“He’s cute,” Katie says, appearing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her hair plastered to her head and her pyjamas inside out. “Very cute. God, did we get through three bottles of wine last night,” she says, spotting the bottles in my hands.
“Looks like it.”
“God, I feel rough. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert.”
“When did you meet him Katie?” Emma asks.
“Last night when he picked her up.”
“You didn’t meet him,” I say. “You were in the living room. How could you see him?”
“You’re right. We didn’t meet him. But we did see him. We were spying on you out of the bedroom window!”
“You deserve a hangover for that,” I laugh.
“So when are we going to meet him properly?” Emma asks.
“Not yet! I don’t want to scare him off. Meeting you lot is like meeting my family. And I am definitely not ready for that.”
“How did last night go?” Katie says.
“Great,” I grin. “It went great.”
NATALIE
At work on Monday morning I am like the cat that got the cream – a whole bowl full of the stuff – so much, in fact, that she got drunk on it and started tripping over her own paws.
Fiona and Caroline stare at me as I wash a stack of water pots as if it’s the most thrilling job I’ve ever had to do.
“I take it the date went well,” Fi says.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I grin, rinsing one of the pots under the tap before shaking it.
“You’ll be able to interview yourself soon,” Caroline says.
“Oh, I don’t know about that!”
Today I’m interviewing Natalie, a teacher friend of Caroline’s who has just got engaged. Her lessons don’t start until 11am today so she’s calling in on her way to work.
She arrives at 9:30am and I make us both a coffee.
“You don’t mind doing this do you?” I ask, handing her the mug. “I hope Caroline didn’t make you feel like you had to do it?”
“Of course not! I’m happy to help,” she laughs. “Though I’m not entirely sure what it is you want to know.”
“Oh, you know, just about you and Carl, how you met, how you know he’s the one…”
They met at college. Carl asked Natalie out – but not for himself, for his friend. So she went out with his friend for two years. And then they split up. But she stayed in touch with Carl. After college she went travelling and when she got back they got together. That was seven years ago.
“So how do you know he’s the one?” I ask her.
“It’s really hard to say,” she tells me.
Now where have I heard that before?
“I don’t think it was love at first sight. Well, it couldn’t have been because I ended up going out with his friend for two years,” she laughs. “It was just something that happened gradually.
“I wasn’t sure when we first got together. Carl was so lovely and I wasn’t used to having somebody being so nice to me – not having to chase them, not worrying about what they thought. It was all a bit alien to me. So I split up with him and we both started seeing other people. But then I realised I’d made a huge mistake, and thankfully he took me back.”
“What was different the second time around then?” I ask.
“I let go of my insecurities, I suppose, and realised that he might not be the obvious person but he was the person I wanted to be with.
“I know he’s the one because I’m myself when I’m with him. I can pull silly faces. I can look crap and not worry about it. I can go to parties and not worry if I see him talking to another girl – because I know he loves me.
“I enjoy his company. He makes me laugh. The simplest things are more fun when I’m doing them with him. We’re best friends, but I fancy him too.
“He’s the one because I love him unconditionally, I suppose.
“But he’s not what I imagined my Mr Right would be,” she says, as if she’s just realised this herself.
“We all have an idea of what our Mr Right might be like, don’t we? A shape, a size, an age, an idea of what their interests might be. But actually it can be a surprise sometimes.
“If it did work like that we could all just write our own advertisement for a Mr Right, couldn’t we – thirty two, tall, dark, no children, enjoys tennis and gardening…
“But it doesn’t. Because you can’t define a feeling. You can’t always explain why one person makes you feel a certain way, while someone else doesn’t. Can you?”
“No,” I agree. “You can’t.”
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
When Natalie has left the shop is dead, so Caroline, Fi and I enjoy a rare cup of coffee together. And a whole packet of two-finger Kit Kats.
“How’s it going Becky?” Caroline asks. “Did Natalie have anything useful to add?”
I dip a Kit Kat finger in my coffee and suck the melting chocolate, pondering the question.
“Yes. And no,” I say eventually, when the chocolate has all but gone and I am left with a soggy bit of wafer.
“She couldn’t really tell me why Carl is Mr Right. She couldn’t tell me why he, over everyone else, is the right person for her. But,” I say, unwrapping another Kit Kat, “I do think I’m beginning to get it.”
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
Then seek not, sweet, the ‘If’ and ‘Why’
I love you now until I die:
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.
‘Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her’, Christopher Brennan (1870 – 1932)
Shovelling cornflakes into my mouth on Tuesday morning, I squint at a piece of paper, desperately trying to read what it says.
I was inspired during the night. At least, I think I was.
It was clearly inspirational enough to reach for a pen and paper (or an eyeliner and the back of an old envelope) in the dark. Not inspirational enough, however, to turn the light on so I could at least see what it was I was writing.
Something about ropes and park benches…
I miss my mouth and several milky cornflakes slide off the spoon back into the bowl.
‘Maybe it’s’… scribble scribble… ‘why’… scribble… ‘held… rope’… scribble scribble…
‘Maybe it’s not’ scribble… ‘park bench’… scribble scribble…
This reminds me of university, when, in a hungover state, and without the aid of my trusty Dictaphone, I would scrawl a few notes during a lecture and try to decipher them three weeks later, the night before an essay was due in. It was impossible to make sense of it when I could only read every third word. God knows how I ever got a 2:1.
“Maybe it’s not about why Graham held onto the climbing rope,” Katie says, coming into the kitchen and peering over my shoulder.
That’s how I got my 2:1.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“Good question. I wrote it in the middle of the night. In the dark. I was feeling inspired, I think. It’s for my article.”
“Oh, okay.” She pulls a chair out, puts her tea down on the table and pulls the paper out of my hand.
“Maybe it’s not about why Graham held onto the climbing rope,” she reads again. “Maybe it’s not about why Katie knows she wants to sit on a park bench with Matt.”
She looks at me expectantly.
“Nope. Nothing,” I tell her, shaking my head.
She looks at the paper again. “You’ve underlined the word why, if that’s any help?” she says.
“Of course!” I say, snatching the paper back from her.
“Maybe it’s not about why Graham held onto the rope and felt like he was holding onto his whole world, or why you know you want to sit on a park bench with Matt when you’re seventy…”
“Is that what I said?” Katie asks, buttering a piece of toast.
“Maybe it’s not about why, maybe there is no why,” I say, ignoring her question. “Maybe it’s
about just knowing. And if you don’t know, then it’s simple – they are just not Mr Right.”
“Absolutely,” Katie agrees. “I’m so glad we got that sorted out. Pass me the marmalade will you.”
So maybe Emma was right – maybe the answer is out there, but I’ve just been looking in the wrong place. Like Natalie said – maybe you just can’t define a feeling. Maybe you can’t explain why someone makes you feel a certain way, or even why someone else doesn’t.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
Everyone who made love the night before
was walking around with flashing red lights
on top of their heads – a white-haired old gentleman,
a red-faced schoolboy, a pregnant woman
who smiled at me from across the street
and gave a little secret shrug,
as if the flashing red light on her head
was a small price to pay for what she knew.
‘Saturday Morning’, Hugo Williams
Things are going well with James.
We have been dating for two weeks and five days (yes I am still at the counting-every-second stage).
We have had dinner – twice, been to the cinema (we saw some romantic comedy with Cameron Diaz, though my memory of the evening is limited to the hand-holding, popcorn-sharing part, and not, it seems, to the name of the film, or any part of the storyline thereof), met for morning coffee – several times, and shared a Chinese takeaway and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey at James’ flat.
His flat is lovely. He took me there again after our cinema date – and cooked dinner for me (enchiladas and crème caramel – seems I’ve gone and found myself another excellent cook). It’s not a girly flat, but it’s not overly boyish either, although it does have its fair share of boys’ toys – X Box, sound system, flat screen television the size of a car, big comfy sofa on which to enjoy all of the above (a big comfy sofa big enough for two – stretched out.)
There are a few framed photographs dotted about the place too – his dad and Grace, Leonie and Dan, and their kids. None of any ex-girlfriends – or at least, none I could find in a quick scan of the place while he was serving up the enchiladas.
Yes, we have kissed. A lot. Yes, I have stayed over. No, we have not slept together.
This is only a matter of time, of course.
How much time though? How long is the right amount of time to wait? A few weeks? A month? With my first boyfriend I waited three months. But it’s different with your first, isn’t it? With Alex I waited six weeks. But even that seems excessive now. I know I want to, so what’s the point in waiting? But then again, I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of tramp who will drop her knickers for anything in a pair of trousers.
Anyway, I’m seeing him again tonight.
Erm.
Two weeks and five days. The perfect amount of time to wait before sleeping with a new boyfriend is two weeks and five days.
How do I know?
How do you think I know?
Now, I’d love to be able to tell you that it’s just like it is in the movies. That our eyes meet over a candlelit table. That he carries me up the stairs (forget for a moment that he lives in a flat) and lies me gently on the bed where he caresses every little bit of me – slowly, tenderly. That we make love all night long. And that in the morning there’s not a hair on my head out of place and my make-up still looks as perfect as it did when I put it on.
But of course it doesn’t happen like that.
It happens like this…
Our eyes meet over a Chinese takeaway on James’ living room floor. And he kisses me. And we end up moving on to the sofa (see, I told you it was big enough for two), where mid-kiss I ask him: “Do you have any condoms?”
It just sort of pops out – so to speak – before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t, as it happens. Which kind of kills the moment.
Of course, part of me is glad he doesn’t have any – because if he had then I would have felt like he’d been assuming I’d be up for it (I know I am, but that’s not the point). But the rest of me is bloody frustrated.
“There’s a petrol station down the road. We could probably get some there,” James says, casually rearranging his trousers into a more comfortable position.
“How romantic,” I say. And we both burst out laughing. And he kisses me again. And then we really do need to do something about the whole lack-of-condoms situation.
“I don’t mind going if you want to stay here,” he tells me.
“Let’s both go,” I say. “The fresh air would be good. That wine has gone straight to my head.”
Have you ever been to buy condoms late at night with your boyfriend? It’s worth braving the cool night air and the walk (considerably further than ‘down the road’, I might add) just to see the look on the cashier’s face. Especially when they are kept behind the counter with the painkillers, the batteries and the cigarettes, so that you are not even spared the humiliation of having to say the word ‘condoms’.
I’m glad it’s not my local garage, that’s all I’m saying.
“A pack of Durex please,” James bravely tells the cashier, putting a box of cornflakes and a loaf of bread on the counter as he does so. I’m guessing the bread and the cornflakes are intended as a distraction of sorts? Perhaps he thinks they will lessen the embarrassment, somehow.
“For breakfast. Tomorrow morning. After a night of non-stop sex,” I want to tell the cashier. I don’t, obviously. It would have been fun though.
He looks young. His hair needs a good wash. He’s covered in teenage spots, bless him. He can only be about sixteen. Is it legal to sell condoms at sixteen?
Apparently so.
He looks at James. “Three, six, or twelve?”
James looks at me, and I feel a giggle rising in my throat.
“Twelve,” James confirms. Probably a wise decision. We won’t want to be back here in a hurry. That box of cornflakes will last us a while…
“£10.40 please,” he says, looking from James to me and back to James again. He puts the cornflakes and bread – and the condoms – in a carrier bag and hands James his change. And then – it’s very subtle, but it’s there – a look that says ‘get in there mate’, or something to that effect.
“Well that wasn’t at all embarrassing,” I laugh as we leave the garage.
“I’m sure we’re not the first couple he’s ever sold a packet of condoms to,” James says, holding my hand. I like the way he calls us a couple. It feels nice. It feels right.
So, we have the condoms. Now all we have to do is recreate the moment where we actually need them.
This isn’t difficult.
As soon as we get back to James’ flat we by-pass the living room and head straight for his bedroom.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me towards him. Dizzy from the alcohol and the night air I am powerless to resist.
I don’t want to resist.
As I lean down to kiss him my hair brushes his face. He shuffles back on the bed and I climb on to his lap and wrap my legs around him.
He pulls me closer and kisses me hard, his light stubble scratching my face. It feels good. Raw.
He runs his hand down my back until his fingers brush the edge of my lace knickers (Victoria’s Secret – bought this morning with matching bra – just in case) just inside my jeans.
Breaking away from his face I lift up his shirt. He has a great body. Toned. Lightly tanned. Just a little chest hair. I have seen it before. I have slept next to it. I resisted it once. This time I can’t.
I touch his chest and look at his face. He smiles and I feel his desire underneath me. I reach down with my hand and kiss him hard on the lips.
“I don’t know about you but I’m ready for a bowl of cornflakes,” he says.
And I laugh so hard I almost fall off his lap.
“Me too,” I tell him.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I never imagined house hunting o
n my own could be so depressing. I have had to start though. I didn’t want to get home one day and find copies of the local property guide strategically placed around Katie and Matt’s place with ‘flat to rent’ adverts circled with thick red marker pen, arrows pointing to them for extra emphasis, and ‘we’ll even help you move,’ scribbled on the bottom of each page – just in case I still haven’t taken the hint. Not that Katie and Matt would do that, of course. They are far too lovely. Which is why I have to do it instead.
But by the time I have eliminated all the properties that are too far away from Potty Wotty or the offices of Love Life (you never know,) all those that are on the top floor of a thirty storey building (I’m not afraid of heights as such, but I do get a bit queasy from time to time) and all those that would require the sale of at least one – if not both – of my kidneys to pay for it – I am down to slim pickings. Very slim pickings. Namely a bed-sit in Clapham Junction with a shared bathroom, a one-bed flat above a brothel in Balham (don’t ask how I found that out – it’s an experience I’d really rather forget) and a lock-up in Wimbledon – which depressingly is actually looking like my best option so far.
I could always find a house-share of course. But besides Katie and Matt, Fiona, Caroline, Emma – who lives in a one bedroom flat herself, and now James, I don’t know anyone in London and I’m really not sure I’m comfortable with the idea of moving in with a bunch of complete strangers. I might find myself living with an insomniac who paces the floorboards in the dead of night … or a secret midnight snacker who eats the fridge bare during the night – the only evidence being a trail of empty wrappers along the kitchen counter and the odd crumb here and there … or a slob who doesn’t believe in washing up more than once a month … or worse still a clean freak who whips your plate away before you’re halfway through your fish and chips and starts scrubbing at it frantically with a Scotch-Brite and a pair of rubber gloves. A moth collector … A mass murderer…
“You could always move in with me,” James says when I have finished telling him the horrors of the brothel story.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 148
