lie back, soaking away the worries and drawing out the dirt of London from my pores with a cucumber astringent face mask. My hair’s piled up on top of my head, a glass of wine is resting on the side of the bath, and Ella Fitzgerald is singing from the speakers in the living room.
Mmm. This is lovely. Nothing like a long, hot soak when you’re tired and confused, not sure whether you’ve just done the right thing. I sip the wine and idly watch my cherry red toenails as my feet play with the taps.
And just as I’m debating whether or not to immerse my head in the water, the silent, soothing bathwater covered in bubbles, the bloody doorbell rings.
“Shit!” I say. I’m not going to answer that. But what if it’s important? Could be Adam back earlier than he thought, forgetting his key. Could be anyone. Shit! I leap out of the bath, wrap a towel around and run down the stairs. Halfway down I realize the face mask is still on. “HANG ON!” I yell in the general direction of the front door as I leap back upstairs, three steps at a time, and scrub off the mask.
Clutching the towel around me like a talisman I open the door and who should be standing on the doorstep but Andrew.
Yes, that Andrew. Andrew who I fancied the pants off. Andrew who I haven’t seen since Adam and I got together. Andrew who kissed me. Andrew who’s standing there looking absolutely, one hundred percent fuckable. Still.
And me? I’m standing there looking like something the bloody cat’s dragged in.
My hand instinctively goes up to my hair, piled up in a messy topknot, but I can’t let it down and shake it out, it would be too damned obvious, so I grin nervously and rub one foot against the back of my calf. Just checking, and yes, phew, they’re shaved. Not a hair in sight.
Why does this sort of thing only ever seem to happen to me?
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” His sexy drawl is as sexy as ever and it’s quite obvious he’s disturbing
me, he’s pulled me out of the bath but I stand there and say, “No, it’s fine.”
What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to ask him in? Am I supposed to stand there on the doorstep saying, “Can I help you?” or what? Help!
“Um,” he grins, “do you think I could come in?”
“Oh God, yes, of course,” and I stand back and let him in, thinking, why doesn’t he kiss me hello? Why does his mere presence, standing on my doorstep, in my hall, sitting on my sofa, reduce me to jelly?
I know what I should have done then. Really, you don’t need to tell me. I should have said something like, “Hang on a minute, let me just get dressed,” and maybe if I had everything would have been fine. But I didn’t, I was so nervous, excited, adrenaline rushing through my body that I didn’t think. I just sat down, the towel still clutched round me.
“So Adam’s not here then?”
“He should be back any minute.” A blatant lie, but he’ll stay if he thinks Adam’s going to be here. After all, he’s here to see Adam. Isn’t he?
“OK, you don’t mind if I wait for a few minutes, do you?”
“Not at all. Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of wine would be lovely.”
I come back from the kitchen, snatching a quick look in the mirror in the hallway on my way back and pulling a few tumbling tendrils down from my topknot, and I pour the wine into the glasses.
“Didn’t you try him at home?” I am curious. Maybe, just maybe, he’s here because he wants to see me. Maybe he’s using Adam as an excuse.
“I didn’t bother. He told me he was moving in here and I just assumed he’d be here. I was going to ring but I was passing the door so I thought I’d chance my luck.”
He takes a sip of the wine and settles back against the cushions, closing his eyes as he savours the crisp cool flavor and sighs loudly. “What a day.”
I want him. I want him. I want him. I want him to lean over and kiss me. I want him to rip my towel off and clutch me in his arms. I want to undress him. I want him living here. I want to wake up every morning and be with this man. Oh God, what is happening to me?
