by Sue Watson
I lied. It was.
I’m now in the office kitchen and Jas is continuing her ‘date night from hell’ story, by telling me about some messaging thing she started with a guy online when she got back from being stood up at Pizza Express.
‘I thought we were getting somewhere, until he sent me his photo,’ she says.
‘Oh, not a pretty face?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, didn’t see his face.’
‘Oh gross.’
We both laugh at the ridiculousness of this as she describes the photo of the man’s penis.
‘Then that guy in the bank, I’ve been talking to him on and off for weeks now, I probably mentioned him?’
‘Only about a hundred and forty-seven times,’ I joke. ‘Scott?’
‘That’s the one. Well, looks like he wanted to talk me into a loan, not into his bed. The loan paperwork landed on my mat this morning – twenty tonnes of the shit.’ She’d usually laugh loudly at this, but it’s a sign of how low she is that she just rolls her eyes.
‘Shame,’ I say, sympathetically.
‘Yep! He was motivated more by his commission position than by the prospect of any missionary position with me.’ She smiles.
I laugh. ‘Oh, love, it wasn’t meant to be. Someone better’s out there, and they are just dying to get you on your back, or your front… or whatever is your preferred—’
‘Thanks, Hannah, but please stop now.’
I laugh, and go back to making my hot chocolate. It’s so cold in the office it helps to keep me warm. Jas opens the fridge door and tries to find a shelf she can put her sandwiches on.
‘Damn Harry and his bloody ten-course lunches.’ She sighs, delving into the bottom shelf to make room for her lunch.
‘Oh sorry, that’s me,’ I say, feeling guilty, though in my defence the fridge is tiny. ‘Marks and Spencer are doing that dinner at home thing where you buy a meal, a dessert and wine for a tenner.’ I try to say this like it isn’t a big deal. It is though, because tonight I’ve asked Alex to come to mine for the first time.
Jas raises an eyebrow. ‘Ooh cheesecakes?’ She lifts the pack from the fridge, studies it, then puts it back. ‘So, are you taking this to his, or is it finally dinner at Casa Hannah tonight?’
‘Something like that.’ I really don’t want to rub her nose in it, and wonder if she thinks I should invite her over to meet Alex. I could stretch the meal for two. It’s about time Alex and I started meeting each other’s friends, and she’s bound to like him because he’s lovely.
‘Is he ready for the bomb site that is your home?’ She giggles, finally jamming her sandwiches into the fridge, and shutting the door.
Is she mocking me? I’m not sure, but either way I immediately change my mind about inviting her over. It’s going to be an ordeal anyway having Alex to my place knowing how perfect his is – and I’d be even more nervous with Jas’s running commentary on my epic fails as a domestic goddess.
‘It’s not a bomb site, I tidied my room, Mum,’ I say, without a smile.
She picks up on my slight irritation and winks. ‘Take no notice of me, I’m a grumpy old cow today. I’m sure you’ve deep-cleaned it and tidied everywhere…’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Yeah, of course I did.’ I pour water on the powder, chocolatey sweetness fills my nostrils, reviving me like a warm hug.
‘I thought not.’ She smiles. ‘You’ve told me how fastidious he is, so leave early, make sure it’s spotless, candles lit, something spicy waiting for him in the kitchen – and that’s just you!’ She laughs at this, her mood has lifted, probably at the hilarious sitcom prospect of clean freak Alex encountering my flat.
I mix the remnants of chocolate powder into the hot liquid with a spoon, then lick it.
‘Animal,’ she murmurs affectionately. Then she folds her arms. Her jumper’s tight across her full breasts, tendrils of black hair escaping onto her neck. ‘So, girl… will he be staying for your cheesecake?’ She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
‘Hell yes. My cheesecake is catnip to men,’ I tease.
Jas giggles, then leans on the kitchen counter, and as the room’s so small, she’s blocking my way out, so I stand there holding my hot chocolate.
‘Are you sure about this Hannah?’
‘What?’ I say, wearily.
She holds up both her hands. ‘I’m only going off what you tell me, but he seems a bit needy to me. And remember the last time you let a guy into your flat – he moved in and you couldn’t get rid.’
‘My eyes are wide open, Jas.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I say, unsmiling.
‘I hope so, babe, because the minute Tom got his feet under the table that was it, he was living in your flat, eating your food, it was take, take, take.’
‘Alex isn’t a taker – and he wants what I want.’
‘Until you want what he doesn’t and he’s off with his mates and doesn’t come home,’ she says with a sigh.
This stings, because Jas knows it’s exactly what Tom used to do. I wish she’d stop comparing Alex to Tom.
‘Actually, I had to beg Alex to go out with his friends last Thursday,’ I say. ‘He didn’t want to spend the evening apart, said he’d miss me too much.’
‘And did he go out?’ she asks.
‘Yes, but only because I insisted.’
I was staying at his and smile at the memory of him leaving reluctantly. Then, when he’d gone and closed the door behind him, he suddenly came back through the door, calling down the hall to me, ‘Missing you already.’
‘So, Alex goes out with his friends, but you don’t go out with yours?’ She raises her eyebrows and, just at this point, Harry walks in, so she leaves the kitchen.
Shit. Why did I tell her Alex had gone out? I’d promised her the next time I had a free evening we’d have a girls’ night and now she’s hurt. I feel bad, but I won’t be manipulated. I’ll arrange an evening out with her soon, but not because she’s sulking, because we’re friends and we want to spend some time together. It’ll be on my terms.
I go back to my desk and try and concentrate on work, but everything’s crowding in on me. Jas and I are really close and I always share everything with her, I want to go back to how we used to be, proper besties – but it’s like she’s putting Alex between us.
A little later, she wanders over to my desk and plonks herself on it. ‘Hey, I hope you don’t think I was playing the jealous friend before,’ she says. It’s almost an apology, or an olive branch at least.
‘No, not at all,’ I lie. ‘And I hope you don’t feel like I’m neglecting you.’
She runs her fingers along the edge of my desk, it seems she wants to stick around, to talk.
‘Jas, I know we said we’d have a night out, just the two of us, and we will – we need a proper catch-up. But the night Alex went out, I had to do some work at home. As my boss, I think you’ll approve.’ I smile. I know I shouldn’t have to explain myself to my best friend, but it’s a combination of her feeling low and me feeling guilty because I haven’t been there for her.
She continues to perch on the edge of my desk. ‘Thing is, Hannah, I’m just a bit worried about you, babe. You’re completely wrapped up in this guy – which is lovely, but these weird things keep happening, like the roses and the perfume in your car. I hate to say it – but what do you really know about Alex?’
‘Look, it was ages ago, the roses were from Tom, and you agreed yourself that the scent was probably my imagination.’
‘Yeah, but only so you didn’t freak out. I know Tom did some weird shit when you first broke up, but this is recent, and it’s happened after you met Alex.’
‘I’m busy, Jas, I don’t have time for this.’ It’s true, I have loads of work to do and don’t want to get into this with her now. I have to leave the office to meet with Chloe Thomson and her mother at two o’clock this afternoon.
‘Since you started seeing Alex you don’t have time for a
nything, or anyone. I’m not just talking about me; I mean you don’t even have time for yourself. And now you tell me he goes out for the night and you stay home and work.’
‘You’re wrong, it wasn’t like that – I just stayed at his because he wanted me to.’
‘He wanted you to stay because he didn’t want you out of his sight?’
‘It’s called being in a relationship, Jas,’ I snap.
‘Are you sure it’s not called being controlled?’ she says in her head-social-worker voice.
‘No, it isn’t. And I resent you saying that,’ I snap. ‘Really, what gives you the right to comment on my relationship?’
Harry and Sameera glance over; they can hear everything. But I don’t care, I’m fed up with Jas sniping one minute, then the next saying she’s my friend and wants me to be happy.
‘Whoa, I didn’t mean… I just—’ She moves off my desk. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah, but I see red flags with this one, and I don’t like it.’
‘Well, I don’t see red flags, and I do like it. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my work.’
Jas huffs and stomps back to her office and I see a look pass between Sameera and Harry. Is that what they think too, that Alex is controlling? None of them have even met him. We want to spend most of our time together. I stay over at his, and he calls me at work for no particular reason – if those are red flags then bring it on. To my mind, they’re signs of a reciprocal, healthy relationship, not that I should have to justify that to anyone. I wish Jas would mind her own business. Because when Alex and I are still together ten years from now, I will say ‘I told you so.’ And Jas will realise she was wrong to judge Alex by the men she goes out with.
Jas tried to imply that the night Alex went out he made me stay at his house on my own waiting for him, but it wasn’t like that. ‘I’ll only go out with my friends on one condition,’ he’d said. ‘That you stay here at mine, so I can come home to you.’ So I did, willingly; happy to be in the comfort of his home, looking forward to his return, rather than stuck in my flat alone for the night. And when he came home at midnight, instead of being pissed and falling asleep in the chair – like Tom used to – he was sober and loving. And, what’s more, he was just so happy to see me waiting for him in what he referred to as ‘our’ bed. Jas’s idea of someone being ‘controlling’ is shaped by her experiences, and if she sees red flags just because someone cares enough to want to be with me, then I think she’s the one with the problem.
She’s now at her desk, and I know by her flushed cheeks she’s angry and upset, and so am I, but things needed to be said. I’ve had enough of her comments and, thanks to her, it seems the whole bloody office has an opinion on my love life.
I gather my stuff together for my visit to Chloe Thomson. She lives in a village about fifteen minutes’ drive from here and, quite honestly, I’m glad of the excuse to get out of this place. I feel as if they’re all watching me, listening to my phone calls, judging me, and probably discussing me and Alex. It’s really starting to make me feel uncomfortable – I know Sameera and Harry are more curious than concerned, but everyone’s comments, especially Jas’s, are making me question my relationship. I know in my heart it’s right. He isn’t possessive, he doesn’t stop me from doing things without him, I want to be with him.
I’m early for my visit to see Chloe, but I just have to get out of the office. Once I’m in my car I call Alex. As much as I’d like to vent, I have no intention of telling him Jas has pissed me off and called him controlling. One day I hope they can be friends, and I’m not going to drop that bomb and ruin any chance of future harmony, Jas will come round. But, still, I’m feeling vulnerable, and need to be with someone who I know loves me and I can trust.
Eventually, he picks up.
‘Hey, I’m missing you,’ I say, ‘and I wondered if you were free for a quick lunch, I’m early for my meeting and I have half an hour and—’
‘Darling… oh darling, that would have been wonderful, but I’m in court all day.’
‘Alex, where are you? I can hear water running.’
‘I’m… yeah… I’m actually in the bathroom – at court.’
‘Oh, have you stopped for lunch?’ I ask, glancing at the time – it’s 1 p.m.
‘No… like I say, I don’t really have time, just a quick sandwich.’
‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed.
‘Are you okay, Hannah?’
‘Yeah. I just wanted to see you. I’m feeling a bit fragile today.’
‘Oh I feel terrible, but I’ll see you tonight and make it up to you, just hang on in there, babe.’
I can’t help but feel a bit tearful as I drive over to Chloe Thomson’s house. It’s stupid, I know, and during the drive I give myself a pep talk, I need to be on it for my client, and not distracted by some tension in the office.
Chloe’s a child who’s been in Children’s Services on and off, and considered vulnerable. At sixteen she’s entitled to a Social Services Personal Advisor, which is me. So, when five weeks ago, she called in a state, saying her mum’s boyfriend had touched her, I called the police, and drove over to their place late at night to support her. But, soon after, she retracted her statement, saying she’d made it all up because she’d had a row with her mum. I can’t help but feel this was all too easily erased, and there’s stuff Chloe isn’t telling us. According to previous records, she became sexually active around the age of twelve – around the time her parents split, and her mother started taking in drug-addict boyfriends. I suspect there are some unresolved, ongoing issues, possibly around sexual abuse, that I now need to investigate.
I know something’s going on with Chloe, and I know I can help her if she’ll talk to me – she just has to trust me. I also know how hard it is not to be believed. I think about the foster brother who used to threaten me with all kinds of violence as I ate my fish fingers at the tea table. His mum, my foster mum, would smile lovingly at him, but the smile never met her eyes. When, after a particularly painful punch in the stomach, I dared to tell my social worker, the foster family closed ranks, said I lied and I was back in the home. I learnt then about the need to hide things. After that, I made this little box in the back of my brain to hide things so they don’t hurt me – the nasty card is now in there, the lid firmly closed.
With all that safely tucked away, my thoughts are now free to wander to dinner tonight at mine. What will Alex think about my basic furniture, my cheap bed linen, my mismatched crockery? It’s never mattered to me before. Until Alex, I was too consumed with work to consider what mug I drank from, let alone think up a whole colour scheme for the flat. But spending time at his place has made me realise that these things can enhance your life, and soften the hard edges at the end of the working day. They also project an image about the person whose home it is, and I worry now what impression my cluttered, messy, disorganised space will give Alex of me.
Entering the village of Pershore, I spot a pottery shop with beautiful handmade plates in the window and, feeling spontaneous, I wonder if I could afford two of them for tonight’s dinner? I’m still early for my meeting with Chloe and her mother, so I park the car in the little town-centre car park to go and investigate.
Once inside the shop, I’m soon accosted by a well-lipsticked shop assistant, who informs me that not only are the plates handmade, but they’re from Italy.
‘Made in Tuscany, hewn from local clay, don’t you just adore that flickering amber shade?’ she asks, opening her eyes wide, fake soot-black eyelashes fluttering.
I nod enthusiastically, knowing Alex will love them as much as she does.
‘Would you like to look more closely?’ She carefully hands me one of the large dinner plates as if it’s Ming porcelain. I accept it with equal reverence, holding it with both hands, imagining Alex and me by candlelight, sitting at my rickety little table, crockery thrown by Italian hands, dinner made by M&S, and microwaved by me. I know these plates won’t make my flat into a palace, b
ut they’ll add a touch of class and effort and show Alex there’s more to me than just a tired sofa and chipped crockery.
Even when she tells me the price – a whopping thirty pounds each – I don’t drop the plate in shock or say I need to think about it. I picture Alex and say, ‘I’ll take two please.’ I feel like a millionaire.
I’m leaving the shop with a carrier bag full of profanely priced plates, excited about tonight, when I suddenly see Alex. He’s coming out of a pub across the street, which doesn’t make sense because earlier when I called him, he said he’d be in court all day. Perhaps it’s been adjourned? He must have rushed over here quickly – the court’s in Worcester and it’s at least fifteen minutes away.
All these thoughts are thrumming through my mind as I wave at him, trying to catch his eye between the passing cars. My heart is doing a little dance. After this morning’s argument with Jas, I want to run over and fall into his arms. I just hope I don’t burst into tears, because despite my surface calm, I’m all wound up inside.
I’m trying to dash across the road to him, but the cars keep coming and a couple of times I step out and have to jump back. Suddenly, there’s a gap, and I’m about to cross over when I see that he seems to be talking to someone. A woman. I stop myself from calling to him as he walks on with her, deep in conversation. I’ve missed my opportunity to cross now the traffic is moving back and forth, so I just have to watch on. I can only see them from behind as they continue down the road. Then, to my dismay, she puts her arm through his.
They walk on, and I’m puzzled, shaken really. Why is he here? Who is she? Why did he say he was in court all day, when clearly he isn’t? Further down the road, she rests her head on his shoulder. I don’t know what’s happening. Is this real?
I stand on the pavement feeling faint, and a woman asks me if I’m okay, and I nod, automatically, without even looking at her. But she’s pointing at something on the ground and when I look at my feet, I see the carrier bag with my lovely plates. My brand-new crockery – hewn from Tuscan rock, painstakingly crafted by Italian hands – has smashed into a million pieces.
