by Clare Naylor
“Kate, hello, lovely to see you.” Joss rose from the chair where he was reading The Times, placed his hands carefully on Kate’s shoulders, and kissed each cheek methodically.
“Joss. Hi.” Kate smiled and sat in a leather armchair, carefully tugging her skirt down.
“Well, this is very nice. Would you like a drink?” he asked as he put his newspaper to one side.
“I’d love a G and T,” she said breezily as the waiter mysteriously appeared before them, seemingly out of thin air.
“And I’d love another sparkling mineral water,” Joss added.
“Oh, in which case maybe I’ll just have an orange juice,” Kate chipped in. She always felt like a complete lush ordering a large cocktail when everyone else was on the soft stuff.
“Oh, well, if you like,” Joss agreed hastily. “An orange juice instead of the gin.” The way he said “the gin” made Kate glad she’d changed her mind. He made it sound as though she’d just requested three lines of cocaine and a rock star’s bottom to snort it off. Very disapproving.
“So, Kate, how is the painting?” he asked.
“Oh, you know, all over the place. I’m doing a cat. Well, a lion cub actually.”
“And you work in oils, don’t you?” he said grandly, as though she were Vermeer.
“Yeah.” She took the orange juice that the waiter had carefully set down. “I do. And charcoal sometimes. Whatever I’m asked to do, really. I’m a bit of a whore for cash that way.” She laughed lightly. And Joss looked a bit taken aback. He did, though, also look very handsome. He had lovely straw-colored hair, greeny-gray eyes that matched the elegant eau de nil of his silk tie, and a dark gray suit that made him look very authoritative and commanding. He was nicely tall, too, Kate had noted when he stood up. And smelled of citrus. He was definitely not a man you would want to hide behind the sofa whenever your friends came around. And he looked as though he’d also do casual quite well; a well-chosen pair of loafers and a pristine white T-shirt and you’d have yourself a perfect accessory for a weekend in a soft-topped sports car. In short, he was the sort of man you saw in restaurants with beautiful women and wondered where you found such perfect specimens and what otherworldy attributes a woman had to have to attract such perfection. Kate felt happy for a moment. If she played her cards right she might at least have a chance to win him for a weekend. A sort of luxury-break-for-two offer that you might get with a new pair of Armani sunglasses.
“So tell me what you do, Joss.” Kate smiled as she imagined the beautiful woman with perfect attributes might smile. “I know it’s banking, but what exactly?” And he proceeded to tell her. Very little of which Kate understood but it sounded impressive and involved hedge funds and pharmaceutical companies and she knew that far from being a boring job as she’d thought it might be, it was actually fascinating and much, much more demanding and stimulating than splodging paint on canvas for a living whenever the bank demanded it or the mood took you. Eventually they ordered another round of almost-drinks and Kate told Joss all about her love of taxidermy. He seemed a bit squeamish and mistrustful of the idea at first, but eventually she managed to convince him that a dead, stuffed zebra in the bedroom was actually a bit of fun, and not a weird perversion. Well, he was nodding understandingly at least, whatever that meant.
“I thought that what we might do next is go to the launch of this magazine around the corner, it’s an arts monthly and some friends of mine run it. Does that appeal to you at all?” Joss asked when Kate had drained her glass and was wondering where their pleasant conversation might meander to after dead animals.
“That sounds great,” Kate said, sitting up a bit too hurriedly. This place was interesting for a while but then she could have sworn that the liver-spotty, yellow-faced old man in the corner had not moved so much as an eyelash for at least forty-five minutes and she suspected he could well have just died. Plus she was dying for a sip of champagne or something on a silver tray with a bit of a kick.
“I’d kill for a proper drink, too,” she said as she pulled her cardigan over her arms, which were getting just a bit goose-bumpy in the cool, dark room.
“Ah, I see,” Joss said and, rather than standing as she’d expected, sank back a bit into the sofa and made a serious steeple of his hands, with his forefingers joined beneath his chin.
“If you know what I mean.” Kate smiled sweetly.
“Well, I do actually. Or rather I did. But all that’s behind me now.” Joss was looking very intently into Kate’s eyes, and she quickly put her handbag back down onto the floor and plastered on her best listening face. Though already she suspected that she wasn’t really going to be delighted by what he was about to say. “You see, Kate, I feel that really, before we go any further, I ought to tell you about something . . .”
Before we go any further, Kate thought, What, like down the road to a party? Out of the door? Into a taxi? She couldn’t imagine how far he was planning to get with her tonight, which might mean that nothing short of complete disclosure of all his deepest, darkest secrets might be necessary. She always imagined that skeletons were only dusted down and brought out of closets when an introduction to the parents or a fortnight’s holiday together were imminent. This seemed very premature to her.
“Well, if you want to . . . ,” Kate said, hoping to stall him. For the look on his face didn’t exactly smack of parties and glitter-balls before dawn. More like Confessions of a Troubled Mind.
“I’m a programmer,” Joss said earnestly. “Do you know what that means?”
“Well, it’s not your job. ’Cause I already know you’re a hedge fund wizard.” Kate laughed a bit.
“It means I’m a recovering alcoholic. It means that I had a very bad drink and drug problem and that before I came here tonight, as I do every night and twice on weekends, I attended a meeting for people like me.” He hadn’t liked Kate’s attempt at wit. Obviously.
“Right,” Kate said, chastened.
“When I was twenty-two I woke up in a gutter in Ibiza with half my hair missing,” Joss said without blinking. “I had been on a six-month binge of cocaine and alcohol, which left my liver in ruins and my life in shreds.”
“How terrible,” Kate said. Without too much sympathy. Only very rich people can afford such indulgences, she thought. Most people had to work in boring offices and make coffee for a bullying boss at that age. Not much flouncing around party islands in the Mediterranean for most people.
“I struggled for years with my demons and thankfully now, well today at least, I’m free of most of them. Though I’m still in therapy.”
“As well as the eight meetings a week?” Kate asked. Joss nodded. “Can’t leave much time for tennis and stuff then, hey?”
“Actually I’m rather good at tennis. My coach said that I have the strongest backhand he’s ever seen and I ought to compete. But my therapist thinks that it wouldn’t be good for my self-esteem to partake in competitive sports.”
“Poor you,” Kate said, rather genuinely this time. Because whatever Joss’s crimes were, however many drugs he had taken, it was a bit unfortunate that he was such a world-class bore.
Kate proceeded to listen to Joss for at least another half hour. She sat with her cardigan on her shoulders and a sympathetic look etched on her face and listened as he told her all about his sobriety. He even had the audacity to tell her that if she was attracted to him, then it probably meant that some form of alcohol abuse had taken place in her own family.
“Well, my mum does like a sneak of the cooking sherry now and then,” she volunteered.
“It’s the sneaking that’s the problem, you see,” Joss told her gravely. “If she can’t be open about it, then that suggests abuse.”
“Gosh, I’ll have to have a word with her,” Kate said, quite enjoying the idea of how much her mother would howl with laughter to be told that she was a closet alcoholic.
“And don’t neglect your own needs, either, Kate,” Joss told her with a lot of serio
usness but not a huge amount of compassion, she decided, given that he’d just broken to her the devastating news of her dysfunctional family. “I can give you my therapist’s number. And if you and I are going to have a relationship, then I’d be more comfortable if you were attending Al-Anon meetings. For families of recovering addicts.”
“Actually, Joss, I think I went a bit mad with the orange juice. I’ve got to dash to the loo. Would you mind?” Kate smiled and fled for cover to the ladies’, where she sat for a startled moment or two wondering whether she could face going back or whether he’d have a brigade of counselors waiting to cart her off to Farm Place or some rehab joint because she’d confessed to having a bit of a craving for the hard stuff earlier.
Eventually she had managed to convince herself to head back out into the club and give Joss one more chance. He was so handsome, and maybe she had been a little bit hasty to condemn him as a spoiled, bossy bore. She decided she’d try a bit more compassion. And thankfully when they arrived at the magazine launch they barely had to speak to one another at all. They said hi to people, Kate had a sneaky cocktail behind a pillar, and Joss seemed almost normal among the people he knew. Kate picked up a copy of the glossy magazine to take home, found herself a goodie bag with a bottle of scent in it, a ticket to a spa, and a miniature of Absolut vodka (Save that for later, she thought). So all in all it hadn’t turned out to be a bad evening. And every date was an experience, she told herself as Joss climbed into a taxi beside her and invited her back to his place for a fine green tea.
“My teas are my Bordeaux these days,” he said. And though Kate thought this mildly hilarious, it was quite sweet, so she agreed to a nightcap.
Unfortunately, as Kate and Joss sat next to one another on his smooth leather sofa and talked about modern art, she began to feel miserably depressed. The whole situation was so sterile, so unsexy, so unlovely. It wasn’t the easy fun time she’d had with Jake. (There, she’d said it, she hadn’t meant to but his name just popped up.) And Joss, while not such a bad person, was absolutely no fun at all to be with. His sense of humor, if he’d ever had one, had probably been left behind in the gutter in Ibiza along with half of his hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he’d asked, and Kate felt just a bit as though he was simply being polite and kissing her as a favor to Robbie and Tanya, like bringing a box of Bendicks Bittermints along to a dinner party.
“If you like,” Kate said sweetly, because even if he was being polite, it was still more flattering than not being asked. So she sat with her hands in her lap until Joss finally closed in on her, clasped his hands carefully and dispassionately around her cheeks as though she were a hot dish of stew he was removing from the oven, and kissed her. Kate moved her hands from her lap and returned the gesture. At first she thought how pleasant the citrus smell of his cheeks was and she was even feeling a butterfly or two in her stomach, until Joss finally settled into a rhythm and she realized that it was not the kind of kiss she was used to at all. And not the kind she wanted to get used to, either. This was not a slow, sexy, playful moment that she wanted to last for hours—it was a sort of dry washing-machine motion—round and round one way for a bit. Oh, and then the cycle changed to a wools-and-silks cycle—slower, with less power and certainly not as much heat. Kate put a hand on his chest and held Joss at bay for a second.
“Just getting a sip of my lovely green tea.” She smiled and grabbed her mug. God, something had to warm up the proceedings. She took a deep breath and decided that it had to be her. He’s handsome, he’s clever, he’s kind, she told herself as she plunged back in for the rematch. Show a bit of enthusiasm, Kate, she told herself. The guy’s probably just nervous.
“I love your lips,” she said, and began to slowly kiss them, while simultaneously reaching down with her hand. She felt for the sign of life in his pants, but nothing much seemed to be happening. Ah, well, she continued the kissing, and ran her hand along his chin, taking the lead, kissing him in what she thought was a sexy way. She even contemplated doing a Mirri-on-the-hammock and making for his zipper with her teeth, but thought maybe she wouldn’t terrify him with the full repertoire just yet, and the prospect of failing and biting the wrong thing or breaking a tooth was more worry than she could deal with just this minute. So instead she just made a few hot and heavy noises and pulled his head close into her face.
“You’re quite bossy, aren’t you?” Joss suddenly said as she was sucking softly on his earlobe.
“I’m sorry?” Kate wasn’t sure what he’d said. Or really whether she’d heard right.
“Well, much as I hate to say this,” he began, with his nose ever so slightly in the air, “I really don’t like aggressively sexual women.” Clearly he didn’t hate to say it or he wouldn’t have, because Kate didn’t see any thumbscrews or torture implements forcing him to tell the brutal truth.
“I see.” Kate felt as though she’d been punched in the ribs.
“God, don’t take it personally.” He rolled his eyes as though she was overreacting as she sat back on the sofa and wiped her dry lips.
“Well, how would you like me to take it, Joss?” She stood up and was about to button up her skirt but she realized that he had never actually unbuttoned it. “It wasn’t the girl in the flat next door who was kissing you. It was me. So really I have no choice but to take it personally.”
“Christ, you’re so sensitive.” He groaned irritably.
“I am actually, Joss.” Kate, quite uncharacteristically, took a deep breath and decided to speak up. “I’m so sensitive that I sat for three hours this evening and listened to your tedious stories about drug taking. I’m so sensitive that I actually pretended to care. And you couldn’t even muster up enough gentlemanliness to pretend for a second to fancy me.”
“I did fancy you a bit.” He remained seated on the sofa as Kate made her way to the door. “I just really can’t bear it when women try on that sexy shit.”
“ ’Bye, Joss,” Kate said with her hand on the door before turning around and adding, “And by the way, my mother is a really nice woman and a sip of cooking sherry before Sunday lunch does not make her a dysfunctional freak like yourself. Okay?” With which she closed the door of Joss’s flat behind her and ran down the stairs from his building, her heart beating furiously in her chest.
As Kate stood outside on the pavement, hoping against hope that she might find a taxi on its way back from a drop-off in South Kensington, she felt a tear slip down her cheek. She wiped it away, furious with herself.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, and pulled her cardigan tightly across her chest. She pulled off her shoes, which were rubbing the back of her heel, and walked from Joss’s flat toward the lights of a busy intersection. She fought back the thoughts of Jake and she fought back her humiliation. She told herself that Joss didn’t matter and that it wasn’t her he hated, it was just women. But it didn’t make her feel a whole lot better. Finally a taxi came by and picked her up.
“Primrose Hill, please,” she said to the driver as she sat in the backseat and rummaged through her purse to make sure she had enough cash. She saw that her phone was blinking and pulled it out. ONE MISSED CALL. Her heart did the dance of the stupid people for a moment until she saw that it was from Tanya’s home number. She looked at the phone long and hard, as though it were the I Ching or an ancient prophet sitting on a throne of lotus leaves, and might tell her what she must do next. Then she flicked down the list of names until she stopped at the number she had hoped to see and took a deep breath. And a sensible person would have pressed the OFF button and put the phone back in her bag, but Kate wasn’t thinking like a sensible person. She was worried. Worried that if Joss was someone who was supposed to be nice, clever, considerate, and came highly recommended by good friends, then God only knew what would happen if she went out on a date with a man she’d met at a bus stop. It was as if someone had cauterized her soul. She felt like Woody Allen in Annie Hall when he tried to re-create the magic of his and Annie�
��s lobster moment with another woman. She felt as if she’d never have fun with anybody again, as if nobody else in the world got her. Apart from the man whose number she was dialing.
“Kate.” Jake sounded pleased to hear from her. And not at all surprised.
“I’ve had a terrible evening, do you want to go get a drink?” She closed her eyes, laid her one card on the table, and waited for him to reply.
“I always want to get a drink, angel.”
“Then I’ll see you in ten minutes. Are you in Bernie’s?” she asked.
“Sure am,” Jake said.
“See you soon.” Kate hung up.
Kate leaned back on the seat and was besieged by a sense of euphoria. “Excuse me, do you think we could do a detour to Chelsea?” she asked the cabdriver apologetically. “Slight change of plan.” And as the cab swung around in the middle of the street Kate slid to the other side of the leather seat and grappled with the contents of her makeup bag at the same time. Lipstick, comb, and a mint. Well, she still had revolting Joss’s dirty washing swilling around in her mouth so that was a must.
Kate hadn’t been to Bernie’s for months and she felt her legs begin to weaken slightly as she stepped from the cab onto the pavement outside the door to the bar. She swallowed the remains of her mint and pushed the door open. There at the bar, in his usual place, sat Jake. As he heard the door he turned to her, his familiar brown eyes taking in her smart but shoeless look.
“Scotch for the lady.” Jake winked at the barmaid as Kate walked in the door and made her way toward her familiar stool. This was Jake’s place. He ate supper here almost every night and smoked his last cigarette of the day here. It was a dark and very average bar but to Kate it was like returning to the only place she’d ever been truly happy. She and Jake had spent entire Sunday afternoons here reading the newspapers together, arguing madly over politics, poring over horoscopes, deciding which movies to go and see. He’d brought her here on their first date and yet for some reason she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been here together. Probably near the end. She suspected that she’d blocked it out along with a hundred and one other miserable moments that she and Jake had experienced in the last few weeks of being together, when he stopped looking her in the eye, when she had known by the rash that always broke out on the back of her hands when she was deeply unhappy that it was all over.
