I was part way through grating cheese for a batch of three-cheese scones when Thomas rang. He asked how I was. I said I was fine as I was long-since bored with trying to explain the ridiculous depth of my feeling to anyone else. And then he shocked me out of slicing lumps off a truckle of Wensleydale.
‘Bollocks are you fine. You’re not fine.’
I didn’t know what to say for a second; there was such fury and frustration in his tone. I went to say I was fine – by this point it really was my default response – and tailed off as it would appear we both knew I wasn’t.
‘It’s enough moping, Sophie. More than enough. I’m sorry you’re hurting and he’s a fucking idiot but no more crying and no more bloody baking. Charlotte and I are coming round this weekend. We’re bringing DVD box sets and wine and we’re going out for actual non-bakery-related food. No arguments. In fact, I’m going to bring the paddle and if you don’t cheer up then I will use it.’
I smiled my first unforced smile for weeks. We both knew he had no intention of doing any such thing, that our sexual relationship had moved on, but it still made me smile, made me feel reassured, that there was a support network of people I could rely on, even if – Thomas and Charlotte aside – no one really had any idea of what I was mourning.
‘Bloody hell, I’d best make an effort then.’
There was no putting them off. Even my follow up call, where I told Tom I was fine and didn’t need anyone worrying about me, fell on deaf ears. The closest we came to a discussion about the trip was a debate over the DVDs he was bringing – we plumped for explosions, political intrigue: nothing that was going to leave me weeping into my wine glass like some kind of kinky Bridget Jones.
In the end, it was brilliant. I suddenly realized I’d bored myself with grief. Life in the doldrums is exhausting, depressing and really bloody dull after a while, and when the force of nature that is Thomas and Charlotte blew into my flat, waving booze, box sets and expensive chocolate, I was suddenly ready to shake it off. Or at least to begin trying. The wine and Pringles helped, as did the most ludicrously plotted action TV show I’d ever seen, made ever more amusing by wine. They arrived on Friday night. We started watching TV early – Thomas remained one of my best friends but he was a bloke and as soon as he saw that a mention of James had my lip wobbling, he was happy to just stick with TV small talk and avoid any tidal wave of tears. After finishing several disks (and several bottles), I let Thomas and Charlotte nab my bed and crashed on the living room sofa, ready to resume watching the next morning – although I’d promised them we’d hunt for a fry up first.
When the doorbell went at 8.30am on Saturday I stifled a groan. I was expecting a delivery from Amazon so I knew I had to run to open it, but it was early, I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, and I knew the ringing of the bell had probably just managed to scupper Charlotte’s and Thomas’s lie in.
When I opened the front door, though, it wasn’t the postman. It was the man I least expected to see on my doorstep ever, ever again. I knew I must have looked surprised, but fury … fury was the main feeling that surged through me. He had the decency to look embarrassed, but he took a step back as though he was also a little scared. James always was a bright man.
‘Hi. Sorry to ring so early.’
I actually wanted to swing for him, but in the end I crossed my arms over my t-shirt and made do with glaring instead. As a journalist I’m fully aware of the power of silence. I said nothing, taking the time instead to look closely at him. He seemed tired, but was still sexy enough to make me feel a pang. Not enough that I didn’t want to kick him in the shins, though. I couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or not.
After a few seconds he cracked. ‘I bet you didn’t expect to see me.’
Brilliant. I’ve waited weeks for that? I actually wanted to punch him. Not in any sexual, playful way; in an exacting-physical-violence-that–made-him-wince way. It took all my effort to sound blasé.
I aimed for a carefree shrug. ‘I ordered some books for my brother for his birthday. I figured you were delivering them.’
‘It’s your brother’s birthday?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Oh. Obviously.’ A long pause. ‘I’m not delivering any books.’
My jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. ‘I guessed that.’
He lapsed into silence. We were floundering, but I suddenly realized I had no inclination to help smooth the path of the conversation. He was finally willing to talk? Well, he could fucking well talk then. But he wasn’t. Or couldn’t. His eyes were staring intently into mine, looking for answers in a way that reminded me so much of how he looked to see whether I could stand any more punishment. It made my heart hurt.
The moment was punctured as Thomas swung open my bedroom door and wandered out into the hall, pulling a t-shirt on over his boxer shorts. ‘Sophie, is everything OK?’
For a split second the world stopped. Then James spoke, his voice sharp, ugly for the first time since I’d known him. ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.’
I felt a surge of anger, of injustice, firstly that he’d immediately thought the worst, and secondly that he felt he had any right to be pissed off anyway. He’d been lovely and filthy and sexy and mean and once I’d fallen for him he dumped me without telling me why, turning me into a heartbroken baker, and he had the temerity to be hacked off with me when he thought that I’d moved on already? Was he really so oblivious to how much I’d liked him? I couldn’t stop myself.
‘What’s it to you?’ He flinched at the fury in my voice. ‘Seriously. What is it to you, James? If there’s one thing the last month has made painfully obvious it’s that you’re not interested in continuing to explore what was happening between us. That’s fine. You can’t fake a connection, although, I actually thought you were emotionally capable enough that if you wanted us to stop seeing each other you’d at least let me know.’ A flush formed on his cheeks. He opened his mouth, and for a minute I thought he was going to speak, that I’d finally get some kind of explanation. But his eyes flickered to the doorway behind me, where Thomas had seemingly moved closer. His presence was oddly reassuring even if I couldn’t work out whether he was trying to be supportive or actually just leaning closer to hear the gossip. James closed his mouth and swallowed, and did a tiny shake of his head that I assumed meant he wasn’t going to be telling me anything now. I felt a surge of rage.
‘Do you know what? I don’t care. Honestly I don’t. You aren’t the person I thought you were. I was hoping you were the real deal, someone who complemented me,’ I felt Thomas take a step back behind me, diving for cover from the emotional onslaught, ‘completed me even if that does sound incredibly lame. I thought you were that person but then I realized you aren’t. And now I don’t care. I fell for someone who it turns out didn’t actually exist. That’s my mistake, for being naïve and taking what you said at face value. I’ll learn from that. But don’t you dare try and guilt trip me. Don’t you dare.’
For a second everything was silent. I never lose my temper like that. I couldn’t tell you the last time I did. I could see Thomas open-mouthed in my peripheral vision, while James’s eyes were wide.
He moved forward, putting his hand out plaintively to touch my arm. ‘Sophie, I –’
I moved like I’d been burned, pushing him off with such force I shocked myself and almost knocked him over. ‘Don’t you touch me. We’re done.’
And then I slammed the front door in his face.
As I turned to face him, Thomas’s face was a picture. He had never seen me so emotional and he seemed genuinely unsure about what to do. I felt my lip beginning to wobble, and for a moment a look of panic crossed his face, before he steeled himself for the onslaught and moved forward to envelop me in his arms. I cried for a little while, then pulled myself together, slowing my tears and embarrassedly wiping at the damp shoulder of his t-shirt. Then Thomas made a pot of tea for us all – poor Charlotte had been
woken by the noise of me slamming the door while bellowing like I was in a soap opera. He told her the full story of what had happened, how amazing I had been and how James had stupid hair. I wasn’t sure he was right on either count, but it passed the time until my eyes had got less puffy, and meant we could be sure James had given up and gone before we braved going out for breakfast. I didn’t think for a serious second that he would have stuck around, but I still felt a pang, wishing he had despite myself. I had pancakes; it felt like that kind of day.
17
I very rarely lose my temper properly. I’m as prone to a rant as the next woman, but generally I’m fairly easy-going. My confrontation with James was completely out of character, to the extent that both Thomas and Charlotte were a little agog.
They stayed for the rest of the weekend, as planned, but suffice to say there was a James-shaped hole slap bang in the middle of things. Seeing him after so long had left me feeling out of sorts. I was furious, properly furious, at his reaction to seeing Thomas come out of my bedroom. Don’t get me wrong, I know it looked unfortunate, but if there was a moral high ground then Mr Hugely-Intense-With-Lord-Lucan-Tendencies didn’t get to be on it, not least because – and forgive me if it sounds like I’m harping on about this, but in this instance it felt a reasonable point – he hadn’t been in contact for weeks. What did it matter to him what I was doing now or who with? Was he expecting me to be at home alone weeping? I know I had been, but that’s absolutely not the point, and I had no intention of letting on that any such thing had happened.
Also, I’ll admit it, in hindsight I sort of regretted slamming the door. It felt very satisfying when I did it, and was definitely no less than he deserved. But when the silence had lengthened I suddenly realized that he wasn’t going to knock again, and I now had no idea why he’d come round at all. None whatsoever. Dramatic gestures are all well and good in the abstract, but curiosity burned me almost as much as injustice. I still wanted, OK needed, to know why he had disappeared so abruptly, but even beyond that a part of me was intrigued as to why he’d suddenly changed his mind and returned. Of course, my slightly overzealous imagination was running wild, as it had through his silence, but – damn my resumed cynicism – I just wasn’t sure he’d returned because he was missing me and had suddenly realized he couldn’t do without me. In fact, if the expression on his face when I’d first opened the door was anything to go by, I’d have guessed he’d come round because he’d left his second favourite pair of jeans here or something. There was definitely no look of urgency on his face, just a slightly pained expression. At least until Thomas appeared.
I was so confused. When did a man having a surge of jealousy – I wasn’t being an egotist, that really was how it had seemed – become a good thing? When did it become the closest I might get to a sign that he cared? What kind of fucked-up nonsense was this? This kind of emotional high drama was absolutely the last thing I wanted in any kind of relationship – so why did I even care about him anyway, especially after everything he’d done?
My brain kept spinning, even while we watched DVD after DVD. I didn’t say much, though. The rest of Thomas’s and Charlotte’s weekend at the flat passed so inoffensively as to be anticlimactic. After breakfast we headed back for more DVDs and a lot of tea, before heading out for dinner at a great curry house round the corner from my flat. I like to think I was carrying off a carefree and light-hearted demeanour, but I caught Charlotte and Tom exchanging concerned glances at several points so perhaps I wasn’t. Overall, I was doing OK. Getting everything off my chest felt oddly cathartic, and had helped draw a line under everything. And I didn’t even feel like making a batch of scones, which had to be progress.
Of course, good friends see through the façade. As I was dragging my blanket out for a second night on the sofa, Charlotte touched my shoulder.
‘Sophie, you don’t have to sleep on the sofa if you don’t want to.’
I looked up at her, confused. The things we’d done felt like they’d happened in another lifetime, a lifetime I didn’t regret but definitely didn’t want to revisit. What was she saying? I cleared my throat, trying to think of a way to say no tactfully, and she suddenly seemed to understand the cause of my misapprehension and shook her head.
‘No, I didn’t mean that way. I just thought we could make room for you in the bed. Don’t sleep in here alone tonight.’
I eyed up my lumpy sofa, mindful of the lack of sleep I’d had the night before, even before the early-morning wake up call. I smiled. ‘OK.’
Thomas harrumphed from behind me. ‘This is all well and good and lovely, but it’s not the biggest bed in the world, and I bet I’ll be the uncomfortable one.’
Charlotte smacked him on the arm. ‘Shut up and be nice. It’s her bed after all. You can take the sofa if you’d rather.’
Thomas’s rapid reply – ‘No, darling, you’re completely right’ – made me laugh, and for the first time since that morning it didn’t feel forced.
I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly well-rested. Charlotte was curled up next to me, both of us firmly tucked under the covers in our pyjamas. As I opened my eyes I saw Thomas pressed into the wall, his hand clutching a postage stamp-sized corner of duvet. It made me grin and I felt a surge of affection for my unconventional friends.
They left later that afternoon, and I sheepishly had a bit of a cry after they’d gone – when you only lose your temper properly once every couple of years there’s an emotional hangover to be had and once I was in the flat alone I really couldn’t seem to shake it. I lay in front of the telly, hoping crap reruns and tea would help me get the melancholy out of my system. I was hopeful it had worked – if nothing else, after so many weeks of angst I’d pretty much bored myself out of it now. At least that’s what I thought until I woke up the next morning and checked my phone.
Hey, I know you had company yesterday, but could we get together? Just to talk? – J xx
I read and reread the text. Two kisses? That suggested something, right? But what? And did I even want to know? Was it worth risking it? What was stopping him from pulling the same stunt a few weeks down the line? And what the hell did he think ‘company’ was? Did he think Thomas and I were sleeping together? Why didn’t he seem bothered about that? Did he think I wasn’t available now? Was he relieved? Commitment phobic? Would he even tell me if he was? Did I even really care? Irritatingly, the only question I definitely knew the answer to was the last one and, ironically enough, I really wished I didn’t.
There were two different schools of thought, summed up neatly by Thomas and Charlotte. Tom thought the best thing I could do was refuse to meet James, in his charming words tell him to ‘cock off and die’, draw a line under everything, and start moving on. Charlotte thought I should go along, be friendly but unflirty, wear a killer outfit and leave him regretting what he’d given up. After a couple of days of dithering – no more replying to texts within half an hour now – I decided to go with the latter strategy. Which, yes, may be proof of my masochistic tendencies.
So I found myself heading into the City for drinks, wearing an outfit with arguably a little more cleavage showing than normal. And why? I’m not entirely sure even now. I just felt that I needed to know what had happened, to try and understand. I needed, if such things were available outside of cheesy American talk shows, to have some kind of closure.
We met. He was solicitous. We ordered coffee, making polite small talk, firstly about what the best kind of coffee was, then my brother’s birthday, his parents’ anniversary. Everything but the elephant in the room. As the minutes passed I began to feel like I wanted to laugh – here we were, sat here like nothing strange had happened. It was surreal. I felt exhausted and even more confused by my own emotions and behaviour than by him. What on earth was I still doing here?
But it seemed I wasn’t the only one not exactly capable of explaining what was going on in my head. Finally, James said something non-relative related, seemingly intent on
fiddling about with his coffee spoon as he said, in a voice not dissimilar to one discussing the weather, ‘I don’t know if you noticed me cooling off quite abruptly.’
My mouth gaped open at the understatement and then, I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. It sounded bitter, and he flinched a little, but still he kept going. Bravery or lunacy? At that point I wasn’t sure.
‘I know, I’ve behaved badly. And I couldn’t have explained why to you, didn’t really know what was going on, which sounds stupid, I know. But something clicked for me. And I didn’t even realize it till the weekend.’
And then he told me. He told I was amazing and that intellectually he thought I was one of the most intelligent, interesting people he’d met for ages, that I made him laugh, that he really enjoyed spending time with me – all lovely things I’ve mentally filed away for retrieval during those crap days where I feel rubbish about myself. But then, as my inner monologue was gearing itself up for the ‘but’ that explained why, despite all this good stuff, he’d hotfooted it away like the hounds of hell were after him, he told me something that made me look up, confused, thinking I’d misheard him.
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 24
