Single in the City

by Unknown

  12

  ‘Hannah, great, you’re here.’ Mark sounds truly grateful. ‘Thanks again for helping out. You’re a star. Ah, just make sure the nametags are organized so you can get to them easily. Thanks again for this. You look great, by the way.’

  ‘No problem! Glad to help! I’ll just get that sorted!’ Why do I sound so grateful for the chance to alphabetize? I need to calm down. I’ve got the prickly sweats. What is it about this guy? My fantastic stand in his office should have given me closure, but it’s true what they say. There’s a risk of relapse as long as the temptation is there. Maybe they make a patch or something.

  Sam is creeping around in his apron again. ‘What are you doing, following me? I say.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘This is the second event in a row.’

  ‘I know. I work for the catering company. I thought we covered that last time.’

  ‘I didn’t realize your ambitions were so lofty. Office slave and busboy. You’re really reaching for the stars. To think I just want to be a party planner.’ Yes, I am still aggravated by that early conversation.

  ‘Don’t put yourself down. At least you’re not just blowing bubbles.’

  It’s not easy arguing with someone who never gets mad back. ‘Do we always hire the same company to cater?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah. Mark and my boss have a thing.’

  ‘A thing?’

  ‘Yeah, listen, gotta go or the crowd won’t get their salmon en croute for lunch and the world as we know it will end. See ya later. By the way, I’m sorry to see you’re not dressed up today.’

  ‘With stupid shoes? Very funny.’

  ‘I’m not kidding–you scrub up nice.’ He flashes a grin and heads back to the kitchen.

  Mark and the catering boss? A thing? What kind of thing? Sam must be made to talk.

  The conference has to do with banking, blah, blah, blah. There’s enough coffee to caffeinate an army. I’m so wired by lunchtime I’m seeing double. I don’t mind. I’m seeing double of Mark. He’s hovering at the back of the room, ready to jump to the rescue in case of projector malfunction or other technical calamity. I love that he’s a CEO who still gets his hands dirty. Every time he catches my eye and smiles, my upper lip sweats. No man has ever had a physical effect on me like this. Granted, sweating isn’t as nice as some of the other spontaneous physical effects he could bring out. God, I wish he wasn’t married.

  ‘Sorry?’ He’s standing right next to me.

  ‘Um, nothing.’ Tell me I didn’t say that out loud.

  ‘I heard you, Han…’ he’s chuckling now, ‘to tell you the truth, I think about you a lot. That’s not normal for me…It was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’

  …‘Yeah. It was kind of fun.’ In all honesty, on a scale of one to I love you, it was more than kind of fun.

  ‘It doesn’t have to stop being fun.’

  Yeah right. ‘Tell your wife that.’

  ‘I don’t need to. My wife and I have an arrangement.’

  ‘Look, Mark, I’m really not interested in being anybody’s other woman, but thanks, I’ll let you know if I ever want to apply for that position.’

  ‘Hannah.’ He takes my hand, looking around first, and sighs. I don’t like the sound of that sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I hurt you. You probably think I should have told you I was committed.’

  ‘Married, Mark, you’re married. Can’t you even say it now?’

  ‘Of course I can. I am married. To a woman I don’t love, who doesn’t love me. What I’m trying to say, obviously not very well, is that I didn’t tell you because you never would have given me a chance.’

  ‘That’s your defence?!’ I snatch my hand back. ‘That you lied because it was the only way to get me into bed? Thank you for confirming everything sleazy I suspected about you.’

  ‘You’re right, I deserved that. I did lie, by omission, but it was because I saw there was something between us, and I didn’t want to give up the chance to see if it was real. Is it?’

  I know I should walk away. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…who’s the fool? ‘How should I know if it was real?’

  ‘Would seeing each other again help you decide?’

  ‘You’re asking me to have an affair with you?’

  ‘I’m asking you to give me a chance.’

  ‘Why are you still with your wife if you don’t love each other?’

  ‘It’s my mother.’

  ‘You married your mother.’

  ‘Hah, hah. She lives with us. She loves Julia, and she’s not well, and it just seems kinder to live our separate lives but keep the illusion of a marriage at home.’

  ‘Do you have kids?’

  ‘No. That’s not even a possibility.’

  ‘Why? Did she have you fixed?’ I know I’m being cruel, but surely he deserves it.

  ‘We don’t sleep together.’

  ‘Doesn’t your mother notice?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t sleep with me either. Ah, finally, a smile. You can’t hate me completely if you’re smiling. Here, I’ll make it easy for you. No pressure. Give me your mobile.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just–thank you. Here, here’s my number. Call any time. Okay?’

  Something tells me his wife doesn’t have this number. What am I thinking anyway? Didn’t I already make this decision? ‘Excuse me. I have to check on lunch.’ Where the hell is the kitchen in this place? My knees are actually shaking. I thought that only happened in cartoons. How did I let him get to me like this? I’m not in love with him. Am I? No, almost certainly not. That’d be crazy. I made this decision already.

  As usual, the kitchen is manic. At least one dish hits the floor every five minutes. I won’t tell you what they do with that food–anyone who’s worked in a restaurant knows well enough. A sunny corner at the edge of the mêlée beckons. I’ve decided I like kitchens. I like their heat and noise and the camaraderie in which everyone works. Nobody minds that I’m picking my lunch out of their morning’s efforts. Sam hurries through a couple times before grabbing a plate of salmon and fixings and squishing in next to me. ‘Having fun?’

  ‘It’s a ball. What are they talking about out there anyway?’

  ‘Well, you see, ehem,’ he says in a remarkably lifelike nerdy voice, pushing imaginary glasses up his nose, ‘it’s all about risk assessment, and risk control, and risk abatement, so the party of the first part and the party of the second part…’

  ‘It’s pretty dire.’

  ‘It’s my best accent.’

  ‘I mean the conference.’

  ‘Just be glad you don’t have to go to these in your field,’ he says. ‘Though what would that agenda look like? The napkins of the future? Getting the guest list wow-factor?…Calligraphy and your table cards?’

  ‘Don’t mention table cards. Besides, you should talk. What’s the hardest thing you have to do here? Stir the spaghetti Bolognese? Make strong coffee? I wouldn’t throw stones.’

  ‘Fair point. I withdraw my judgement. By the way, have you thought about going out with me?’

  ‘Do you mean in a positive way?’

  ‘Funny girl. I’ll take that as a maybe.’

  I’d have to sedate Stacy before telling her that I’d moved all the way to London to date an American office boy who washes dishes in his spare time. ‘I’m seeing someone.’

  ‘Who, Mark?’

  ‘No!’ Definitely not Mark. ‘He’s my boss. Besides, he’s married.’

  ‘That doesn’t stop him.’

  ‘Isn’t he dating your boss?’

  ‘I hope not. She’s his sister-in-law.’

  ‘That would be awkward.’ So if I don’t care who he’s dating, why am I so relieved to hear this from Sam?

  ‘Tell me about the guy you’re seeing.’

  ‘That’s none of your business. Please don’t push me for details. I don’t lie well under pressure.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I don’t know.�
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  ‘It can’t be, then.’

  ‘I said I don’t know.’

  ‘If it’s serious, you’d know. Let me know when you’re not seeing him any more.’

  ‘You’re quite the pessimist.’

  ‘Realist. I can –’

  ‘This is cosy,’ says the slender girl who’s suddenly standing in front of us. She leans in to kiss Sam, her long hair shielding their intimacy in a glossy curtain. What I wouldn’t give for those polished tresses.

  ‘Oh, hi. Hannah, this is Janey. Janey, Hannah.’

  ‘Hello.’

  She’s not even looking at me. ‘Hi.’ I’ve met warmer bowls of ice cream

  Sam at least has the grace to look uncomfortable that his girlfriend interrupted his dating efforts. ‘Janey and I, uh, work together. We’re, ah…Actually, I need to check on the, the coffee. ’Scuse me.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Pleasure to meet you.’ She smiles, with no trace of the emotion reaching her eyes. Who is this English muffin? She’s clearly staking her claim; I wonder how long she’s been prospecting.

  ‘Let me help you with your bag, erm, your bags. I did say it was just the weekend, right?’

  Potential’s concern that I plan to squat in his ancestral home is warranted, bearing in mind that British Airways’ baggage allowance is smaller than the bags he’s trying to fit into the trunk.

  It’s not that I didn’t recognize how ridiculous my preoccupation with others’ judgement was when panicking about what to wear this weekend. I just never noticed such an obvious self-abusive flaw in my character before coming to London. Maybe it’s like leg hair–we all have it, but we only notice it when it’s exposed or rubbed up against. Either I’m incredibly unexamined (that’s very unlikely given how neurotic I am) or living my entire life among old friends means I’ve never had to bare my legs, so to speak. I guess that, also like hairy legs, it’s not something I’m going to avoid without a lot of time spent with a therapist. Whether laser or psychotherapy, it’d be a painful cure.

  My placement in the car isn’t building my confidence. If I’m the future girlfriend, shouldn’t I get the front seat? There’s a guy already there making it clear that he plans to be Potential’s co-pilot. So we’re a car full of retirees, husbands in front and wives, plus an extra, in back. Exactly which one of us is supposed to be the extra? Poppy, Jools and George all went to Cambridge with Potential, they tell me. That’s why they talk through a mouth full of marbles (they don’t tell me this… I’m making logical connections). This is a different dimension, where friends are called chums and phrases like ‘faabulous dahling’ are uttered without sarcasm. I knew it. My twenty-seven wardrobe changes aren’t going to compensate for being so far out of my element. They’re friendly enough though, asking about me at first before settling into reminiscences about places I’ve never been with people I don’t know. It’s as interesting as looking at someone else’s vacation photos. I’d be content to sit quietly staring out the window if it wasn’t for the funk building up in the car. I can’t tell where (who) it’s coming from.

  ‘Um, do you mind if I crack open a window?’ This might turn into a very long weekend.

  ‘That’s a lovely dress,’ Poppy says. ‘Is it Prada?’

  ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘Very nice. I always like the Italians.’

  I bet they don’t know about the sample sales to which I owe most of my wardrobe. Finally, a system I have mastered. ‘I’m sure they have them in London too, you know, at the end of the season when everything is like 80 per cent off? I shopped them all the time in New York. You get the greatest stuff so cheap.’

  ‘Mmm, well, I don’t really…’

  Of course, these girls don’t shop in bargain basements.

  ‘I just never seem to get round to buying new clothes,’ Jools says. Old clothes seem to be a point of honour among this set. Potential’s ensembles have always looked slightly moth-ridden. Yet I can see that the girls are clad in designer wear. Perhaps they hang their purchases like game until the stench of newness wears off and they’re sufficiently aged to be worn in public.

  We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because we’re on a Merchant Ivory film set. Emma Thompson and her corset might come along any minute. Sweeping lawns stretch away into the distance, dotted with pines and spiky twisted trees out of Dr Seuss’s25 imagination. More trees, possibly planted by Anne Boleyn, line the driveway. When I say driveway, I mean the private road that we drive on for at least five minutes before getting to an enormous grey stone house. If a butler called Jeeves has the liveried help lined up outside the front door to greet us, I’m calling Stacy.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ Potential mumbles from somewhere beneath my luggage.

  Of course he likes me. He wouldn’t have asked me here, to his house, to meet his friends, if he didn’t see a future for us. Sitting in the back seat was no big deal.

  ‘Gregory can show you to your room.’ He’s much less shy now in the company of people depending on him for their livelihood. ‘Once you’ve settled in, come down for a drink.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Oh, hang on a sec.’ It’s my phone. It’s Chloe. How am I supposed to pump her for information when everyone’s standing here? ‘I’m just going to, em, take this. Won’t be a minute.’

  They must be wondering why I’m striding towards the tree line when I’m obviously not a botanist. ‘Chloe, thank god you called!’

  ‘Well, I saw that you’d rung, so I wondered if it might be urgent.’

  She’s being kind. Stalkers on trial have made fewer calls than I’ve made to her cellphone in the last three days. ‘Potential has asked me to his house!’

  ‘You mean his flat? When?’

  ‘No, his house-house, his stately house. We just arrived.’

  ‘Oh, well, brilliant.’

  ‘What’s that? You’re breaking up.’ Odd silent gaps are interrupting my crisis. ‘And no, it’s not brilliant! I’m way out of my depth here.’

  ‘Phone’s beeping, low battery. I can’t think where I left my charger. I thought I packed it.’

  ‘I need your advice, Chloe.’

  ‘Of course. About what?’

  ‘Everything! You should see this house. It looks like a hotel. And three of his friends are with us.’

  ‘You’re with his friends?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Okay, well in that case, definitely don’t look –’

  ‘Chloe? Hello? Hello?’ Would it be so hard to make a phone battery that lasted longer than a good night’s sleep?

  Definitely don’t look, she said. Don’t look what? Like a slut? Like a grandma? Under the beds?

  Jeeves (because who ever heard of a butler named Gregory) is waiting to carry my bags up to a sweet little room on the second floor done all in blue. It’s on a hallway with half a dozen other doors, meaning that the Lakers and the Knicks could probably sleep over if they wanted to have a basketball tournament in the back yard. Just to put things in perspective.

  ‘Settling in’ in English must mean ‘freshening up’ in American. Given that I have most of my wardrobe with me, it’s a bit of a shock to have overlooked an important variable like heating. Maybe that’s what Chloe meant: definitely don’t look for comforts like a functioning circulatory system. My lips are blue and I’ve lost feeling in my fingers. I’ve been in walk-in freezers warmer than this. Though there’s no way to prevent hypothermia without tipping into bag-lady couture, surely my intention to seduce calls for form over function. My padded bra has its work cut out for it.

  ‘Wow, you’re dressed up,’ Potential remarks when I finally find everyone.

  Wow, you’re all in the same thing you wore in the car.

  ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Sure. White wine?’

  ‘Uh, I’ll see what we have.’ Everyone has mixed drinks poured from the little bar on the sideboard. I’ve probably just sent him on a wild-goose chase looking for anything under 100 proof. Yet I’m
sure he said his perfect day involved a wine cellar. Was he lying about the cellar? Maybe he’s lying about the whole thing. How do I know that this is really even his house? Maybe it’s his friend’s. I’m checking his suits when I find his closet. What if he’s a pathological liar? He’s probably married with kids. God, I should have asked. You take your eye off the ball for an instant and look what happens –

  ‘Here you go.’ He hands me a chilled glass. ‘I hope it’s okay; it’s a new case.’

  Okay, it’s probably his house.

  While I was playing Marco Polo26 to find my hosts, I took the opportunity to have quite a thorough snoop through the place. You know how most houses have a living room that nobody ever goes into? It’s the room with the impractical carpet and no TV that your mom uses when her lady friends visit. Potential’s whole house is one giant unlived-in living room. Velvet ropes wouldn’t be out of place, and earphones explaining in six languages that Henry VIII once slept there. I suspect the family only lives in a few rooms, to keep from freezing to death.

  ‘Crispy, as you’re up, I’ll have another, please.’ From Jools’s gesture, I take it she’s talking to Potential. I guess that’s short for Crispin. At least I hope so, since that’s his name. They all have nicknames, aside from Poppy, who’d have a hard time making her given name any more ridiculous. Maybe Potential will make one up for me. My dad calls me ‘Hannah Banana’, though I don’t plan to share that.

  ‘So, Hannah, we’re intrigued by you.’ George’s sneer recalls some of Hannibal Lecter’s more memorable scenes. ‘Tell us, did you run away from something veddy teddible back home?’

  ‘Uh…’ What kind of question is that? Redheads are supposed to be friendly. That’s how they compensate for being redheads.

  ‘Shuttup, Georgie, you prat.’ Poppy obviously has a background in diplomatic peacekeeping. ‘He’s always stirring. It’s because he doesn’t have any life of his own.’ By holding her glass up, she’s just drawn Potential off the sofa to pour her another drink. Now that’s Dita behaviour.