by Polly James
I’m so choked up by the notion of trial reunions, all of a sudden, that I forget to ask Dan where he and Joel will be going, until just before he ends the conversation.
“Amsterdam,” he replies.
Obviously, I must have forgotten to mention Joel’s excessive dope consumption being another of the things that I’m worried about. And, forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Amsterdam the capital of porn? I’d call Danny a bullshitter, if I was Pammy. I call him one myself, after I’ve hung up and sworn at him for making me lose my nerve about sleeping with Jude. Under my breath, obviously, because Joel’s just come home.
Chapter 47
The Fembot comes back to work today, and is full of gratitude for what I did to help her when she fell off the cliff.
“Oh, it was nothing,” I say. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Not when they were as scared as you were,” says the Fembot, giving me a one-armed hug, which is a strange experience, more akin to being strangled.
I’m still getting over that when she hands me a present, “as a small thank you”. It’s a beautiful new sketchbook, along with a much better drawing pen than the one I’ve got.
“Now tell me all about this new man of yours,” she says, as she walks towards her office. “Geoff mentioned you’d met someone when he visited me at home.”
He’s always had a big mouth to match his stomach, has Geoff, but I’m saved from answering by Esther, who’s just arrived. She’s carrying a bouquet of flowers which she presents to the Fembot, to “welcome” her back.
They don’t quite seem to do the trick, if they were supposed to make up for bottling out of the awayday experience. The Fembot’s thank you is brief, and sounds entirely insincere, but Esther doesn’t get the hint. She follows us into the Fembot’s office and sits down, uninvited, on the sofa. She’s still there when the Fembot brings up the subject of my “new man” again.
Esther corrects her, which is always inadvisable.
“You mean Hannah’s toyboy,” she says, clearly expecting a reaction, but not the one she gets. That surprises me, too, if I’m honest.
“I think it’s exciting that Hannah’s found someone,” says the Fembot, chucking Esther’s flowers towards her desk. She misses and they overshoot, probably because it was a one-handed throw. I pick the flowers up and am just about to go in search of a vase when the Fembot carries on.
“I know I wish I could get a new man,” she says. “My biological clock’s ticking away like mad.”
Maybe it’s the thought of hers that makes Esther do what she does next, or at least I hope it is. She snatches the flowers out of my hand and then she says, “Good job men’s don’t do that, isn’t it, Hannah? Otherwise Jude might think twice –”
She stops talking, and puts her hand in front of her mouth, horrified at what’s just come out of it.
“Oh, my God,” she says. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant at all.”
I tell her repeatedly that I know she didn’t, but she doesn’t stop apologising for the next two hours and she brings me my own bouquet when she comes back from lunch. It’s even nicer than the Fembot’s.
* * *
Dan and Joel left for Amsterdam last night, and now I’m on the train to Jude’s, along with my overnight bag. It’s now or never.
I try not to lose my nerve when Joel posts a photo of a giant penis in Amsterdam’s Sex Museum onto his Facebook page, but I do wonder if Danny ever lies to Pammy. I’m sure he told her this trip would be “mainly cultural”.
“You can’t go to Amsterdam without going to the Sex Museum,” says Jude, when he meets me off the train.
I bet they’ve got a spot waiting for me in there, in the “relics” section – or they soon will have, if I don’t hurry up and have some sex. Jude seems to feel much the same way, given that he goes for it as soon as we arrive at his studio.
None of his assistants are there, presumably because it’s a Saturday – we’re only here to collect Jude’s spare keys, ourselves – but as soon as he closes the door behind us, he takes me in his arms.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, and then he kisses me.
An hour later, I’m lying naked on the leather sofa in the corner of the studio, and so is he. And I’m not embarrassed. It’s a miracle.
“Comfortable?” says Jude, as I glance up at him, then kiss him on the cheek.
“Very,” I say, as he trails his fingers down my back.
I’m lying, but I don’t want to move just yet. Leather sofas make a hell of a noise when you try to unstick them from bare skin.
* * *
“Fuck!” says Jude, packing away his cameras and other equipment. “Look at the time! We’ve got to go or we’ll be late.”
I take another look at the photos he’s just taken of me – very arty nudes, in which I look surprisingly attractive, thanks to good lighting – and then I shrug. I’m not in any hurry to leave.
“Does it matter if we are?” I say, stretching and then lying down again. “Late, I mean? Last time I went to the opening of an exhibition, people were still arriving ages after the time it said on the invitation.”
Jude gives me a funny look, as he searches for his boxers in the pile of clothes we abandoned in a trail across the studio, after I undid the top button of his jeans when he first kissed me. He looks so good without clothes that he could make quite a name for himself as The Naked Photographer, if he wasn’t already well known, of course.
“Um, yeah, actually, it does matter a bit, Hannah,” he says, fighting his way into a T-shirt without turning the arms out the right way first. “It’s my exhibition we’re going to.”
* * *
There are hundreds of people at Jude’s opening and I even recognise some of them, though not because I know them personally. They’re just even more well known than Jude.
“Morley’s surpassed himself with this exhibition, hasn’t he?” says a woman more usually seen presenting the culture show on late-night TV. She’s standing next to me contemplating one of Jude’s latest portraits of ageing women. (The best one, in my opinion.)
“Yes, he has,” I say, while making a mental note to get the memory card out of Jude’s camera before we go to sleep tonight, the one containing naked shots of me. Imagine if he put those up on the wall, for everyone to see? I’d die of shame, and I can’t think why I let him take the damn things, now I’m fully-dressed again. I must have temporarily lost my mind, unless another of the joys of menopause is becoming an exhibitionist when you least expect it. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing now just at the thought of an exhibition featuring me, unless I’m having a hot flush.
I fan myself with the programme, but it doesn’t help.
“You okay, Hannah?” asks Jude, walking up behind me and kissing my neck. “It’s almost over, not long now. I hope you’re not bored? I know these things can be a drag.”
I’m not sure he thinks they are, given how much he seems to be enjoying posing for all the press photographers. No wonder he took so long in the bathroom when we were getting ready earlier, and I’m starting to suspect his eyelashes aren’t naturally that long and black.
I stare at them when he looks away from me for a second but, before I can come to a definitive conclusion about male mascara, someone from The Times calls him over.
“Back soon,” he says, with an apologetic smile.
There are so many journalists still waiting for quotes that a quick return seems unlikely, so I walk out into the corridor off the main gallery and sit down on a chair. It’s cooler out here and these shoes aren’t as comfortable as I hoped. Also, I really should check my messages. God knows what Joel and Dan are getting up to in Amsterdam by now.
There are no more pictures of penises on Joel’s Facebook page, whether giant or not, but Eva has sent me a sex-related text, nosy as ever.
Have you DONE THE DEED?
I reply that indeed I have and leave it at that – or, at least, I think I do – but then Eva replie
s with another question. An even nosier one.
How was it?
I move my bag off the seat next to me to allow an elderly man to sit down, and then I put Eva out of her misery.
It was all right – surprisingly.
There’s no pleasing some people, especially not Eva.
Only all right? What the hell was wrong with it?
I’m not replying to that, because I’m too busy trying to answer the question in my own head. How should I describe having sex with Jude? More than “all right”, obviously, but it wasn’t as good as sex with Dan, which is a surprise. More exciting initially, maybe – probably due to the novelty factor – but less so by the end.
Maybe it’s always like this the first time you sleep with someone? I don’t know, mainly because I can’t remember, but there’s definitely something to be said for familiarity. When you’ve spent decades with someone, you both know exactly what the other one likes, even if you don’t do that thing anywhere near often enough.
I sigh, thinking of all the times Dan and I went for months without having sex, only to do it again and then ask each other why the hell we didn’t do it more often, given how good at it we were. We never learned our lesson, though …
Maybe Jude and I will get the hang of having better sex together if we keep trying? At least now I know I can take my clothes off in front of a man without him looking at me in horror, and then telling me that he’s changed his mind. That scenario features in far too many of the dreams I’ve been having since Dan and I split up, all those that don’t involve me and Joel drowning on the Titanic, that is.
“Ouch,” I say, as someone steps on my feet and then trips over those belonging to the man sitting next to me. We’re both in the way now that everyone seems to be leaving, so I move through to the gallery in search of Jude. I finally find him in the office at the back, smoothing his eyebrows and applying something that looks suspiciously like bronzer to his face. I wonder if I should be doing much the same thing, but I can’t be bothered, so I adjust the straps of my shoes and then sit down to wait.
Eventually, Jude has finished grooming himself and now he’s saying goodbye to the staff, one of whom hands him our coats. “You ready, Hannah?” he asks, wrapping mine around my shoulders. “Time to go to the after-party!”
I hope it doesn’t last too long. I’d prefer to get more practice in.
Chapter 48
A fifteen-year age gap seems twice that size sometimes. The music at Jude’s after-party is absolutely shit, apart from one session by a DJ who plays some of my all-time favourite songs.
I smile over at Jude, who smiles back at me so broadly that he’s obviously relieved that I’ve finally stopped moaning about how much I hate Radiohead and making sarcastic remarks about his generation’s musical taste.
“This guy’s good,” I say, gesturing towards the stage. “Who is he?”
“That’s DJ Retro,” says Jude.
It turns out that he isn’t being sarcastic, so I go to the bar for another drink. When I rejoin him, he’s standing in the middle of a crowd of male friends, all discussing their latest scores on Call of Duty. Joel springs to mind for a second, but I banish that thought and concentrate on joining in. It’s a bit difficult as I’ve always thought computer games were for children, but I do my best.
Eventually, someone asks the dreaded question, “So what do you do for a living, Hannah? Are you a photographer, like Jude?”
“No,” I say, but that doesn’t seem to be enough, so then I have to explain about HOO.
I try to make it sound amusing, but I’m not sure I succeed. Jude’s friends all seem as clueless about Fawlty Towers as Danny’s flatmates, judging by their reactions when I say the Halfwits users know nothing, in a Barcelona accent. One guy even asks me if I’m Spanish, though Jude claims to have got the joke, when I ask him about it later on. He looked blank at the time I said it, though, so I’m not convinced he isn’t fibbing. Now he says he’s starting to feel “too pissed” and am I ready to go back to his place?
I jump at the chance, not least because the latest DJ’s playing something I’ve never heard of, and never want to hear again.
“I’ll just go to the loo before we leave,” I say, to Jude. “Meet you out front.”
There’s a huge queue for the ladies’ toilets, and I’m almost at the back of it, so it takes ages before I make it into a cubicle. When I do, I lock the door behind me and then start that crazed hopping thing that you do when you think you’re about to wet yourself while struggling to pull down your tights. It works, and I sit down and breathe a sigh of relief, and it’s then that I hear someone mention Jude.
“Who’s that woman with Morley tonight?” she says. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“God knows,” says a different voice. “But whoever she is, he obviously hasn’t got over his mummy thing yet. She must be twenty years older than him.”
That’s not even true, but I don’t know what else the women says, due to the roaring in my ears. I stay in the cubicle until it ceases, and I hear the main door to the ladies’ close. It’s only then that I come out.
Chapter 49
Jude and I didn’t get any more practice in last night as we were both too knackered for sex – or rather, I was too depressed by those bitchy women, and Jude was way too drunk. He’s got a shocking hangover first thing, so I open his bathroom cabinet looking for paracetamol, but there isn’t any. There are stacks of male grooming products, but those won’t cure Jude’s “headache from hell”, so I keep looking. Eventually, I find a part-used packet of ibuprofen in a drawer in the kitchen, and take that to him, along with a large glass of water. He thanks me and then goes back to sleep.
At noon, he wakes up again and decides he now feels well enough to make it up to me for last night’s lack of sex. He’s doing a pretty good job of it, too, which means that practice is all it’s going to take, but then someone rings the doorbell, and keeps on ringing it for the next few minutes.
“Oh, shit!” says Jude, reappearing from under the bedclothes and looking at me wildly, his hair on end. “That’s my sister – I’ve just remembered I invited her to lunch today before I knew you’d be staying over. I’m sorry, Hannah, I’ll have to go and let her in.”
He throws on last night’s clothes and runs to the door, while I retreat to the bathroom and get dressed there. London life is super-busy, isn’t it? Jude and I haven’t spent any time just chilling out and doing nothing, not since that evening on the beach in France. It’s lovely to have a social life, but the occasional bit of downtime is nice as well. I don’t know how he keeps going, actually, given how hard he works. He calls me most evenings when he finishes at the studio, and he always says he’s got two or three things to go to later that night, usually one straight after the other. He never seems to spend any time at home, except when he has people round, like now.
People being the operative word, rather than just one person. There are two small children having a fight in the middle of Jude’s living room when I walk in.
“Quiet, Harry!” says a very attractive woman in her early thirties. “And you, too, Phoebe. Shush!”
Neither child takes a blind bit of notice, so then the woman looks at me and smiles apologetically.
“Hannah, meet my sister, Kate,” says Jude, scooping both children up in his arms, and then spinning around like a top until they shriek for mercy.
Kate seems nice, and so do Harry and Phoebe, contrary to first impressions, though that may have less to do with innate good behaviour than to the fact that Jude keeps them so well entertained while Kate and I drink tea and chat politely about very little. The very little part suits me fine, as I’m not risking any more missed references to TV series, or disagreements about music, and I’m not keen to talk about my job – or my age.
Kate has the grace not to mention that, though I’ve got a feeling that she’s inspecting me closely when I turn away from her to pass Jude a juggling ball that he’s just dropp
ed. In case I’m right, I mould my face into a manic smile before I turn back to face her, to throw her off the scent.
“Jude’s so good with kids,” she says, giving him a fond glance as he goes off to rummage about in his kitchen cupboards for something, and then returns with a giant bubble-blowing kit.
“He is,” I say, also looking over at Jude, who blows me a kiss.
“Aw,” says Kate. She puts her hands to her chest and pulls a soppy face at how “sweet” we are together.
“It’s a shame Jude hasn’t got any children of his own yet, though – isn’t it, Hannah?” she says, lowering her voice a bit. “He’s not getting any younger. Have you got kids?”
I nod, though I bet Kate’s next question will be how old Joel is.
* * *
“Kate liked you,” says Jude, when he comes back from showing her and the children out.
I wave to Harry and Phoebe through the window, and they wave back, while I buy myself some time to think. Kate looks up at me and gives a small, tight smile.
There’s a click from Jude’s espresso maker as he switches it on.
“Did you hear what I said about Kate?” he asks, as I turn away from the window and look at him. “I said she likes you.”
“Yes,” I say, “but she also thinks I’m far too old for you.”
Jude starts to speak but I gesture at him to let me continue. This is hard enough, without being interrupted.
“She’s right,” I say.
Jude stops dead, mid-way through frothing some milk. The steam nozzle hisses angrily as he says, “But why? What are you talking about? I decide who I want to date, not Kate, so it doesn’t matter what she thinks.”
I take the milk jug out of his hands and replace it under the hissing nozzle.
“It does to me,” I say.
* * *
Four hours later, I still feel exactly the same, even though Jude’s been trying his best to change my mind. I just keep thinking of all the things that separate us, not just the obvious (like a decade and a half), but the more subtle things, too, like those shared references that Danny and Pammy keep talking about. Jude says that those don’t matter, but that’s only because he doesn’t notice their absence. I do, and then there’s the thing about children, too.
