Love Is a Thief

by Claire Garber

  I didn’t think so either. I’ve never once seen a bird with any kind of mobile communication device, except its beak. And I had no idea why he was so obsessed with forest animals. Gabriel 2.0 was officially nonsensical.

  ‘So, Kate, what do you want from me? What are you doing here? I tell you now my girlfriend would not be very happy to know that I am talking with you. And I don’t want to piss her off. She lets me do what I want. I am free with her, Kate. I like to be free.’

  He necked half the glass of wine, lit a cigarette and nodded to the waiter to bring him another drink. It was 9 a.m. Gabriel didn’t seem in the least bit free.

  ‘You are very complicated, Kate. I don’t think you know how complicated you are.’ He pulled heavily on his cigarette and looked out across the mountains, acting as if I were no longer sitting next to him.

  I looked at his face for a final time. There was no avoidance. There was no denial. The truth was staring me in the face, or at least it was sitting next to me staring in the opposite direction. Leaving had been the best thing I could ever possibly have done for myself. I could trust myself. I had saved myself. The only thing now confusing me was the parallels, because for Gabriel 2.0 love was as simple as finding someone to fit around who he already was and wanted to be. But wasn’t Love-Stolen Dreams telling women to connect with themselves and never let that go, for anyone? Did that mean that Gabriel 2.0 was already being what we were all trying to become?

  ‘Seriously, Kate, what are you doing here? Are you here to make trouble? I think so. I told you, the phone call the other night, it meant nothing. I was drunk. It was a shock about the baby, that’s all. What? Don’t look at me like that, Kate, with your moody eyes judging me. It’s just a bloody baby. Everyone has them. My God, you are so dramatic. You are just like the others, you know, always talking, always judging what everyone else does. Talking, talking, talking, like a silly village person. You are just like the stupid village people here. I thought you were better than that but I misjudged you completely.’ And now he was muttering away to himself. ‘It’s just a baby, my God, so what if there is another person living in my chalet? It makes no difference to my day. She can have three babies if she want, I don’t care, makes no difference to me.’ He knocked back yet another glass of wine. ‘Seriously, Kate—’ he was getting a bit shouty ‘—what are you doing here, eh? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I think I came to say goodbye, Gabriel, that’s what I’m doing here. I came here to say goodbye.’ Then I got up from the table and walked away.

  I will never understand why Gabriel 1.0 chose to upgrade himself to Gabriel 2.0 but let’s just put it out there: I made mistakes. I made him the centre of my world. I gave up everything to be with him. He never asked me to do that. I put that pressure on him, the pressure to be my sun. I was no different from the girlfriends who’d driven their unhappy boyfriends to ask True Love for help. Was that the reason Gabriel changed? Did that pressure drive him to drink and drugs? Possibly, who knows? Personally I don’t think that’s my cross to bear. But taking responsibility for myself and for what I did to our relationship—that was something I was ready to do. And I was ready to make sure it never happened to me again.

  So I think this is my moment to offer my Love-Stolen Dreams advice, although I’m not sure it’s worth a dime, or a penny or the medical diploma of a celebrity doctor.

  number one

  be yourself from the very beginning of your relationship and encourage your partner to do the same. That way neither of you will wake up with a total stranger in two years’ time with a joint mortgage, joint bank account and joint little else.

  number two

  ask yourself the Love-Stolen Dreams question religiously. ‘If there was no one true love, no happy ever after, no kids, what would and will make you feel happy and joyful on a daily basis?’

  number three

  make the most important relationship you have in life the one you have with yourself

  you are absolutely your only constant

  To: kate@true-love.com

  From: Jane Brockley (Formerly Robinson)

  Subject: What the F did you do to my husband?????????

  Kate Winters ….

  What did you do to my husband?

  I ask because last weekend was our 7th wedding anniversary and I came home to find that James wouldn’t say a bloody word to me. He just handed me a bag and told me to get in the car. Then he drove us to Heathrow, where I discovered we were flying to Moscow of all places. He didn’t speak to me for the entire flight, pretending to sleep, and on landing we got a taxi straight to a hotel. Our bags were sent up to our room, the Honeymoon Suite, and James rather sternly said that we should probably get a stiff drink and have a chat. So we went to the hotel bar where James told me that YOU had taken him to secret dance classes. (Well, aren’t you the secret squirrel these days, Kate Winters!!!) But that wasn’t the worst of it. He told me that waiting in our hotel suite was a very special someone from our past who YOU had told him I still think about! He told me to wait in the bar for 15 minutes then come up. He said this was all very difficult for him but that he loved me very much and wanted me to have everything I’d ever dreamed of. Then he left me in the bar for what felt like the longest 15 minutes of my entire life.

  Eventually one of the hotel staff came over and said, ‘Are you Miss Jane Brockley-formerly-Robinson? The Honeymoon Suite is ready for you now. Gregoire Pechenikov is waiting for you there.’ Yes, Kate, you heard me correctly, the hotel staff told me that Gregoire bloody Pechenikov was waiting for me in my hotel suite. If at this point I had been carrying my own passport, instead of James, who insists on carrying all travel documentation and paraphernalia, I’d have made a dash for the border, or the airport, or the nearest port. As it was I had £3.52 in my purse and a Boots Advantage card and I couldn’t in the time available work out the logistics of a Russian escape!

  Kate, I do not want to get into the ethics of you telling my husband a secret I had entrusted you with. But I will get into it, in detail, at a later stage, and probably more than once.

  When I arrived at the suite the door was ajar. I stepped inside what was a huge and very very low-lit room and I could just about make out a huge double bed in the far corner. Next to it I could see the outline of Gregoire Pechenikov in the same bloody outfit he used to wear at university. In a very quiet and very thick Russian accent, he said,

  ‘I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you, Jane. I have always wanted you.’

  Then he started slowly walking across the room towards me. Kate, I am easily excited by an accent at the best of times but a Russian accent, in a darkened room, with my adolescent crush Gregoire Pechenikov … It was never going to end well!

  Well, Gregoire clapped his hands and music started playing and I was so busy trying to work out where James was in the darkened room that before I knew it Gregoire had reached me and swept me up in his arms. He spun me expertly in circles to the music, pressed against my body, breathing heavily in my ear. And the dancing was wonderful, sensual, just like I remembered it. But all I could do was keep looking over his shoulder because where the bloody hell was my husband and what on earth was everyone expecting from me in this bizarre threesome situation that you, Kate, were wholly responsible for? I still hadn’t located James when Gregoire whispered something in my ear, something far racier than I would normally share with you but it seems relevant to the story. He said,

  ‘Jane Robinson, get on your knees and show me if you are the kind of woman I think you are.’

  Well, things had gone quite far enough. I gave that thuggish Gregoire the hardest slap I could muster. But the resultant ‘Ouch’ was high-pitched, hurt and very very English. Well, I marched over to the light switch and turned up the lights to find James, my James, dressed up like bloody Gregoire doing some kind of Russian role play, inspired by you, no less, with a bright red imprint of my hand across his face. Kate, he looked like he was going to cry. So I went back o
ver to the light, put the dimmer down to low, restarted the music and let James finish what he had started. And yes, before you or more likely Federico ask, I did get on my knees and show him the kind of woman that you know me to be. James stayed in character for the rest of the night and we did the most erotic tango of my entire life. I have goose bumps just thinking about it. At one point he instructed me to take all my clothes off and pleasure him (he actually used the F-word) before throwing me onto a huge fur-covered bed. I have never given so many blow jobs in my entire life, and, yes, that includes college.

  I say again, I don’t want to get into the ethics of you telling my husband one of my secrets. You got it right, this time, but probably best you don’t make a habit of it. And let’s hope for your sake that I don’t bump into Peter again any time soon, now that I realise that boy in the picture is in fact the adult Peter in your current life, and the very same Peter I think you were referring to recently when you drunkenly revealed a strange sexual fantasy of yours. Remember, Kate, as you are always saying to us, with great power does come great responsibility …

  You are a very very bad friend.

  Jane x

  that’s another fine mess you got me in

  goldman apartments

  I went straight to Peter Parker’s apartment on arriving back in London; past the stone-faced concierge, who raised a judgemental eye at the sight of me, up the lift, down the corridor, to once again face the impenetrable front door of apartment 41. I had actually forgotten about the difficulties in crossing the threshold and the secret he kept hidden inside, the one that made him discombobulated and colourful of cheek, and as is the norm he answered the door pink-faced, sweating and out of breath.

  ‘I’m back!’ I announced loudly and proudly from the hallway. ‘And I’m having a bit of a rethink about my life. I’m thinking of quitting True Love.’ Bombshell dropped, I just stood there waiting for the Q&A.

  ‘What do you mean you’re thinking of quitting?’ Peter stepped into the hallway and, as is routine, pulled the door closed behind him. ‘You’ve just started writing your first features. Your reputation is developing. You have your own column on the True Love website. People are really starting to know who you are and what you’re capable of. You’ve even got Jenny Sullivan on board! You are not quitting.’

  ‘She’s not really on board, Peter. She’s just more tolerant now that it complements her own goal of celebrity divorcee.’

  ‘So what are you going to do instead?’

  ‘I have no idea. That’s my point. I found out and recaptured Love-Stolen Dreams for so many other people but I’ve never really spent any time working on my own. I don’t think I planned further than getting over Gabriel.’

  ‘How was he?’ Peter crossed his arms and stepped slightly closer. ‘Does he love you? Do you love him? Are you moving back there?’ He put his clenched fists in his pockets and leant against the wall.

  ‘Gabriel was just the same, in that he was odd and rambling and broken. There is no love and there will be no moving.’

  Peter looked as if he wanted to talk things through but kept glancing back at his front door.

  ‘Kate, I want to see you and I want to invite you in but—’

  ‘It’s OK, Peter,’ I said, turning to leave. ‘I can meet her, him, whomever another time, when you’re ready. I just wanted to let you know I was back.’ I moped off towards the lift.

  ‘It’s really not what you think,’ he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back up the hallway. ‘I just don’t know how much we’d end up talking about you if we go inside. We’ll end up talking about me and my problem …’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘OK, so you mustn’t freak out, Kate—’ he put his hand on the door handle ‘—or laugh at me, or appear shocked …’ He pushed the handle down and let the front door swing wide open. Inside the immaculate penthouse apartment was in tatters.

  ‘Oh, my God, Peter. Have you been burgled? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  ‘I’m exhausted, Kate,’ he said, slowly sitting himself down on the floor in the hallway, resting his head in his hands. ‘I had no idea it was possible to feel this knackered and this totally out of control.’

  I heard scratching, a squeak, then two black and white puppies came careering into the lounge, skidding as they cornered at high speed. They both made little yapping noises before tearing past the seated Peter Parker and bolting straight down the hallway towards the lift. A rather desperate Peter Parker scrabbled after them. A few minutes later he strode past me with a snuffling, tail-wagging puppy under each arm.

  ‘It’s like this every single day,’ he said, marching into his apartment. ‘Cup of tea, Kate?’

  There was nowhere to sit down in Peter’s flat so I perched on the edge of the coffee table in the lounge. He started clearing a space on the sofa, picking off chewed-up teddies, dog biscuits, shredded pieces of paper.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone about them because I still don’t know if I can keep them. I mean, look at them!’ It was Orwell’s Animal Farm and the humans had well and truly lost the war. One of the puppies was peeing in the middle of the room and I swear to God he was smiling as he did it. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you, I have, but I’d set myself this goal of somehow having them slightly house-trained before introducing them to you, or at least tidying up a bit before inviting you in. But I just, I can’t seem to control them, or teach them to listen to me, or get them to pee in the right bloody place. They just do what they want, all the time, day and night. I have no idea, at all, what do with them.’ He attempted to sit down on the edge of the sofa while he continued to remove rubbish off it. ‘I don’t know how to live like this, Kate. I really don’t. I can’t live like this. Which means giving them up, which is, well, you don’t walk away from commitments like that, Kate. You just don’t.’

  ‘So having dogs is your Love-Stolen Dream?’

  ‘My ex hated dogs. It was never an option for us to have one but I always assumed after Jake that I would. Your idea inspired me to just go for it.’ There was a crash as puppy number one pulled a newspaper off the coffee table, taking three mugs with it and an iPhone.

  ‘Everything is insured,’ he muttered to himself like a mantra. ‘Everything is 100% insured.’ He looked like he was about to cry. ‘I only went to the dog breeder for some advice. I can’t do anything without ridiculous amounts of research and pre-planning and—’

  ‘Over-planning.’

  ‘There is no such thing as over-planning, Kate. So I went to her to ask some questions about care, routine, exercise, appropriate breed type, insurance policies, jabs and—’

  ‘I get it, Peter.’

  ‘But there was a litter of puppies there. So I started playing with them while the breeder talked to me. And there was this tiny little puppy, all black, with a white diamond on his chest and one white paw. And he had these little dog freckles on his pink nose, a bit like you. Not that you have a pink nose, although it does tend to go very red in the cold, and when you have too much caffeine, or alcohol—’ I waved him on. ‘And then when I went to leave, I didn’t want to. So I sat there for another couple of hours, watching this puppy play with its brothers and sisters. And there was this other puppy he played with more than the others, a little girl puppy—they were a bit like you and me actually. He was the smarter of the two, obviously, and she was always watching him and copying him and chasing after him, trying to get his attention and—’

  ‘Peter, seriously, just tell the story.’

  ‘Well, I thought how sad it would be when it came to separate them. Then the breeder explained that sometimes it’s easier to take two puppies rather than one because they keep each other company—’

  ‘And she makes more money if she sells two.’

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Kitkat. Although you’re right, because the next thing I know I’m back in my apartment in the centre of London with not one but two puppies and, well, I haven’t had a night’s sleep since. In hindsigh
t it was a rash decision involving no pre-planning, preparation or research, which, if I may say so, proves without doubt why all of those things are actually incredibly important.’ He attempted to lie down and stretch out on his large leather sofa. ‘So you see, Kate, as I have mentioned to you on numerous occasions, your Love-Stolen Dreams idea can actually cause totally bloody chaos in other people’s otherwise ordered and functional lives.’ He pulled a chewed-up remote control from under his back. ‘I just didn’t realise how hard this would be. I didn’t realise how totally uncontrollable they would be. I think I just need to get some sleep. Then I can come up with some kind of puppy-training schedule.’ The puppies jumped up on the sofa, landing on Peter’s groin. He doubled up in pain and fell off the side of the sofa.

  ‘I’ll go and make us some tea,’ I said, leaving him lying on the floor, the puppies jumping on his head.

  ‘Don’t judge me on my cleanliness, Kate!’ he cried out as I walked into his kitchen, which was an absolute shit pit.

  The black marble work surface was covered with dirty utensils. Every fork, knife, spoon, and plate, mug, glass and bowl had been used and not washed up. On the island in the middle of the kitchen were empty food cartons, biscuit cartons, milk cartons mixed up with old takeaway containers. At various intervals I could see open books on dog training. I spotted a self-help book called ‘Crisis Management: How to function with no sleep’ and there was a spotlessly clean litter tray by the door to the roof terrace. There were a million different things on the black stone floor, from chewed boxes and tissues, to what looked like important letters and post, to shoes and sports equipment. Everything had been chewed up, peed on, ripped up.

  ‘I would get a cleaner,’ he said from behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders, ‘but I’d need to clean up before the cleaner came round and I just don’t have time!’ He was squeezing my shoulders quite hard. ‘So this is how I live now. I live like this, like a, like a, I don’t even know what the word is for someone who lives like this! I think this was a mistake. It was. I can’t do this by myself. I’m obviously limited and faulty and unable. My ex was right—I should just stick to living by myself.’