How Not to Fall in Love, Actually

by Catherine Bennetto

  ‘I get a bit emotional when I see pictures,’ Caroline said, checking under her eyes in a compact mirror. She clicked it shut and leant towards me with a brave face. ‘My husband and I have been doing IVF and it . . . it hasn’t been going too well.’

  ‘Oh. I’m so sorry,’ I said, thinking back to all the times I’d jokingly called the baby a parasite, a mistake or had bleated on about how it was not the right time and mentally gave my past self a kick in the shins. ‘How long have you been on IVF? I hear it can take a couple of times.’

  ‘Six years,’ Caroline said with a sad smile.

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘That’s . . . a while, I guess.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘I lost twins last year.’ Two tears trickled down her cheek. ‘I’d managed to get to fourteen weeks that time.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ My throat tensed as I fought back tears of sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Caroline shrugged a single shoulder. ‘My husband gets me a piece of jewellery each time we’re unsuccessful.’ She twisted a delicate diamond bracelet round her wrist. ‘All it does is remind me how I’ve failed.’

  I glanced at Caroline’s jewellery: diamond studs, a Tiffany necklace, a couple of bangles and bracelets on each wrist and felt very sad.

  ‘I’m thirty-eight,’ she said, dropping her hands to her lap. ‘It’s almost too late now.’

  ‘But thirty-eight isn’t that old?’

  ‘Not really,’ she sniffed. ‘But my eggs are down forty per cent, so the chances are getting less and less.’ She patted the corners of her eyes with a tissue then stood up with her barely finished roast meal. ‘You’re very lucky, Emma. Don’t be too hard on that little bundle in there. Some people would love to be in your position.’ She gave me a watery smile and moved through the busy film set.

  Melody grabbed her arm and pointed to her hair, making a frowny face. Caroline nodded and smiled. She threw another look in my direction and headed into the make-up trailer with Melody while I quickly swiped away a tear. I’m sure she hadn’t meant to, but Caroline had made me feel spoilt and ungrateful. Sure, it was not ideal to have an unplanned pregnancy and then break up with the father, and even less ideal to be doing it without money or a proper job. And it really wasn’t nice that my ex was kissing one of my best friends (in a Ford Fiesta with ridiculous eyelashes on the headlights), but I had a healthy little person growing inside me. And my grandma, bless her twice-darned little socks, had given me a home. I thought of Caroline’s jewellery, every piece a mark of loss. I’d coveted her jewels, but to her they were a far inferior consolation prize.

  ‘Emma?’ Archie said, resting his hand on my knee.

  ‘Yes?’ I grabbed him into a cuddle and kissed his head, avoiding the clumps of fake blood in his artfully dirtied hair.

  ‘Can Tilly come for a playdate? She’s going to be my best girlfriend.’

  ‘Best girlfwiend?’ I said, unable to hide a laugh. ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Thwee. Tilly first, then Megan from Mummy’s exercise class, then you.’

  And even though Archie was only four, and was my cousin, and it was wrong on many, many levels, I felt happy that somebody loved me enough to make me their third-best girlfriend.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I lay in bed listening to the noises of the night. The baby, now twenty-three weeks, had discovered its legs and since eleven o’clock had been practising the Fame routine across my uterus. Trying to sleep was futile, and my thoughts wandered to my day out with Mum the week before. We’d arrived at the Balance Clinic, where Mum announced across the waiting room that her daughter was unintentionally making a ‘transition’ and needed a moustache removed immediately and she’d like someone to have a look at my bikini line, as she’d bet her Balenciagas I’d never had a wax and would probably be sporting home-made hairy bike shorts. It was true: when I took off my knickers it looked like a well-established hipster beard down there. I was still flaming with humiliation an hour and a half later when I was released from the calm sanctuary of the Balance Clinic hair free everywhere except for my head. And I mean everywhere. But I’d endured it all in the name of not collecting teapots. After removing all unsightly hair, and some hair that would never be sighted but got removed anyway, we’d gone shopping. Mum threw clothes at sales assistants barking that we needed it in grey, red, less mumsy, more busty. She’d thrown my eBay-purchased maternity jeans and favourite Gap tunic top in the bin and I’d left Oxford Street looking far less Pregnant Gypsy and much more up-and-coming Yummy Mummy, fit to be in the Richmond branch of Carluccio’s discussing controlled crying and biodegradable nappy inserts.

  At work, Andrew had said I looked hot. Hot. Yes, I was pregnant and the least likely choice for a man like Andrew, but I was allowed to dream and dream I did. Ones that involved nakedness, large willies and normal-sized erect nipples.

  My mind flicked to Sophie and Ned, as it so frequently did in the dark, lonely hours. Were they a proper couple? Were they in bed together right now? Did she fall asleep giggling to his made-up jokes about an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotch egg? Was Sophie able to direct him more clearly towards the clitoris? Was my clitoris just abnormally small? Or maybe Ned was right; it did retreat like a frightened tortoise. I’d ignored another couple of calls and texts from Sophie in the last couple of days. She was probably starting to suspect something – but then again, it was Sophie. She’d just as likely assume I’d been abducted by aliens. Or centaurs.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the cottage door. My clock said 12.05 a.m. Only murderers knocked on people’s doors at that hour! My heart hammered and I looked around for something sharp yet easy to wield. A pair of rusty nail clippers from a Christmas cracker was my only option but I paused while flicking open the bendable nail file and got myself a grip. Since when did murderers knock? Harriet’s paranoia was contagious. I wished I’d installed the panic button she’d given me, though. The knocking got louder. I jumped out of bed, threw my dressing gown on and hurried down the dark hall.

  ‘Who is it?’ I said through the door.

  ‘Hamisshh!’ A male voice slurred from the other side. ‘Open up. It’s going to rain on your – hic – pie.’

  Friday-night drinkers. The high street was frequently embellished with vomit of a Saturday morning.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong house,’ I called out. ‘There’s no Hamish here.’ I waited to hear the sound of the man leaving. Instead I heard the shuffling of unsteady feet and hiccups.

  ‘Hamish, I’ve finissshhhed your businessh cards. I’m shorry they took so long. But what kind of lawyer has a horse on their businessh card anyway, shouldn’t you have that . . . you know . . . that hammer thing? Or a jail!’ He giggled and hiccuped again. ‘Hamish, I brought you pie!’

  ‘There is no Hamish here!’ I said as loud as I dared for the time of night. ‘Please go away!’

  There was a sudden and singular thump on the door. My heart skipped several beats.

  ‘Look, Hamish,’ the slurred voice took on a more consolatory tone. It was inches above my head and it sounded like he was leaning against the door. ‘I know I’ve been out of touch recently but I have, what do you lawyers call it? Extenuat- extenu- exterminating circumcisions. But look!’ he said, suddenly cheery. ‘I bought you pie! Look through your peephole and look at the – Heeeeyyyy . . . where’s your peephole?’

  ‘There is no peephole because it is NOT. HAMISH’S. HOUSE.’ I gave each word enough space for a drunk to decipher. ‘PLEASE. LEAVE.’

  I did not want to be opening the door to a drunken stranger in the middle of a cold Friday night. Even if he did have pie. I contemplated my options. I could call Uncle Mike. Or the police. Or a taxi, and hope he got in it.

  Two sharp barks shattered the noiseless night followed by a deep, hostile growl. Hamish’s buddy with the pie yelped girlishly.

  ‘ON GUARD, BRUTUS!’ Harriet’s voice warbled.

  ‘IT’S A HOUND OF HELL!’ the man
screamed. ‘IT’S CERBERUS!’ Brutus barked and bayed.

  ‘Just go away!’ I yelled. ‘He won’t hurt you if you leave!’

  ‘HAMISH!’ The man banged on the door. ‘HAMISH, PLEASE!’ Brutus’s snaps and snarls reached frightening levels of menace, reverberating in the otherwise quiet street.

  ‘It’s Fluffy from Harry Potter! Hamish, please let me in. It’s going to eat me! It’s going to eat your pie!’

  ‘Emma! Stay inside, my girl!’ Harriet hollered in her quivery old-lady voice. ‘I’ll call the police! Brutus will hold him down!’

  The man screamed and chanted, ‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die,’ to a background track of growls and fierce barks. Cursing my security-conscious neighbour, the random drunk man and my general luck in life, I flung open the door. The sickly-sweet smell of beer and sweat wafted into the house. The man was backed against the doorway clutching a paper bag to his chest with both hands. He turned to me, his eyes glassy and wild.

  ‘Oh, thank god! I thought you’d never—’ He blinked. ‘Hey . . . you’re not Hamish.’

  ‘No,’ I said, my hands on my hips in what I hoped was a formidable stance. ‘How very perceptive.’

  The man looked me up and down, taking in my pale blue pyjama bottoms covered in flying pigs, my fluffy dressing gown and my pink sock-covered feet; my hair in its erupting volcano shape.

  ‘This isn’t Hamish’s house?’ He leant backwards on unsteady feet and looked down the lane. ‘Am I in Catford?’

  ‘You’re in Wimbledon,’ I snapped. ‘And if you don’t leave now my neighbour will call the police. She really will. So can you please just go.’

  ‘Wimbledon?’ he said, surveying the surrounding houses with a bewildered expression. ‘Are you sure?’

  I bundled past him and stopped at the sight of Brutus on his wiry hind legs, his front paws on the low brick wall that divided our front gardens straining in an alarmingly keen manner at the end of his studded leash. His black, jagged lips curled back revealing slippery pink gums and teeth designed to impart ruinous, ragged wounds. Frothy dog spit foamed as he emitted a continuous subterranean growl.

  ‘Harriet!’ I said, steering clear of Brutus’s range of movement. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hello, Emma dear,’ Harriet said with a sweet smile not befitting the current circumstances. How she had the strength to hold Brutus back and film us I’ll never know. Maybe she ate her Weetabix.

  ‘You call the police. If he escapes I’ve got it all on camera.’ She waggled her handycam.

  At the mention of the word ‘camera’ the man snapped his attention towards the lens. He turned his head to the side and gave a wobbly-lipped attempt at a movie star grin, his eyes half shut.

  ‘Why don’t you pop back inside and leave this to me?’ Harriet said. ‘He might be a rapist.’

  ‘Not a rapisht.’ The man held out his hand to me. I ignored it.

  ‘Me Joe. You Tarzan.’ He convulsed into giggles, which turned into an attack of the drunken, swaying hiccups.

  I leant away from him and Brutus made snapping, snarling endeavours towards me. I took a step back and bumped into the man. Joe, apparently. We struggled to balance, grappling with each other’s elbows.

  ‘Jesus!’ I spat, flicking his hands away. ‘Get off!’

  ‘Ever so sorry.’ He swayed towards my open front door. ‘Is Hamish in?’

  ‘For god’s sake! There is no Hamish! This is not Catford! And we do not want your pie!’

  ‘And we’re going to call the police!’ Harriet added.

  ‘Hey, scary old lady, why’d you want to call the police?’ the man said, his chin dimpling and his voice cracking. ‘I was only bringing some pie to my friend. It’s like that saying, “A pie with a friend is a dish best kept”.’ He sat heavily on the other low wall opposite Brutus, who was being tussled into submission by Harriet.

  ‘Brutus, SIT!’ she commanded. Brutus sat.

  I turned to Joe. ‘There is no saying like that. At all. Nothing. Never heard of it.’

  ‘You’re mean.’ The man looked up and snivelled. ‘Hamish was never mean.’

  ‘Stop it with the Hamish thing, will you? There is no Hamish!’

  ‘There is! We went to school together.’ Joe lifted his chin. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say.’

  ‘OK,’ I said in a cajoling manner. ‘There is a Hamish. But he isn’t here. Only me. So why don’t I call you a taxi and you go home to sleep? You can call Hamish in the morning.’

  ‘Could I possibly have a glass of water?’ Joe said, looking past me down the hall. ‘Maybe just a little lie-down? I’m terribly tired.’

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  ‘She has a panic button, you know!’ Harriet, Brutus now sitting calmly at her side, waggled her finger. ‘If she presses it a security team with assault rifles will be here in less than two minutes. You won’t know what’s hit you till you wake up in jail with your scrotum in your shirt pocket!’

  ‘Harriet!’

  Joe peered at Harriet as if assessing whether she were real or not.

  Harriet glowered back then flicked her excited eyes to me. ‘Press it! Go on!’

  I stared at Harriet. She returned my gaze, eyes glistening.

  ‘Well, dear?’

  Joe smiled the indifferent smile of a non-comprehending inebriate. I leant inside to the hall table, grabbed the panic button, still in its packaging, and held it up. Harriet pressed her lips together and gave me a disappointed tut.

  ‘I would just like to point out,’ Joe said, ‘that your panic button is not actually installed.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Harriet interjected. ‘The point is . . . the point is . . .’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Joe turned to Harriet. ‘You go call the police—’

  ‘Righto.’ Harriet shot inside, Brutus trailing submissively behind.

  Joe turned back to me. ‘And while we wait, I’ll install it for you. I’m good at DIY. Katy was always –’ Joe stopped, lifted his chin and blinked at the night sky ‘– asking me to . . .’ his voice faltered ‘. . . hang a new light in the hall, or . . .’ he let out a sob and a tear trickled down his cheek. ‘Knock up a couple of . . . bookshelves.’ He dropped his head to his hands and commenced messy blubbering.

  I looked up and down the street wondering why, of all houses, did he choose to knock on my little lavender one? Why me? Did I not have enough to deal with? Was life testing me? I was going to fail.

  Joe heaved a great sigh and let out another barrage of sobs.

  ‘Excellent,’ I muttered.

  All I’d wanted was a nice quiet Friday night. To wake up on Saturday morning and potter around while I waited for Helen’s hangover to subside. None of my neighbours would be offering to call the police. I would not be consoling a drunken man in possession of a greasy piece of pie. And I would not be standing in my courtyard at half past midnight with unsupported breasts. I looked at Joe. He had sandyish curly hair and about a five-day-old beard. He wore an old brown leather jacket, some kind of black band t-shirt with faded lettering, jeans and scuffed leather boots. And he sat on the wall hunched over, his face in his hands, blubbing like a little girl.

  Harriet emerged from her house. ‘The police are on their way – oh.’ She stopped at the sight of Joe blubbering. ‘Did you hit him, dear?’

  ‘No I didn’t hit him. He just . . .’ I glanced at Joe. ‘Won’t stop crying.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe moaned from behind his hands. ‘I’m not usually like this.’ I considered him, then with great doubtfulness placed a hand on his shuddering shoulder.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, thinking the exact opposite.

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a – hic – rough time of late.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Had to move out of my flat.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Harriet motioned for my attention and handed a floral handkerchief across the wall.

  ‘Had a fight with my – hic – f
iancée.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ I shoved the handkerchief into Joe’s fists.

  ‘Thanks,’ he sniffed. ‘Was ’bout the wedding.’

  ‘It’ll blow over.’

  ‘Came home from work.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Found her . . . she was . . .’ He sobbed and snivelled something unintelligible.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ Harriet said, angling forward and cupping a hand to her ear.

  ‘I . . . found her . . .’ Joe mumbled another garbled sentence from behind his hands. I looked at Harriet and shrugged.

  ‘I think he said he found her paddling a kayak in Berkshire,’ Harriet mused, wrinkling her nose. She turned back to Joe and spoke sharply. ‘That’s a preposterous reason to be blubbering. Pull yourself together, young man.’

  Joe sat up and lowered his hands.

  ‘You’re as deaf as a dead badger,’ he grumbled. ‘I said I found her STRADDLING A GUY THAT SHE WORKS WITH.’

  His voice echoed round the empty street.

  ‘Oh,’ Harriet said rather plaintively. ‘Well, that’s a bit different, dear.’

  Flashing blue lights suddenly lit up our unusual little gathering and a panda car pulled up. Two policemen got out. Joe stared at the cops. His nose ran and he blew it loudly on the floral handkerchief.

  ‘You called in a disturbance?’ the younger of the two said as they reached my gate. He was tall, handsome and severe. Harriet looked to me. I looked to Joe and he gazed back, a lost expression on his wretched face.

  ‘Yes, Officer—’ Harriet began.

  ‘Sorry, it was a mistake,’ I interrupted. What was I doing?

  ‘A mistake,’ the young policeman said, a long-suffering air about him.

  ‘Yes. I thought I didn’t know this man but I do . . . ah . . .’ I looked at Joe, the crumpled paper bag now almost translucent with grease sitting on his lap. ‘He’s, ah, my, ah . . . my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin.’ The policeman did not believe me.