Love to Hate You

by Anna Premoli

  She’s silent for a moment as if to say ‘yeah, right’, then returns to the subject which is closer to her heart. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Let's think about Eliott! I can give him your number and tell him to call you, if that's okay.”

  “I'd say that's perfect.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm actually convinced that I’ve made a wise decision.

  “Sis, finally this is a smart move.”

  I can only hope so with all my heart.

  *

  Eliott calls me that night while I'm driving home. His voice is friendly, calm and reassuring.

  We chat for a few minutes about my sister and her husband and then he tells me that he lives just outside London and would love to take me to a nice restaurant in town. I gladly accept and we agree on Saturday night.

  We say goodbye with the promise to speak again to decide where.

  Finally, I arrive home, and my phone begins to ring again.

  “What’s is it, Ian?” I ask him abruptly, after seeing his name appear on the phone. I try to overcome the butterflies in my stomach: such a childish reaction, I must stop it immediately.

  “I just wanted to talk to you, seeing as I didn't get a chance today,” he tells me, not at all bothered by my tone of voice. Lately, he's been in the habit of not getting put off by my bad moods. At least before we had a good excuse for a fight, but now he takes his time to reflect on things.

  “I was a bit busy.” I hate feeling guilty, but right now it’s all I can do.

  “If you’d hung on we could have had a drink together,” he says.

  “I had a headache and couldn’t wait to leave work.” I say. In a way it's true.

  “I have a proposal,” he says, excitedly. “How about going away this weekend?”

  Oh dear. “And where would you like to go?” I ask.

  “My parents have a lovely house in the country, and they never go there. I thought I’d show you the place,” he suggests.

  Better not. “I’m busy this weekend,” I say. Sooner or later I would have had to tell him.

  “What do you mean ‘busy’?” he asks, sensing something unpleasant.

  “I have a date on Saturday.”

  “With a man?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, trying not to be intimidated.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “A friend of Tom and Stacey’s, I’ve never met him before.”

  “And why do you want to meet him now?” he asks, as though it’s a perfectly normal question.

  What do you mean ‘why’? I raise my eyes to the ceiling. I'm tempted to hang up and put an end to this ridiculous conversation. “Because I’m looking for the right boyfriend, remember?” I'd hoped that was clear.

  “Are you serious?” he asks me, as if I were crazy.

  “Totally serious,” I answer.

  “You’re going out on a Saturday night with a guy you’ve never met before?” Is he deaf?

  “Yes,” I say, not knowing what else to add.

  “And you're not coming away with me?” Ok, now he’s really angry.

  “Exactly,” I confirm.

  “What the hell are you trying to do?” he snaps. Probably because he can’t stand the fact that I might prefer someone else.

  “Listen, Ian,” I shout, “I’ve been telling you for weeks that we have to stop seeing each other, we have to try and find people who are right for us! Well, at least I’m trying to meet someone who's right! Is that clear?”

  “Yes, very clear!” he snaps, slamming the phone down.

  What an awful temper he's got, I think as I collapse onto my bed. Something tells me that this week is going to be really difficult.

  Chapter 26

  I’m sitting on a stool at the bar of the restaurant Eliott has chosen for our appointment, waiting to meet this man that I've have heard so much about. I can't say my hopes are particularly high, but the last few days have been so full of bad blood that meeting someone else can only do me good.

  As I'd predicted, Ian was odious all week: he provoked me in every possible way, and even tried to pick a fight about the stationery. Needless to say, everyone in the office had their antennae pricked up, as we went from the calm of the previous weeks to the storm of the century. Worse, much worse than normal. And for us, 'normal' was already bad enough.

  Ian is really pissed off, and when someone like him is pissed off, the walls shake.

  Even Tamara has complained to George: she can't understand how it's possible that her boss went home on Monday night practically whistling and came back on Tuesday morning looking so angry that she actually found it hard to recognize him.

  Everyone has been wondering about the reason for my awful mood, but no one has yet found a solution.

  A little while ago George sent me an e-mail begging me to make peace with Ian, to save his sweetheart another week of working with a monster. Ah, if only it were that easy. Incidentally, I don't think I've done anything wrong: Ian has always known the way things are, so he can't start getting offended now just because things aren't going the way he'd like them to. Someone a bit less grounded than me might take all this as a clear sign that he cares about me, but I have my feet planted firmly on terra firma and I know the way things are: Ian loves himself, and everything else comes second – his anger is probably just from wounded pride. And when it comes to pride, the man's got enough to supply the whole Thames estuary.

  *

  I'm sipping a martini when I see a plump blonde guy appear in the distance and give me a broad smile as he makes his way over.

  “Hello, Jennifer,” he greets me cordially, shaking my hand.

  “Hello, Eliott,” I answer, surprised he recognised me so quickly.

  “Your sister showed me a photo of you,” he explains, noticing my amazement. “I couldn't go wrong.”

  “That explains everything,” I say with a smile.

  “I hope that I live up to expectations,” he says, sounding a little more serious.

  He has nothing to fear – he's exactly the type of person I was hoping to meet. “I am sure you will,” I re-assure him, looking at him closely. Bright brown eyes, short hair, friendly smile, casually dressed: I'm starting to appreciate men who don't wear tailored shirts that cost at least a hundred quid each, with their initials hand embroidered on the breast by Greek virgins.

  A few minutes later, a waiter seats us.

  “So what do you do?” I ask him.

  “I'm a child psychologist. At the moment I'm working with several charities helping out with the more complex cases,” he explains patiently.

  “That's really admirable,” I say, impressed.

  “Well, it's not enormously well paid, but it does give me a lot of satisfaction. And you, what do you do?” he asks, sounding interested. My sister will certainly have already told him everything, but I appreciate him asking me directly. Stacey doesn't typically waste much praise on my job.

  “I'm a tax lawyer at a large investment bank, I deal with personal and business consultations.”

  “Wow, that sounds important,” he says, sounding daunted, and his reaction makes me laugh.

  “I'm not complaining,” I say honestly. “But it's much less important than it sounds.”

  We talk about work a little, and then move on to the menu.

  “Since you're from London and you know this place well, what do you recommend?” he asks. “By the way, I forgot to tell you – I'm a vegan.”

  “Really? I'm a vegetarian!” I answer enthusiastically.

  “We've got a lot in common, according to your sister,” he informs me with a wink.

  “Dear old Stacey… she'll have told you a pack of lies about me to talk you into taking me out. I'm afraid that you'll have to revise your expectations quite a bit after you've got to know me better.”

  He gives me an interested look. “If anything, I'd say so far that she didn't sing your praises enough.”

  He really believes it, and I am grateful.

  “Oh, bel
ieve me – I've got plenty of flaws,” I say sincerely.

  The waiter arrives shortly afterwards to take our orders: grilled fish for me and a vegetable pie for Eliott, who also insists that I choose the wine.

  “Excellent choice,” he says a few minutes later, taking a sip from his glass.

  “I'm no expert, but you can always rely on a Pinot Grigio,” I say.

  He smiles at me. “I'll try to keep it in mind for next time.”

  The first impression must have been positive if he's already talking about a next time, I think with satisfaction.

  Another fifteen minutes of pleasant conversation about psychology and his research follow: he's an interesting guy, I have to admit.

  “By the way,” says Eliott, while we are eating, “even if I wasn't a psychologist, I'd be able to say that the way that man is staring at you is almost clinically obsessive.”

  I look at him worriedly. “Really? Where?”

  “The man behind you who hasn't taken his eyes off you since he arrived about ten minutes ago,” says Eliott, continuing to observe him.

  “You're sure he's looking at me?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Pretty sure,” he says.

  “Could you describe him?” I ask, trying not to alarm him.

  “Dark hair, light blue eyes, looks tall, certainly got plenty of money.”

  Unfortunately, I think I know who it is.

  How the hell did Ian find out that I was coming here tonight?

  “Who's he with?” I ask.

  “A girl, about twenty, blonde. Looks like a model or something.”

  “They are always so bloody tall and so bloody blonde,” I let slip, acidly.

  “You know him?” asks Eliott, curious.

  Before I say anything, I'd better check for myself. I turn round and I find myself staring into Ian's face which, to be honest and given that he's here with the most striking looking girl he could find in his little black book, is not looking particularly cheerful.

  Because, I have to admit, the girl in question really is the type of beauty who doesn't go unnoticed, and in fact the entire restaurant is staring at her. Or rather, the entire restaurant except for Ian, who stares right back at me, completely unintimidated by being discovered. It almost looks as though it is what he was waiting for.

  I turn towards Eliott. “I'm afraid I know him,” I admit reluctantly.

  He tries to re-assure me. “I'd worked that out for myself,” he says, with a smile.

  “He's just a colleague,” I explain, blushing more than I should.

  “At the risk of being indiscreet, his body language is telling quite a different story. An ex-boyfriend who hasn't quite thrown in the towel?” he asks.

  “Ex-boyfriend!?” I exclaim, a little brusquely. “Absolutely not! I mean, have you seen him? And that Barbie he's brought along with him?”

  Eliott looks at me almost compassionately. “If it makes you feel any better, it's obvious he doesn't care about her at all.”

  “Oh, right—” I say, about to tear into him when I should really be directing my anger at Ian.

  “Look out – colleague approaching at seven o'clock—” he warns me.

  This can't be happening – it must be a nightmare that I'm going to wake up from. That I have to wake up from!

  A menacing figure has meanwhile approached our table. “Good evening,” thunders Ian, for whom the evening apparently isn't good at all.

  I glare at him furiously. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, not hiding my anger.

  “I am having dinner. That is still allowed, isn't it?” he answers, looking equally annoyed. He's acting as though I'm in the wrong, obviously.

  “London is full of restaurants. What are you doing here?” I ask again, not hiding at all what I think.

  He shrugs. “Pure coincidence.”

  Right, and he even expects me to believe it. I stand up, eyes blazing. “If you think I'm going to fall for that, you're very wrong.”

  “Well, that wouldn't be anything new, would it – though of course, you're never wrong.”

  “Don't make me any more angry than I already am: who the hell did you bribe to find out where I was going?” I demand.

  He just grins.

  “I get it: you used Tamara to get to George, and that way you saw my appointments.” I absolutely must stop putting everything in the office diary. This way, I'm just playing his game.

  The other guests start looking at us with evident curiosity. If his aim was to attract attention, I'd say that he's made a good job of it.

  Eliott also gets up, almost as if he's going to separate us. “We haven't met. Eliott Paulson,” he says, holding out his hand in a friendly way. How the hell does he manage it?

  His attitude seems to have an effect even upon Ian, who quickly regains his composure. “Ian St John”, he says, shaking Eliott's hand and looking much calmer.

  “A friend of Jennifer's, I presume,” says Eliott, presuming rightly or wrongly, depending on your point of view.

  “A colleague,” I correct him, before Ian can say anything awful.

  Both Eliott and Ian give me a look.

  “Will you join us?” asks Eliott politely, seeing that Ian has no intention of leaving.

  That's exactly what Ian was waiting for. “Why not?” he thanks him, and even dares to smile.

  The worm! He wants to ruin the only decent date I've had in years! He nods to the waiter and asks him to move everything over to our table. And everything includes his companion of the evening, who diligently follows her instructions like an obedient dog. She must be at least six feet tall, I think in annoyance as I watch her approach: her hair is blond and straight, her blue eyes framed by huge false eyelashes. Exactly what I expected.

  Ian introduces her. “This is Dina,” he says quickly, sitting down.

  The girl looks annoyed. “Actually, it's Donna,” she corrects him, as she sits down at our table, pulling down the shortest miniskirt I've ever seen. Did they actually let her in here dolled up like that? And there was me thinking it was a classy place.

  Like the good psychologist he is, Eliott tries to put everyone at ease. “Donna's a nice name,” he says in a kind voice, and she takes the bait instantly and gives him a happy smile. See? It doesn't take much.

  “What do you do, Donna?” I ask, making an effort to appear interested.

  She gives me a puzzled look. “I go to dinners and parties and stuff,” she says doubtfully, not quite understanding the meaning of my question.

  “You're in PR?” I ask, attacking a piece of bread.

  “No, I just go,” she says, as if I were a Martian. “Daddy would never let me work,” she adds innocently.

  It would probably have been better if she hadn't specified that, because now we're all staring at her aghast, and even Ian looks a bit disconcerted with her answer. Perhaps he's now regretting his choice of dinner partner.

  The only one who might actually be enjoying himself is Eliott, who probably finds us all very interesting from a clinical perspective. And he's right – we all need locking up.

  “Do you work?” asks Barbie, widening her blue eyes.

  “Yes, my father is very poor and so I have to—” I reply sarcastically. But it's obvious that she doesn't get the joke.

  Eliott laughs while Ian shoots me a nervous look. “Jenny's a lawyer. Don't listen to her, she's very good with words,” he warns, as he cuts into his rare fillet steak.

  “Actually, I'm a tax lawyer and so I'm very good with numbers,” I say, noting with annoyance what's on his plate. When we went out together, he always ordered fish to avoid making me watch this kind of thing. If he could, he'd slice up a cow right in the middle of the restaurant today just to annoy me.

  Barbie looks at us with a lost expression. Poor little thing, she's not used to this kind of conversation.

  “How long have you two known each other?” Eliott asks Ian.

  “Jenny and I have known each other for seven long years,�
� he says, emphasizing the words to make it clear to all present that our knowledge of one another is not just superficial.

  “Extremely long,” I confirm angrily, glaring.

  “Actually, I meant you and Donna—” says Eliott, hiding a smile behind a perfect poker face. This guy is a real surprise.

  “Errrm—” exclaims Ian, wrong-footed. “Donna, when did we first meet?” It's clear that he doesn't remember.

  “We met two years ago at that charity thing,” she reminds him. “Although this is actually our first date,” she says, proud to have finally managed to wangle it.

  “Looks like it's an evening of first dates,” I comment loudly.

  Ian looks at me as if to say ‘first and last, my dear.’ Of course, because it's obvious that after an evening like this, there's no way Eliott will want to see me again. Who on earth would want to take someone to dinner who is being stalked by a windbag like you – one who even manages to worm their way into someone else's evening?

  Although there are four of us sitting at the table, there are in fact only three of us. With the best will in the world, I can't consider Barbie a participant because it's obvious that when it came to giving out brains, mother nature skipped her altogether. I'm being cruel and I'm envious of her looks, I know, but I'm also sincere in my judgment.

  “So what do you think of Jenny?” Ian asks Eliott.

  “An exceptional girl, from every point of view,” he replies calmly.

  “Erm, yeah—” says Donna, not hiding her perplexity. She should probably have kept quiet.

  “You know, some people actually think it's important to be able to handle complex discourse in company,” I say snarkily.

  “But one doesn't speak about complicated matters at the table! It's just not done,” she answers with conviction.

  Come to dinner at my house and we'll see about that. Or drop by Ian's family and see what delightful conversation they come up with, I reflect with satisfaction.

  Ian must have thought the same thing because, when our eyes meet, a look of understanding passes between us, in spite of myself.

  The moribund conversation limps on for another half hour, and Ian, after working so hard to ruin the evening, has almost stopped speaking entirely. The odd little cutting comment here and there, but apart from that, silence. Barbie tries her hardest, but isn't able to speak about anything except shopping. Moral of the story – Eliott and I end up trying to liven up the evening.